July 1st, 2024 - Vincent's Party

Dear TNY,

“Vincent’s Party”.  Trash.

I tried reading it in earnest.  Could not.  I imagined the author at his or her desk pleased with themselves at how well it was going when it was just boring cuntwork.  There was no vulnerability.  Nothing was at risk.  Just mindnumbing detail and a narrative that went nowhere. I couldn’t even skim it. It was a waste of everyone’s time but the author.  Because at least he or she was entertained by their own heartbeat.  Their own breathing.  Their own strict adherence to living a life they deem valuable and artistic and worth living.  Good for him or her. And you, TNY, supported that lost cause. Yay!

But the story is shit.

And it seems most art is these days.  Just people and industry believing in shit.  People eating it up.  Weak machines chewing thin matter.  What a waste of time. Nothing at risk. No vulnerability. Just work that requires explaining. Narratives that waste time. Cunts on cunts in a non-tribbing way. Waste of human meat and resources. Cool.

I walked by a homeless man yesterday.  He had a large cyst on the back of his neck.  Baseball sized.  He had meth sores.  And a crazed look.  And a sign that said:  Hungry and Invisible; Please Help. And I walked past about twenty paces (which is a lot for the blown knee I haven’t told you about, which may be surgery imminent).  But I turned around.  And walked back to him and gave him a bundle of money and said, “You aren’t invisible.” Because I fucking know that fucking feeling and it’s the end of the fucking line. And he said, “Yes I am,” in a high pitched cry voice. Did not make eye contact.  And I said, whilst crying, “No you aren’t, I see you.” He took the money and thanked me and I cried while walking back to my son.

Fuck this place.  I don’t belong here.  This world and its people are garbage. I’m garbage. You’re garbage. We are garbage. Please, prove me otherwise. We all win if you do. Please.

Nick