December 19th, 2022 - The Other Party

Dear TNY,

Another Monday closer to the end of this year, and you have given us “The Other Party”.

First, um, I’d like to…um…hi.  Hi to everybody who is new here from when my spot blew up last week.  This place, FTNY, it’s been a refuge for nearly five years.  A place where I could say whatever I wanted (within reason mind you, like I’ll say a story is a festering pile of maggot-laden dogshit, but I won’t say anything racist (or try not to because sometimes you say shit and you don’t even know it’s bad, you know?)).  And even though I am aware that these things are online, these stupid fucking letters I write, I forget that they can be read by anyone.  And then last week you all just fucking showed up.  Thank you for reading my words.  And now I’m terrified that I’ll offend you.  Have offended you.  Fuck, I lost a person because of last week’s post.  But was also assured by my sister that if people walk out of your life for writing your truth, they aren’t the people that need to be in your life anyway (not that they are bad people, you just don’t need to be putting mayonnaise on a shredded beef taco, you know?).  Anyway, here we all sit.  You.  Me.  And TNY, which never fucking writes back.  But like my dad always said, the way to get the girl is to be persistent.  So, over 250 letters and counting, I’ll be here for TNY when she finally decides she wants me (my dad also told me that if I could straighten a snake out long enough to fuck it…fuck it, so maybe all his advice isn’t strictly worth following).

I’m rambling.

What I want to say is greetings.  I am thankful for every one of you.  FTNY is a place where I don’t give a fuck about anything and yet I give absolutely every last fuck I can.  Let’s all just take a breath and realize that life is brutal and we don’t need to get worked up over most of the shit people say, including me (but, weirdly, I’m going to get worked up over these dumb fucking stories you publish, TNY).

Still rambling.

So, “The Other Party”.  It’s okay.  It’s good.  Like, I made some notes throughout that talked about the style of writing.  The voice.  It was direct.  Filled with clever metaphors.  It was brisk.  And had a sense of impending violence to it, which when juxtaposed against the banality of everyday life in this neighborhood, worked.  But it’s over 9000 fucking words, man.  That’s so many.  And I definitely got bored in the middle.  There were too many characters to keep track of, but I don’t think the author meant for us to care about any of them but the MC and maybe Rachel?  I appreciated the complexity of the MC, he was neither good nor bad.  He was small and petty but also loving.  That’s good.  But also, who the fuck cares about another COVID story?  And who the fuck cares about this goddamn banality?  Did I think this was executed well for what it was? Yes.  But why does it have to be?  Why is this story necessary?

For that matter, why is any story necessary?  To make us feel less alone is my barometer.  And in the case of this story, I felt maybe a smidge less alone?  Not sure. 

So, I don’t know.  It’s too goddamn long.  That’s my summary.  But the description in this, and the writing in general, is not upsetting and sometimes is quite good (like the line about health being all that matters unless your health is good, and then it’s irrelevant).

So, to the few more of you who read this now, you’ll see that not every week do I have a mental breakdown.  Just most.  Yes, I’m still alone.  Yes, I still have all this love to give and nowhere to put it.  Yes, I still believe I have substantial value but also think I’m garbage.  That’s all still here. But this week it’s not as close to the surface I guess.

I did pull the important, non-Salman Rushdie, part of last week’s post out.  Made it a real essay.  And already submitted it to The Sun.  Go big or go home as they say. 

Oh, and last night I cried at the bar as the bartender was telling me about her husband, who died 25 years ago and she misses him every day.  He died in a 4-wheeler accident the day before his youngest son’s second birthday.  Being human is fucking brutal.  Maybe existing at all is brutal.  Cows get raised to be hacked up so I can have a cheeseburger.  Certain ants get a certain type of parasite that invades their brain and makes them do certain shit that breeds the parasite and kills the ants.  And the people we love stop loving us back.  And the other way around. 

Tough shit.

Man, this is a rambly one.  I guess I’m just afraid to disappoint you guys.  But, fuck that shit.  Write with abandon.  Write like no one is listening.  It can’t all be good.  But it has to keep being written for some of it to shine.

Anyway, see you next week. 

Nick