When Your Biggest Fan Becomes Your Ex…

When it comes to fans, mine are the fucking best. Duh. This is not new news.

I have a new fanboy, and he seems to think I’m the funniest broad in a 7-county spread, and he ought to know because that’s how far we live from one another.

Distance be damned, I am a funny bitch, there’s no doubt about that.

Also, sometimes I say some other shit, y’all know the shit. That shit.

Yep.

Really, I think mostly people just like when I write about them. Like, I’m sure it can’t be all that bad to hear me retelling your jokes with all the right nuances, because, again, I’m a funny bitch.

Or when I go all squishy and start fangirling over one of y’all like I have a habit of doing. Point is this…I talk about y’all the same way I talk to y’all. They’re one and the same to me. It’s not really all that different than when I was writing to myself, and for myself, when I didn’t even need the glass enclosure, because nobody was outside redlining my work.

Wait, yes it is, because if I fuck up, one of y’all is gonna tell me about it. Back then, I could have typos, bad synonyms, complete chaos throughout a story, nobody gave a fuck. These days, I wouldn’t even make it to the comment section, the edits would be spilling over like a fucking cornucopia.

And I’m grateful for that. It means I have an audience. It means I’m still writing to people who find me interesting enough, or Bitchface enough, or emotional enough to continue to hear me when I’m full tangent. But I also think sometimes that scares me now. Because remember who the last stories were about?

Yea, me too. I never thought I’d eat so many thousands of fucking words in my life.

But I did.

I ate them all. I ate them all without a drop of water, and they scratched my throat on the way down, and then sat like a boulder in the pit of my stomach for months.

So, now I’m more reserved in my word reserve, using words like reserved, and reworded, and rewound. And rewritten. Most of all, rewritten.

I’m afraid to have a fanboy, because then you go to looking for them out there in the cheap seats. Always trying to catch sight of the tacky ass signs they made, “Go Bitchface”, and “Great Job Wiping The Glass” while I’m in the enclosure peering out. And the feeling when they aren’t there, well, that’s just not one of my favorites at all.

And then they do shit like try to burn the whole fucking enclosure to the ground with you inside it. And I swear I nearly died inhaling the smoke of the last inferno. I still wear flame retardant clothing when I’m behind the glass, because I’m many things, but a fucking pyromaniac isn’t one of them.

I suppose this is just me being reserved. Reserved, reserved, how I’ve come to hate that word and everything about it. But it’s a necessary evil, reserved, it’s “don’t stick your fucking hand in the enclosure, the bitch will gnaw it off”.

It’s “don’t look for the signs out there, he didn’t make it today”. It’s the smell of gasoline still sharp enough to catch a buzz every time you get within 50 feet of the glass.

I digress.

The moral to this story is, I’m not eating any more words. If you fuck up your own descriptive narrative, well, that’s on you, sir.

Also, keep the fucking liquids away from the glass. The shit makes me fucking nervous. In here breaking a sweat and shit.

Jesus.

Matter fact, cut that hose on. Just for safety’s sake.

Wherever you are, Clark, I miss having someone to tell the 48912 things I want to tell you. If you need someone to fill your inbox with half assed column and prose, I’m still writing that shit.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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From The Good Men Project on Medium

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