November 14th, 2022 - Returns
Dear TNY,
I just read the Lifetime made for TV movie that is “Returns”.
What hogwash. What a bunch of fucking useless letters. What a waste of human effort, to write and read (like these letters!).
And, because I’m dumb, I read the bullshit at the end of the story, after the date. I see two things that are unfucking surprising from you. One, that this was translated from the original French by none other than Debby T. No humble brag there. Just a casual drop, right? And two, this story is by the 2022 Nobel Prize winner in the literature category. Ain’t that fucking special. Really irons out the wrinkles around my doodoo maker. Color me impressed.
Not one fucking ounce of this is worth publishing on its own literary merit. This is just name-dropping bullshit. Status bias. What sad, insignificant, weak little beings you are. You know you have power, right? You can change a fucking industry. I mean, you are. You’re just dropping hot dump on it and then smearing it around, Jackson Pollock style. But that’s cool.
Whatever.
I lost my mind this week. You probably knew that based on the letter I wrote last week. You know, the one you didn’t read. But then I wrote a story, the likes of which you’ll never see, and I felt a little better. I’m going to get my mail today, too (I was just informed through email that some copies of a magazine I was picked up in are on the way, too; a story which is a strong contender for the upcoming BAE bitches!). And walk around. It’s raining but I like that. And last night I got really upset at the hipster douchemongers that have taken over my old haunts in Seattle. Played a little pinball. Drank a few beers. Ate a burrito from the food truck which gave me some of the worst diarrhea I’ve ever had back in the day (seriously, I was out for a walk with K, circa 2016, in Capital Hill and I had to duck behind a substation where I blasted the hillside in Grey Poop-on (that’s the best shit pun I’ll ever make, AND the poo looked like mustard!). Then I walked back up to the van and crashed. Basically validating that Seattle is a waste of time too, like your fiction.
Also, a man I respect told me I need to stop doing this little FTNY experiment because you have ruined fiction for me. He might be right. Five years is a lot of time to bang one’s face against a wall. But, I’m also a stubborn cunt. So, I don’t know anymore, you know? Maybe I should call it quits on this life and write basic bitch stories like “Returns”, you know, mull about my old bag of a mom and how I used to do bad girl things. I’ll write stories that have no ending. No meaning. No meat. Where nothing happens. Where the dishes get done, man. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Or maybe I’ll keep writing these fucking dumbass letters. Only time will tell.
At least this pigdick story was short, you know? Around 2k. Not too shabby.
Well, congrats on the Nobel. I hope you use it as a beer coaster and get proper fucked up for the next year. Hit me up. I like to party. Maybe we can do the dishes together.
Later.
Nick
