Looking back, I wish someone had told me to avoid idolizing sexuality and simply accept that I was an unfinished person and that I would continue being in flux and changing until my death, sometimes rapidly and sometimes less rapidly, and that those feelings of constant rebecoming would be exhausting and unsettling and anxiety-causing.
1) The YOLO Pages 2) The Fun We’ve Had by Michael J Seidlinger 3) Left Hand by Paul Curran 4) Black Cloud by Juliet Escoria 5) Walls by Andrew Duncan Worthington 6) Tampa by Alissa Nutting 7) New Tab by Guillaume Morissette 8) Thunderbird by Dorothea Lasky 9) You Can Make Anything Sad by Spencer Madsen 10) The Collected Works of Noah Cicero Vol 2
I felt as if my goal overall was to be invited to all the parties, but never go. I was starting to view parties as an infinitely renewable resource, like I could skip one and all that would do is make ten more appear. Still, it was comforting to know that parties were there if I needed them to be there, like a low-hanging fruit.
Romantically, I still felt like a five-year-old, one that confused fantasy with reality, was afraid of darkness, loud noises. I had spent my high school years being awkward and not handsome and thinking that love and sex and relationships would happen to me eventually, that all I had to do was to avoid thinking about it too much and just wait. Since then, I had had girlfriends and ambiguous relationships and other things, but those had weirdly bounced off of me like a kind of minor deflection. It seemed like I was still waiting and would continue waiting, quietly waiting, like I was in love with the waiting and would miss the waiting if I were to get into a relationship I felt anything other than indifference towards.
i often think about this thing guillaume said in an interview in 2012, around the time when he was writing new tab:
‘what I want the most is to destroy myself for literature. that probably sounds heavy or insane or melodramatic, but what I mean by that is that my life is stupid, like I seriously can’t see myself having babies and getting married and finding solace and meaning in my daily whatever. what I want is to use literature as a kind of death drive, give a shape to my shit-talking, my inner monologue, neuroses, failures, shortcomings, feelings, contradictions, life experiences both good and bad, etc, and use all of those without thinking things like, ‘what will people think of me.’ I kind of want to make fun of myself in a way that’s reckless and borderline irresponsible, but also entertaining/pleasurable for a person to pick up and read.’
1. Orange Juice by Timothy Willis Sanders 2. Stories // Stories 2 by Scott McClanahan 3. CRUNK JUICE by Steve Roggenbuck 4. selected unpublished blog posts of a mexican panda express employee by Megan Boyle 5. Kadian by Jordan Castro 6. There Is No Reason For Tigers To Be Beautiful They Just Are by Heiko Julien 7. Illuminati Girl Gang Vol 1 8. Moods by Rachel B Glaser 9. i am my own betrayal by Guillaume Morissette
I AM ALT LIT 'interview #6' :: guillaume morissette
here are the ‘questions’:
1) where are you answering these ‘questions’? what are your ‘surroundings’ like?
I spent the last week in toronto and got back home a few hours ago. I slept maybe four hours last night and rideshared for several hours today and the rideshare was brutal and I wanted to attack most people in the van but felt too exhausted for that and kept imagining myself falling asleep in the van and then mumbling, 'I am going to murder all of you for a very long time’ in my sleep.