Culture, Sports, Writing…or whatever
I cried. It finally happened, I mean. Been trying to cry close to four months now. Both times caused by movies. This time Room; previously Inside Out. The connection’s transparent: The saddest moment in life is when you’re no longer allowed to be a child.
I’ve been thinking about Her again. An obvious literary trick at mystery. Use pronouns to elicit symbolic distance. Also an attempt to call attention to myself; hope all the She’s read this and think that sentence was about Her. Really I’m referring to Scarlett Johannson. I am Joaquin Phoenix. Surprise.
I wish she called me.
Attended a writing conference. Many people instructed me lessons already learned. I’m an autodidact meaning I’m smart meaning I’m alone. This is all heading somewhere. If I had to predict a direction—down. In a shape of a spiral.
Some people were nice, some were assholes, I was somewhere in between. It was all nothing new. A repetitive cycle of questioning, belittling those deemed intellectually inferior, wondering why it wasn’t my turn, crystallizing into a millennial trope. I’m bored with how pathetic I sound.
I yearn for Purpose. Now I am Justin Bieber. What do you mean? I’ll show you. Where are U Now? Sorry. Get used to it. Love yourself. No pressure. No sense.
I return to my storage unit. It’s funny: I no longer am attached to this Stuff. It once held great meaning, now it’s a metaphor. Something about leaving Stuff behind, but refusing to let go. That’s as close as I can get.
I retrieve what I came for. A plot detail not necessary to explain. Travis Scott’s “Antidote” blares from my phone. I play his music only when no one’s around. I dance and rage. I bashed him once online and wish to maintain my brand. Can’t shatter the illusion. It’s all I have.
My plot detail and I leave. We speed away. The building blows up behind us. Stuff rains from the sky. Insert generic flourish of pluming fire, a couple embarrassing items like panties. One more weird thing. A chicken clucking in cocktail attire. A lesson: The only way to end eras is violently.
The sun sets as I drive. Kanye West’s “Power” provides background soundtrack. The fantasy ends at the bar “I’m jumping out the window, I’m letting everything go.” Too much identification.
In the editing bay, they revert the color palette back to its muted, drab aesthetic. Jump cut to the opening scene of me crying at the movies. Camera follows me from behind out the theater. Stunned shuffling. Drained appearance. Open the door to the dark outside.
Cut to a close-up of my face. Puffy eyes, salt streaks down my face, hot breath steaming in the cold night air. A push-in closer as a thought flickers but doesn’t complete itself in my expression. Pause an almost unbearable time at this position.
Right before it’s totally uncomfortable, a twitch of a smile. Then everything fades to black.
[a] millennial reservations 