So a friend of mine has a writing group, but one that isn't irritating from what I can tell. They have readings that are actually entertaining, and they do weirdly interesting and creative things. I'm on their mailing list. The other day an envelope came in the mail. It contained SASE and a clipping from a magazine. The clipping was a letter from an eleven year old to an advice column. It's ridiculous. The eleven year old is asking for relationship advice, and a way to navigate her way through a love triangle. She has two boyfriends and her mother disaproves of one because he has long hair and swears. That's essentially the setup. My task was to write her an appropriate response. I've got a bunch of ideas and just rattled this one out while waiting for a telephone call that could change my whole life. I'm probably going to come up with others and then figure out which one I like best before sending it off. Here's my first batch of advice to Linda, from the perspective of a Depressed Megalomaniac who has recently found Christ:
That’s some story you’ve got there. There many pieces of advice I could give, you but chief among them: I am the greatest human who as ever lived which is so fucking depressing I can barely get out of bed in the morning.
Also let me say that your eleven year old dependence on advice columns is in no way depressing. I mean, it is, but only because you shouldn’t be asking anyone for advice, but at least you’re asking the right person: me. I’m glad you were able to discern with that eleven year old non cussing noodle of yours that I’m the only person to ask for advice in this situation. Except for Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
In order to fully answer your question I have combined all of my knowledge and merged it as best as I could with the brilliant power of the Bible. I think it was the best idea, it’s hard for me to tell. I don’t have anyone to bounce ideas off of. Everyone else is so stupid and I’m not really sure how to make a good cup of tea and I would so gladly kill everyone in this state for a good cup of tea and I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. Things used to be better, you know? I just.. I’m off track. Your problem isn’t directly about me as far as you know. But what the hell do you know.
I’ve taken most of my advice from the Old Testament because I’m far too tired to read the second half of The Good Book. Plus, most of the “New Testament” could not possibly apply to someone like me. Your advice follows:
I feel that you should gather all of your boyfriends in one room. You’ve only mentioned two, but in my experience if you’re going to mention two, there are probably four or five. People always lie to me, I don’t know why, everyone just seems out to get me. It makes things very difficult and lonely. But let’s say I can’t plainly see that you’re a liar, and go with your inferior, lying pretext and say you only have two boyfriends: the long haired cussing Lothario your heart belongs to, but whom your mother hates. And your other boyfriend who is probably some sort of nerd. Bring the both of them and your mother to a dark, quiet room. For best results, have your mother strapped into something wriggle-proof.
Announce: “I will now cut my mother in half!” If you’re reading this as you go, I apologize, I should have mentioned that you needed a sword. Brandish your sword confidently so the two boyfriends know you mean business. Don’t worry about killing your mother, she’s not me and she doesn’t really love you. How could she? My mother never really loved me and if a mother would love anyone, it’d be me. But she didn’t, she didn’t understand me. How do you have two boyfriends and I don’t have any girlfriends by the way? Why doesn’t anyone understand me? How about that? Why don’t you answer that, little girl? I will crush this land with my mighty – sorry. Back to you. Let’s focus on you some more, Little Miss Love Triangle. You make me sick.
So now you’ve got a big sword waving over your head, your mother and the boyfriends are terrified. If they’re not, you’re doing it wrong. There are only three possible scenarios from this point foreword:
1. Neither boyfriend says anything. You make good on your announcement. Then you go on “the lamb.” Which is gangster speak for “Leave town, live with relatives who don’t care who or how many boys you date.
2. Nerd man rolls a twenty sided die and says “No! Don’t do that!” Which is typical nerd speak for “I’m a goddamned nerd” and that guy is just going to grow up and have a better job than me even though I’m clearly cooler than he is. And who the fuck is he to tell me about computers? I spilled soda on my computer by accident, Mr. Nerdlington. I didn’t do it on purpose, even I, the greatest man alive, the shining light of God, makes mistakes sometimes. One time I forgot about my turtle when I went on vacation and when I came back he was gone. Dead. And Sir Prance A-Lot wouldn’t wake up and why wouldn’t he wake up and sometimes I still think about it and my thumb gets pruned from the suckling. No matter how hard I hold my knees and cry, nothing is bringing him back. I told God all about it and he’s not helping matters. But God knows slightly more than me, so I don’t really know what to do and just reading that makes me feel like there’s a stone on my chest and I can’t breathe and why did you make me think of this I will conquer Spain and make them build statues to Sir Prance-a-lot the turtle and then we’ll see who’s sad! Praise Jesus.
3. Long Hair steps forward and says “Fuck that bitch” and slicks back his greasy hair with a barbershop comb. You try to interject but he won’t stop cussing “Fuck you too, and fuck Roy over here. Ain’t that right, Roy? You fucking bitch. Fuck that bitch, fuck this bitch, fuck you, you bitch.” You then realize that Long Hair only actually knows two cuss words “Fuck” and “bitch.” It depresses you to find that, even though he is quite skilled in their use, he is only 11 and only knows two cuss words. You don’t have time for him to spread his wings and find other cuss words to anger your mother with. There are only so many. Life is too short for him to discover and overuse words like “cunt” or “shit for brains.” And so you could use your sword to cut off all his hair and rob him of his cussing abilities before he brings the whole goddamned house down. And you realize that people don’t grow as you want them to, people won’t keep up. And when you start to develop plans to take over your apartment complex later on in life everyone will keep asking you “What’s with all the blueprints?” And you can’t tell them because they could tell the cops and they never believe you when you say that “no jail can hold me!” And they lock you up in one of those jails without any fences and too many pillows and you can’t really figure it out. And goddamn you miss your turtle so much. So much. And I’m sorry for saying goddamn, God. My love for Jesus is so strong that my love of Mr. Prance-a-lot is like hatred by comparison but then again like love when you compare it to my hatred of other people named Linda.
So those are your three options. And I know you’re probably thinking “He didn’t even tell me what to do?” To which I say: Didn’t I? Because I think that I did, and you’re just someone else who doesn’t understand me. Christ how I want some tea. That wasn’t blasphemy, I’m speaking directly to Jesus, my co-pilot. He could probably make me a mean cuppa.
Good luck with your “problem,” shit for brains.
Charles S. Dutton
Emperor of Twelve Pines Residences