Have You Forgotten How It Works?

Dear Carter,

Do you recall being a paleoconservative (which, as far as I can tell, means that you are a conservative who was born millions of years ago and has become crusty and covered in mud), while I flounce around the internet being all cute and right and stuff?

We have a system.  You say things.  I tell you how stupid they are.  You get mad.  I feel kind of bad, but then think about how you always refuse to come to lunch with Brittney and me and get over it.  You probably write my latest outrageous act down in a little green notebook which you will hurl at me at some later date.  I will cry.  You’ll feel bad about making a girl cry, but then you’ll think of how obnoxious I am to you and get over it.

It’s not a perfect system, but it’s ours.

So, why do you have to fuck with it?  Why do you have to write things that I completely agree with?  That I find funny and snarky and delightful?

Those kinds of posts just make me sad that you never hang out with us and get drunk and show us how manly conservatives pee (which, from reading, I have discerned is the true sign of a conservative male–the insistence on his right to whip out his dick and urinate standing up, which, for some reason, the Swedes are trying to take from you).  I have, on occasion, done the squat in the woods and try not to pee on your shoes bit, but if there’s some class in the manly art of peeing as insight into the conservative male mind, I’d be happy to take that course, even for no credit.

Whew, I’m sorry.  I got distracted by the notion of being in a room full of conservative men all with their penises hanging out.  Was there a point?

Let me think.

Ah, yes, it is this.  When you are snarky and funny and right, it makes me delighted on the one hand, and sad on the other that you never come raising hell with us. 

You’re young; life is short; don’t let an opportunity to gently lick a boob freckle pass you by.

At least, that’s what I always say.

Love,

Aunt B. 

p.s.  Do you really think there’s a large contingent of Swedish women who don’t like it when men stand up to pee?  Something about Rose’s story just reaks of something Snopes.com needs to look into, because, really, unless Swedish men are distance pee-ers with really bad aim, why would Swedish women care?

p.p.s.  Wouldn’t distance peeing be an awesome Olympic sport?  I bet it was an unofficial event back when the Olympics were naked. 

Cliches

I think the thing I like about writing non-fiction, such as the bullshit you find here, is that even if it’s cliched and trite, it’s real, so it’s not my fault as a crappy author, but life’s fault for not bringing me something more original.

When I sit down to write fiction, though, I do feel like everyone has already said everything I want to say, but better, and that I am just piecing together alternative versions of stories that have already been told more eloquently.

Really, it’s no wonder that people deliberately choose to retell well-told tales.  You can put that nagging suspicion that someone has already done this to rest.  Yes, they have.  Beowulf is already a poem. We all know how creation stories go.  Four or five other people have already told us Macbeth from the witches’ point of view.  And who doesn’t love Wicked?

But when you’re sitting down trying to write something new, you worry a lot that it’s not, that you’re saying something that’s already been said, repeatedly.  And you worry that what you’re saying is not that surprising, but is instead fairly obvious.

Because, of course, it must be obvious or you would not have come up with it so easily.

Fuck.

Well.

Fuck that.

Into a Corner

I’ve gotten myself into a corner with this Plimco thing and I’ve got no idea how to get out.  Everybody is well-meaning and everyone is doing what it seems like they inevitably must and I am stuck.  I think that means someone isn’t being forthright about what she wants and I’m just not seeing it.

Plus, I think I’ve decided that “Lovesick Blues” is indeed the quintessential American song.  But I could be unconvinced.