So we're having our final workshop this Thursday and one of the students in my class just emailed the following "story" to all of us:
A story? You want a creative story from me? Now? Well, Hell. I don't have any tales to tell, and to be honest, even if I did, I probably wouldn't anyway. I would love to tell the tale of The Na'im and Friends Company or something like that. Actually, I have an entire portion of that story written in my head, but no. I will not submit that. There, of course, are a variety of reasons, and all I intend to get to.
So, I'll write this. Sorry if it's not filled with expressions like "gelatinous sunlight," a stupid phrase from a stupider writer who I can only hope is rotting away in an unmarked grave, preferably shallow. No, no. None of that. I must admit, that single string of words infuriated me to a level none of you will ever understand.
I am not a sick man. No. I am an angry man. I am a petulant man. I am an unforgiving man, still holding grudges from decades past. I am a lying man, always trying to mask just how furious I really am. I am an impatient man, the type who wishes to ram his car into another which cuts him off, merely out of spite. I am the type of man who at an instant can burst into a fit of rage so intense that with it I might strike the fear of God into all who witness the rampage.
There you have it. I try to seem easygoing, humorous at times, at least neutral to a degree. But it is all an illusion. I am simply angry at the world. Angry at the entire world. The rich and the poor. The young and the old. The strong and the weak. The intelligent and the ignorant. The fat and the thin. The men and the women. The black and the white. The gays and the straights. The theists and the atheists, although more so the atheists. The liberals and the conservatives. The Americans, Mexicans, Canadians, Salvadorians, Cubans, Britons, French, Germans, Russians, Iraqis, Iranians, Egyptians, Israelites, Palestinians, Indians, Native Americans, Namibians, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, the Hawaiians.
You're reading the words of a man who's entire day can be ruined from a headache out of bed and a long line at the convenience store. And yet, I'm at my core non-violent and walk the Earth with the patience of Job. Somehow, a festering kettle pot of unadulterated vindictive energy can function in this world. Somehow I interact with these people, even though I hold back a torrent of vomit every time they open their horrific mouths and spew their nonsense.
The thing that makes me angry most of all: I, potentially one of the most raging and hateful persons on the face of the Earth, is more respectful of individuals than the most pure intentioned do-gooder who manages to grace us with their presence. I wish to allow individuals free reign over their lives, as long as they don't directly harm another, even though the direction they take their lives disgusts me, fills me with fury. As idiotic as everyone on this planet is, I can only assume I am dumber than they. And the thought of my potential inferiority in intellect, again, makes me angry.
This is one reason you'll squeeze no story from me. I'm just too damn angry. Another reason, is with your potential criticism, I might be driven more furious. You're probably thinking, "this isn't creative writing though, we can't critique it. This is a glorified diary entry." I don't give a damn, you fool. This is just as creative as telling a story of two deep-dicking hillbilly Kansas City faggots cocking off in the plains. Bleeding Kansas, a bit too rough maybe. Or that old chestnut, the cat lady and her friend. Or that shit that reminded me of my dead-ass brother, that was a pleasant day.
What's funny, I've essentially no more school work. I had longer than the entire break to work on this story and postponed it. My creative juices are running dry. And the fact that you might pass judgment on my work, you know who you are, makes me less enthused. What a boring life. This is what it's all about, the pursuit of knowledge. Stuck in a rinky-dink shack of a room with a pack of illiterates, too impressed by try-hards. Art for art's sake, an empty phrase as they say.
And let me tell you another thing. No one cares about your personal life. No one. Not a soul. I can assure you, this is not just me. All of you. Anyone who brings up their personal life just serves to irritate the entire class. And another thing, although I never buy overpriced milkshakes disguised as high-class coffee drinks, I was quite offended when the story of polluting the drinks was told. What a betrayal of trust! How immoral does one have to be? The customer makes a transaction in good faith, and you defraud them with every tainted distribution of purchased goods. How revolting. And they call me a bad person because of my constant rage. What a joke.
The words from Network keep coming to mind. "You've got to get mad! You've got to say, I'm a human being, God damn it! My life has value!" The words have been moved around a bit in the quote. And I'm mad that the entire monologue has been hijacked by the Zeitgeist-conspiracy kooks. I don't know what else to say. I'm simply angry. I'm writing this late, I'm sitting in my room, typing away. And a lot more though is going into this than you think, you son of a bitch!
That's all I have. I'm angry. Angry at History, at English, especially at Women's Studies. Angry that those cocksuckers down at the advising center are always packed by mini-cocksuckers. First year Freshman faggots who can take any fucking class and fulfill some requirements. Meanwhile, I'm five classes from graduating and I want to be sure all the requirements are being filled. Fuck, shit, ass, bitch, God damn it. I feel like I should throw the word twat or cunt into the mix, but that might be too much.
And there you have it. A free flow of concentrated anger, creatively placed on the page. I took my medication for my high blood pressure, caused by my endless rage, when I started this, I've mellowed out a bit. So, without anger to drive my writing, I've nothing. I'm through, finished, done. And even after the vent writing provides, I'm still angry. More numb now than anything else. And no one can help me, not you, not them, not even myself.
And that's why I named this paper Begging to be Butchered. Tear this sham of a creative endeavor apart, do it. It's not often that a God is insulted by insects. Plant your forked tongues against my paper like daggers between my ribs. I could use a laugh, to be critiqued by the likes of you, you worthless lot!
I'll close to dispel potential concern. Non-aggression principle is the one thing I hold as a moral philosophy, with self-ownership as a supplementary value. I long for a world of peace and love and prosperity and the like. Enjoy each other, enjoy life. Leave me be. A troll in a cave, a hermit in a shack in the swamp, a demon in the mountain. Benign in every way imaginable. Let my rage not frighten you! Sit and admire it! Is Job to be pitied, feared or admired?
Also, Morgana is better than Trist. Deal with it.
We all have to spend a few minutes talking about this story, and I just don't know what to say. I mean I want to tear him a new one, but we are in a classroom setting. I literally am at a loss. Any tips on how to proceed would be mucho appreciated. Thanks.
I hate you and you hate me.