Hmm, yeah, not sure about the ending.

It is a while before we are in the park and that pale, moaning fuck, quoted above is out cold under the sun. I feel tetchy and anxious so I reach for a notebook and start penning an idea for a piece of fiction about a narcissist wannabe who is sorry that he missed a call as he was updating his Wikipedia entry at the time. The phone call was from some employer who offers Wannabe a part-time contract to work as an usher in a rep theatre.

So this Wannabe gets the job offer over the phone (voicemail) but emails back a long letter about how ambivalent he feels about accepting it. Wannabe expects to get the job, as he is over qualified and has ample experience but resents the offer because he sees it as yet another example having to compromise his image to earn the rent. So we hear how busy he will be at nights networking so nights might be tough oh and he mentions how well connected he is;

” Have you heard of the singer Michael Stipe? I know his boyfriend”

Well, that kind of pleased me, its lol at least, and lol can go a long way. I put the notebook down and think about how to develop it. Meanwhile my moaning fuck of a friend rolls to one side and lets out a sigh….

You know the moaning fuck of a friend is not unconscious, right?  I haven’t knocked him out or anything. He really is just snoozing. I added that for effect, and I liked the ‘ out cold under the sun’. You see, this is a problem when you read a lot of the kind of transgressive queer lit  that I have. I think it has saturated my brain so I quite naturally treat my (and your) friends/loved ones that sometime inspire my stories with metallic distance and icy passive aggression. Where were we?  Oh yes.

“Hmm, yeah, not sure about the ending”

When moaning fuck actually said “Yeah the ending is good” !

I suppose I started aggressively and it didn’t make sense calling him a moaning fuck when he was complementing me so I altered it to fit.


You’re asleep in the park. This happened (it is not fiction that bit). You’re asleep and I feel I should be doing something. Maybe my phone is dead, but I have my notebook with me. I start to pen the idea of the wannabe, is all going well and I’m enjoying your company even if you are sound asleep or snoozing. I have your support about some writing of mine  “yeah the ending is good” but it was quite annoying that you were so inert in the park. In fact, it made my blood boil. That is why I reached for my pen and lunged it into one of you nostrils as hard as I did before pulling it out and carrying on with my story. It was your inertia, the influence of a certain genre of contemporary lit over me, and the need to finish the story of the Wannabe that have got us here. So there you go, moaning fuck, there’s your ending. Any good?


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