From November 23rd
Sitting here, trying to figure out where to start, my eye burns. I’ve just rubbed pizza sauce over my eyeball-on accident of course- and it hurts. My left eye has been closed for over a minute now. Trying to type with one eye open fucks with my equilibrium. And I say that truthfully. It isn’t just an opportunity to use a cool word like “equilibrium.”
I’ve never been self conscious about my writing. I know its shit. If anyone else read my shit, they’d know its shit too. It’s just not that good. But it’s mine. I take comfort in that my shit is my own. I write what I want to write. I don’t take requests. The only influences I listen to are the ones my own reality creates. So…I’ve never been self conscious about my writing.
“How come all your stories start at the end and end at the begining?” Little fucker asks me.
“How come you don’t drive a car?” I ask
Sitting at the computer to my left is some kid. Some kid, who looks no older than Ten years of age. Some kid who feels he has advice to offer.
“Because I don’t have my driver’s license.” He says
“Exactly!” I sit there and act like my comment made absolute and perfect sense. Though I don’t think Little Fucker buys it.
I turn my attention back towards the computer screen.
“It’s not very funny either.” He says
“What’s not?” I ask him.
“Your introduction. It’s not very funny.”
“What do you know about introductions?” I ask
“I know yours isn’t funny.” He says
I turn my monitor to the right, moving it out of his view.
“Shouldn’t you be looking at Disney.com or something?”
“I’m Ten years old.” He says. He moves his chair to the right and back into view
“Yeah, So.” I say.
“So… I’ve outgrown all that Disney shit.”
“You shouldn’t say shit.” I tell him. I look around the room with hopes of finding someone who might resemble the same genetics little fucker has. Aside from his small frame, Little Fucker has short brown hair, blue eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. His T-shirt says “Idaho” at the top, followed by a potato in the middle and the phrase “my little spud” written across the bottom.
“You say bad words in your stories.” He says.
“But I’m an adult. Adults don’t have bad words
“Yes they do!” he says. “I bet you can’t go into McDonalds and say, ‘I’d like to order a fucking hamburger!’ They’d probably arrest you or something.”
Little Fuckers lips are blue. Probably from the sucker he was chewing on a minute ago.
“I’m gonna tell your mom all the bad words you’re saying when she comes to get you.” I say
“I’m gonna tell her all the bad words your writing down.”
“Look, I’ve got some very important work I need to finish.”
“No you don’t. It’s not important because it’s stupid.” He says.
I can't take anymore abuse. I lay down my king and surrender. I’ve been bested by a Ten year old. A fucking Ten year old! I close out of my blog, log out of my facebook and Gmail, and stand up. Little Fucker slides back over to his computer.
“It was nice to meet you.” I say to him. “See ya.” He says back.
I walk to an open space in the Library and sit in a chair. I pull my moleskin from the backpack and try to remember my conversation with Little Fucker. I write down quotes and laugh. Some strange passerby gives me a weird look as she sees me laughing to myself. I write this down in my moleskin as well.
After twenty minutes or so I hear a familiar voice.
“Wait mom, I want to say good bye to my friend.” The familiar voice says. Before I can put it together, little fucker is standing directly in front of me.
“Are you gonna write about me in your next story.” He asks.
I look up at the mom. She returns a look of something that resembles terror. Terror with a dash of curious suspicion.
I should probably lie. I should probably stand up and say something like, “Who are you and what are you talking about.” Instead I sit there with a dumb shit look on my face.
“if you write about me, make sure you…”
“JOEY!” His mom calls.
JOEY. It always nice to put a name with a face.
Joey the Little Fucker runs back to his mom. She bends down and whispers something into his hear. It kinda sounds like;
“Do you know that man?”
Joey The Little Fucker looks up towards his mom and whispers something like;
“Yeah, he’s a writer. He was writing a story on the computer. It wasn’t very funny though.”
Mom gives me another one of those looks.
“I told him he shouldn’t use so many bad words.”
Another one of those looks.
“He told me adults don’t have any bad words.”
One of those looks.
“I told him that even adults shouldn’t use words like that
One of those looks.
Great. She probably thinks I’m a fucking pervert or something.
Joey the Little Fucker and his mom head towards the door. She gives me one more look for the road.
“Fucking amazing.” I say under my breath. I write down the past few minutes in my Moleskin.
You may have won the battle Joey the Little Fucker, but you haven’t won the war.