I’ll start by stating that every word is going into the book. “The book?” I hear you asking. “What is the book?”

I stand before you, just as curious as anyone, looking to God as my witness, asking what the book myself is not; and let’s just say that it’s everything about me that you’re ever gonna see. Manwell knows what I’m talking about, and that’s part of what makes him so great. Sure, he calls me out for my so-called “sub-tweeting,” but when he does it, I don’t want to puke like I do when Chuck Bronco comes to town.

Manwell knows how to negate the pain. He’s a subtle prick. His sense of superiority presses into your orifices, getting sleazy jizz into your thoughts and feelings, contaminating your soul and convincing you not to die by dragging you to the mirror where Jesus waits to rain hellfire onto the unworthy.

I appreciate it. We’re living in dangerous times full of too many people out to see us buried. “My idols are dead, and my enemies are in power.” With Manwell’s help, I begin the unfollowing process.

“They don’t deserve what they have always had,” he says, “and you don’t need them in your life anymore. You only keep them around to hurt yourself, and you don’t need to hurt anymore. I have the utmost faith in you. I’m going to do everything that I can to raise you up. Welcome to the rolling tide of gore and greatness! All hail the agents of our lord and savior! Here stands the chapel of literary genius. Look there, a gate is rising. Come in sweet hero, for we are on the same side. Look at us, brother; we are not transphobes, but we might be heartthrobs.”

I know that what he says is true. I’m not getting any joy out of being anyone’s tag-along. They are always talking about clouds and leaves, the sun in the sky, apples like you have never seen before! And Melony… I thought that she was my friend, but I have been lying to myself, because there she is, gaga eyed, like a goddamn goop head, giving their king fart nugget all the hearts that she can muster, making it so that even though I no longer follow this a-hole, I have to keep seeing him every time I open my phone.

How’s that for torture? You know what I mean? Ramming it down your throat. The future of advertising.

I’m not telling anybody to shut up and die. I’m not calling anybody a faggot or whatever. I’m just saying that I’d rather not look at all these ugly people. They remind me of my student body presidency, which I tried to be a part of but was voted off stage for, wearing my dinosaur costume, surpassed by a girl who broke the rules by passing out candy. So forgive me for being bitter, but this is my career we’re talking about, and just because I don’t show my face doesn’t mean that I’m not writing. 

The craft of creating takes a degree of madness, says Manwell. I’m mad most of the time, I tell him. The apple picking pansies are on my tail. They’re hell bent on knocking off the Nazis. It’s like, I’m asking people to follow my lead, and if you’re not interested, don’t follow. It’s easy. I know that it’s been done to me. And am I bitter, sure? but I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do, and maybe you’re a fan of bitter apples. Don’t matter, I say. I’m not here for them anymore. I’m after you. It’s a long road ahead of us, and we’ve got to keep walking. We can’t get bogged down by all of the little stuff. 

I’m pulling at his trousers, but he’s not there. Everyone is looking down on me. They’re treating me like a second hand citizen. Why? because I’m bulky as a football player, and my hair is long and tied back in a white scrunchy.

Nobody is here, says the security guard. They’re either in New York, L.A., Philly, Chicago… Anywhere but Utah. Nobody wants to play in Utah, because they are all blind. They cannot see the sparks of what was in Edward Abbey and Charles Bowden. They’ve never even heard of ‘em.

A film director is aiming his camera at me.

Reality, he says.

Can you see me?

I’m waving my hand in front of my face.

I’m undercover. I can’t let them catch me. They’re always after my writing. If they catch me in the act, they’ll impale me on it. I will be killed by what I love. Live by the sword die by the sword, that’s what they always say, getting ready to kick me off of twitter.

Artistic expression, it’s gotta be sincere, but if it’s evil, they’ll kick you right the fuck out, says Manny. Literature used to be our sanctuary city, but this new money, son… They’ve let the wickedness escape the page. It’s in the atmosphere now. You might not be able to see it, but you can breathe it in. It’s killing dreams. We should have been where they are by now, but here we are, living in the apocalypse.

Can you see me?  

I’m down here, standing in my tattered clothes, taking my shirt off and waving it as our flag.

I am an ex-pat, I say. I am an outsider. I am lower class. There are more of us than you may think. And everybody needs a writer.

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