June 6th, 2023 - Do You Love Me?

Dear TNY,

Monday.  “Do You Love Me?”

And I don’t care about it. 

I will say this story is clean, and/or is a clean translation.  It’s easy to follow and doesn’t think itself artsy or pretentious.  Which is nice.  There were a couple of good phrases.  Here they are:

Sometimes, looking at her or sniffing her, I’d start salivating, feel a sudden urge to sink my teeth into her. I’m going to eat you, I’d tell her, I’m going to gobble you up! (This phrase, to me, so perfectly describes the dichotomy of loving your child more than anything and simultaneously wanting to chew on their stupid fucking faces; it’s a feeling I totally relate to)

Worry is a straitjacket, and so is love.  (This is everything, and not completely married to love for one’s own children; it’s terrible everywhere when love is around.  And it’s wonderful)

I don’t know.  This story is fine.  It’s not for me.  I can totally see middle-aged affluent white women, which is your demographic, relating to this story.  But there’s nothing at risk here. The drama is manufactured.  The story holds no tension.  It’s not interesting.  There’s no emotional movement.  It’s not clever or fresh at the sentence level.  It’s just bland ass shit, akin to a movie on Lifetime or Oxygen.  Which, I guess, if this readership is paying for your magazine then good for you.  But it’s not Art.  There’s no human growth potential here.  In fact, it’s watching a lady parent weirdly and then smother her kid in a way that she doesn’t fully realize, ultimately losing access to said kid.  I think my mom could probably relate to that. 

But you know what?  I’m not a mom.  I have no idea what it’s like.  I don’t know what growing a human is like and I don’t know how that develops over the years after they are born.  I only know what it’s like to be me.

But I do know that this story is way too fucking long and not compelling.  It feels like life outside the story is more interesting.

On that note, I have driven 2500 problem-free miles in 6 days, my youngest son has joined my oldest and myself in completing all 50 states.  My relationship came back together.  And my life, even when it sucks a fat, pustulating, houseless dude’s dick, is still better than these pasty ass stories about easy living.  These fabrics of mine are rich and plush, guys.  Oh, and my boys are with me now which is like angels singing sweet little songs just for me to hear.

Today I made them laugh because I sharted on the way to the store (in the van) and instead of going home I wiped out the crack material with van TP through my shorts leg (chucked it in the garden bin of a stranger’s home) and then hit up some wet wipes thereafter before soldiering on (the doodoo butter didn’t get on to the clothes so I was Goldie Hawn).  And that’s this level of living.  My youngest blew up the toilet this morning with horrible gut pain from eating a bowl of spicy Mexican slaw last night and my oldest plugged the motherfucker up last night and nearly broke it while plunging.  We go back to Hawaii this week and I couldn’t be more excited.  Your world of corporate, beige, pointless literature cannot fathom the beauty of our fuckarounds.  And that’s pretty goddamn glorious.

Welp, they are playing pinball down the way and popping free games off every 9 minutes or so.  I might as well join them.

Nick

P.S. Do you love me is a pathetic question and we all know it.