Stories are too, said the author, referring to the title of this one.
…
That’s mine this week.
“…”
My story.
…
Hold on. I’ll touch it up for you:
. . .
That’s better.
Care to know the interesting thing about trying to express yourself through symbolism? Me having to explain it to you makes me the asshole.
And, right now, I feel like punching the first asshole that demands an explanation.
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“It’s a blinking cursor, f*ckface. And it’s not producing, is it?” And then I’ll throw him the pair of boxer-briefs I’ve been using to prevent those persistent whiskey puddles from staining my urine-soaked mattress. “Do something with your face!” Because I’ve never been a fan of Bleeding Profusely.
Shock.
Disgust.
Publisher: “What’s going on here?”
Author: “Don’t worry about it. It’s peripheral.”
Publisher: “Peripheral?”
Author: “Peripheral.”
“You just hit a woman. I can’t believe it…you just hit a woman!”
Plot twist.
“Come again?”
“That’s right: I tracked you down from Nevada to tell you that I’ve witnessed all of your turmoil and, because you need a story this week, you gave me the strength to proudly transition into a lady.”
“Is that right? Because you hide it well enough.”
“Well you didn’t have to punch me in the face!”
“Of course I did. Don’t you remember the beginning? Symbolism.”
“I can’t believe I’ve been reading you…feeling sorry for you, even.”
“Trust me. I’m as disgusted by the whole thing as you are. Apparently I failed to make myself clear in whatever materials you’ve been viewing.”
“What are you talking about? I thought those were just for entertainment.”
“You would, you scum…
“Let me set it up for you: Your imaginary friend that you’ve never once bothered to say hello to suffers from a broad spectrum of intricate human emotions that somehow manage to wrap themselves up with a pretty little bow for you once in a while…and how sweet of you to watch him publicly flagellate himself all this time before introducing yourself with a cute little story about how his pain offers you comfort every week.”
(Boo ya! It’s a motherf*ckin’ love story.)
“But your bio said you were a generous lover. That you’d give me the world.”
“A world full of pain, dollface. It was suppose to say a world full of pain. I ran out of characters. They charge extra for that kind of thing, and I really thought I made it very obvious.”
“But I’m pregnant.”
“Weren’t you a man?”
“Science.”
“Of course. Is it mine?”
“50/50.”
“Damn. Those are good odds.”
“Does that mean…are we…are we gonna do this?”
“Like Thelma and Louise. But with Frank and Beans.”
“But…the Apocalypse. Is there time?”
“Sugar, so long as we take my spaceship, we’ve got all the time in the world.”
Publisher: “Really?”
Author: “F*ck you, man. I’m onto something here.”
“Can I drive?”
“Of course you can. Because, in my stories, women drive just fine. I’ll tell you what else we’re gonna do: we’re gonna use the cisgender lane. Because why?”
“Because f*ck ’em.”
“That’s right sugardick: F*ck ’em.”
Publisher: “Want to talk about it?”
Author: “Talk about what?”
Time travel.
Action sequence.
Coming of age.
Socio-economic behavioral observation.
Allegory.
Flashback.
Mystery solved.
Cinematically ambiguous ending.
Moral summation: The heart wants what it wants, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll fit your ass into that box wHenEVer thE HeaRt WaNts.
Publisher: “. . .”
Author: “Exactly.”