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21 April 2007 @ 03:02 pm
The Good Times Are Killing Me (Prologue)  
Fiction I'm writing. Sexual themes. My own brand of crazy.

It’s not about arousal; this and me and us are not about pleasure, so much as they are about peace-of-mind, feeling whole, absolution. If you’re here to drop your pants and fist your cock or twist your nipples and choke back a moan to die in the back of your throat, you should probably fuck off and find someone to fuck with. I’m not here to be your own perverse puppet (who pens poetry and prays for penance to a higher power who has no place here), your little cut-out doll to play dress-up with and fall in love with.

I’m here to tell you what happens when someone gets hurt by not hurting enough.

There are a lot of things that people don’t understand about me, and when I say me, I mean a collective. I am made up of other’s ideals, be they living or death others, or living or dead ideals. I’m a subculture and I’m something most people will never understand, not because they can’t, but because they don’t want to.

Because it’s easier that way.

Easier isn’t always better, after all.

Stories start off with cute little introductions, like ‘Once upon a time…’ or ‘In a land far away there lived a princess…’, but what happens when it’s here and now and all the princesses are dead, leaving in their wake a society read to rip itself apart from the inside out? Are the stories still good, good enough to be told at bedtime? Will they get written down?

Will anyone but me write them down?

This story does start here and now, and there certainly are no princesses, but it’s not like it’s some elaborate hoax or scheme, or anything more than me (or us, or them, or anyone you want to picture in my stead) telling you what happened, and where, and how, and frequently when. But I can’t tell you why.

That’s for you to tell me.

If you’re getting off to my words, to the thought of my thoughts, I can’t stop you. Really, I don’t want to stop you, because isn’t that what this is all about anyway, expressing oneself? If you’re getting off to my words, I have to remind you that it’s not about feeling good, it’s never been about feeling good. It’s about what happened, what is happening, what will happen.

Everything you read will be true.

Except for the things that aren’t.

I come bearing no cliché beginnings of false hope. It’s not a pretty story. You will not like parts of it. You will hate me, and you will throw this book down and you will call me a liar, a hypocrite, a whore. You will dismiss me, and you will move on with your life.

And then you will get curious.

And they you’ll pick this book up again, and then I’ll continue telling you what you don’t want to hear.

You don’t want to hear what I have to say, because it’s not just about me. It’s also about you.

There are stages to every good fairy tale. I won’t go into them, but you know that they’re there.

I don’t care about the stages of fairy tales, because this isn’t a fairy tale.

When I sat down by a window, and open window, looking out above a busy honking city of motion and the mundane, with a pen in my hand and paper in my lap and an idea of something not-so-great, I didn’t tell myself ‘What I write is fantastic!’, because what I told myself is secret (unless you’re very good at reading between the lines). But I sat, and I wrote, and the city moved on in a blur of fire sirens and it was a beautiful coexistence. My water on the window ledge sparkled just right in the late April sun.

Don’t take what I tell you too seriously, but please take everything that I don’t tell you very seriously.

It’s not about what’s right or wrong in the situation, not about what makes you cum with a gasp, not about if my glass is half-empty or half-full.

It’s about letting you know I’m here.

Hello. My name’s Judith. Nice to meet you.
Christopher Muessig: Chicago - Cellophaneghent_the_cynic on August 4th, 2007 07:15 am (UTC)
I'm crying right now, the kind of tears that always well to my eyes after I have gotten done watching "Love Actually" or "Crash".

You are a beautiful writer. Someday I want to buy your first book. I want to read it and weep at the beauty.