I've never found myself in a position where I needed to offer an official apology before. Do you all know Nicole Evans? She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" with me for THE MONSTERS NEXT DOOR, which also appeared in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE. I wrote something in the story notes for TOQT, and I swear to you, I thought she'd read what I said and was cool with it.
I was wrong. She'd read it and was so pissed off that something happened that I probably shouldn't talk about. I have before, but she made it clear to me recently that she wishes I wouldn't talk about it.
When she brought it up to me, I didn't understand the problem. It took me a while to figure out what I'd done wrong, but I assure you, I didn't mean for that to happen. What I wrote was flippant and dismissive, but I didn't think so at at the time I wrote it, but looking back? I understand her problem with it. In my defense, it really *was* a long story, and I didn't want to take up so much time with the issue. I never meant what I said to hurt her, especially since it hurt her so badly it turned out . . . I can't say it. Not because I'm not an open book, but because she doesn't want me to say it in public.
I never realized the power of my words until this very moment. I thought I was entertaining people, and for the most part, I'm right, but there's the 1% chance of something else happening.
This is so awkward. I want to say so much more, but to do so would incur her wrath. I love her too much to do that to her. I wish she were more open to this, but I'm an animal. I don't care what I talk about online. I mean, I talked about the time I almost hanged myself on an elementary school playground because of some foolishness I saw in a movie once. That's pretty fucked up, no?
I told her about "The Knot That Binds," which appeared in STRANGE FUCKING STORIES. There was a character in that story based on her. I was pissed at her when I wrote it, but I still stand by it as an accurate representation, at least from my perspective. My portrayal of her was pretty bad.
But the conjoined twins in that story? They portrayed me, and I think writing about them was worse.
Those of us who are writers usually base our characters off of people we know. But sometimes, those people read about the literary versions of themselves. Things get awkward. Things get fucked.
I can't believe I've reached this point in my career. I would never take back something I wrote about someone else under fictional pretenses, but at the same time, I don't want to hurt my loved ones' feelings. So I apologize.
Showing posts with label nicole evans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nicole evans. Show all posts
Monday, December 8, 2014
Saturday, November 29, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #124: NEWSPAPERS I'VE BEEN IN
I cleaned out my desk tonight, and I found a few newspaper articles I'd been in that I'd forgotten about. Tonight, I'll be discussing these, starting with . . .
When I was a kid, waaaaaaaaay back in the day, someone from the Elmhurst PRESS asked me about gay marriage while I was at the library. This is what I told them. Considering the conservative town I live in, it's kind of a surprise that my fellow interviewees agreed with me.
This is from when I won the Carlson Award for Creative Writing at Elmhurst College (one of three winners). It was for a short story I wrote called "Love in a Book." It has yet to be published, but it's a fun tale of what happens when a vampire asks his wizard friend to cast a spell on the girl he loves (and what happens when the cops find out). Maybe some day, I'll let it see the light of day, because it is pretty funny.
This is the ultimate proof of why I can never trust the media. If you can read all of this (I know, it's small and distorted, but it's worth the read), please realize that everything written here (except for the loss of shoes) is a blatant lie. Nicole Evans, who co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" with me in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, was my date, and yes, I was the guy in question. We were NOT elegantly dressed. I was wearing a denim jacket, for fuck's sake. The creek hadn't dried up due to conditions. They were working on fixing the waterfall at the forest preserve, so they shut down the water, which caused the creek to dry to a trickle. And we didn't leave the path, like some misguided Hansel and fucking Gretel. Nicole saw a duck hanging out by that tiny creek trickle, and she couldn't stop herself from jumping over a barrier to walk out and get a picture of the fowl. Except . . . well, she sank down to her knees. I laughed at her from a safe distance (because I was, am and always will be an asshole), but she asked me for help, so I tried to go out and help her. The ground looked sturdy enough, but halfway out, I sank to my knees. It was nearly impossible to pull myself out and help her. I did my best, but I kept sinking down. I lost one of my shoes, but I was able to reach into the mudhole and grab it out. However, Nicole got tired of my slapstick attempt at saving her, so she gave up and walked past me, telling me how much I sucked as a savior. I eventually pulled myself out, walking on all fours back to the barrier. We were both covered in mud, so we cleaned ourselves off with a hose behind the forest preserve's HQ. As we did this, the Trib writer interviewed us (so she knew very fucking well that she lied in her fluff piece). After we were clean, Nicole told me that she'd lost her shoes--for real--in the quick-mud. Because of this, I gave her a piggy-back ride back to the car, so she wouldn't get her bare feet all fucked up on the gravel path. However, the shoes she'd lost were shoes that she'd "borrowed" (please read as "stolen") from one of her friends, so she didn't give a shit. So yeah, even the ONE THING the Trib writer got right was kind of wrong.
This is from when I was in junior high (what they now call "middle school"). Everyone at school knew I was a writer, but none of them knew about my horrid poetry attempts. Much to my surprise, one of my poems earned me a spot as a Sandburg Fellow. (The school is named after Carl Sandburg, who lived about a mile away from it once upon a time.) This recognition led to a poetry workshop, which I bullshitted my way through, mostly because I don't know shit about poetry. I've only had one poem in all of my career published which satisfied me. "The Rubber Band of Sanity" was NOT that poem. Still, it seemed to impress people, so I was OK with skipping classes just so I could hang out with fellow student poets and a real, live local poet.
Sorry. The reason I'm talking about this shit now is because I cleaned out my desk and found some interesting things. Just thought I would share them. Goodnight, people who are probably not really fuckers. (And some of you who might, actually, be fuckers, but lovable fuckers.)
When I was a kid, waaaaaaaaay back in the day, someone from the Elmhurst PRESS asked me about gay marriage while I was at the library. This is what I told them. Considering the conservative town I live in, it's kind of a surprise that my fellow interviewees agreed with me.
This is from when I won the Carlson Award for Creative Writing at Elmhurst College (one of three winners). It was for a short story I wrote called "Love in a Book." It has yet to be published, but it's a fun tale of what happens when a vampire asks his wizard friend to cast a spell on the girl he loves (and what happens when the cops find out). Maybe some day, I'll let it see the light of day, because it is pretty funny.
This is the ultimate proof of why I can never trust the media. If you can read all of this (I know, it's small and distorted, but it's worth the read), please realize that everything written here (except for the loss of shoes) is a blatant lie. Nicole Evans, who co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" with me in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, was my date, and yes, I was the guy in question. We were NOT elegantly dressed. I was wearing a denim jacket, for fuck's sake. The creek hadn't dried up due to conditions. They were working on fixing the waterfall at the forest preserve, so they shut down the water, which caused the creek to dry to a trickle. And we didn't leave the path, like some misguided Hansel and fucking Gretel. Nicole saw a duck hanging out by that tiny creek trickle, and she couldn't stop herself from jumping over a barrier to walk out and get a picture of the fowl. Except . . . well, she sank down to her knees. I laughed at her from a safe distance (because I was, am and always will be an asshole), but she asked me for help, so I tried to go out and help her. The ground looked sturdy enough, but halfway out, I sank to my knees. It was nearly impossible to pull myself out and help her. I did my best, but I kept sinking down. I lost one of my shoes, but I was able to reach into the mudhole and grab it out. However, Nicole got tired of my slapstick attempt at saving her, so she gave up and walked past me, telling me how much I sucked as a savior. I eventually pulled myself out, walking on all fours back to the barrier. We were both covered in mud, so we cleaned ourselves off with a hose behind the forest preserve's HQ. As we did this, the Trib writer interviewed us (so she knew very fucking well that she lied in her fluff piece). After we were clean, Nicole told me that she'd lost her shoes--for real--in the quick-mud. Because of this, I gave her a piggy-back ride back to the car, so she wouldn't get her bare feet all fucked up on the gravel path. However, the shoes she'd lost were shoes that she'd "borrowed" (please read as "stolen") from one of her friends, so she didn't give a shit. So yeah, even the ONE THING the Trib writer got right was kind of wrong.
This is from when I was in junior high (what they now call "middle school"). Everyone at school knew I was a writer, but none of them knew about my horrid poetry attempts. Much to my surprise, one of my poems earned me a spot as a Sandburg Fellow. (The school is named after Carl Sandburg, who lived about a mile away from it once upon a time.) This recognition led to a poetry workshop, which I bullshitted my way through, mostly because I don't know shit about poetry. I've only had one poem in all of my career published which satisfied me. "The Rubber Band of Sanity" was NOT that poem. Still, it seemed to impress people, so I was OK with skipping classes just so I could hang out with fellow student poets and a real, live local poet.
Sorry. The reason I'm talking about this shit now is because I cleaned out my desk and found some interesting things. Just thought I would share them. Goodnight, people who are probably not really fuckers. (And some of you who might, actually, be fuckers, but lovable fuckers.)
Monday, August 4, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #28: CHRIS PRATT LOST HOW MUCH WEIGHT?!
I've had problems with my weight for almost as long as I can remember. When I was in elementary school, I remember being pretty skinny, and then I wound up with a terrible McDonald's habit. By the time I graduated high school, I weighted 245 lbs. After I got out of that place, a local public TV station played a taping of my graduation, and I was horrified when I saw myself. I looked like Chris fucking Farley, it was that bad. I vowed to lose weight, and over that summer--a mere three months--I lost a shit-ton of weight, enough to actually look attractive when I got into college.
I did well for a while, but I gained it all back and more--at the tune of 306 lbs. A few years later, I lost it again, down to 220 lbs. Not perfect, but much better. And then? I shot back up to 260 lbs. I'm holding steady at 240 lbs. right now, but I need to get this fat off of me as soon as possible. I would like to be around 200 lbs. If I can pull that off, my doctor will take me off of my meds. That would be very nice.
When I was younger, it was so much easier to lose weight. Now? I'm 36, and it's next to impossible, especially since I've found so many other fast food wonders, like the quesarito at Taco Bell. Sometimes, it's so difficult that I feel a craving, and when I give in to said craving, I spiral out of control. My main thought, and I am fully aware of how flawed it is, is this: "Well, I already fucked up. I might as well continue fucking up because I'm just not suited for this. So fuck my plan, let's get some quesaritos."
I'm getting too old for this shit. I've got to find some way to control myself, especially since I've got all of these health problems.
I saw GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY this weekend, and Chris Pratt is a very attractive man. Imagine my shock when I learned that not too long ago, he weighed 300 lbs. How is that possible? Did you see him with his shirt off in the movie?
Holy shit, right? Recently, someone asked him how he got in shape, and he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that anyone who wants to do this needs to cut the shit out of their diet and get some exercise. Some advice never fails. There are no shortcuts. There's just hard work, and he's right. This is a truth I've always known. I mean, shit. I've lost a lot of weight before. This guy lost a lot of weight in an amazing way.
He weighed 300 lbs. I'm at 240 lbs. Why can't I lose my stupid gut?
Granted, he lost the weight because he knew he had a great paycheck waiting for him. I have no monetary reward waiting for me. However, it would be nice to live past 40. I never expected that, but it would be kind of cool, especially since I have two and a half new books coming out soon. It's not even a matter of making myself more attractive, because shockingly enough, I still got laid at 306 lbs. It's a matter of being successful, I think, and maybe being able to look myself in the mirror without blanching at the flab hanging over my belt.
In fact, fuck Chris Pratt for the moment. I mean, I like the guy. He's attractive and charismatic, but he's Hollywood. Let's turn our attention closer to home: Jon Michael Lennon, creator of PRODUCT OF SOCIETY. I've known the guy for a long time. When I first met him, he was not in good physical shape. Now? He's doing pretty fucking well. He's got this old driver's license, and for the first time since I met him, he actually looks like that old photo. He lost a hundred pounds, or somewhere in that neighborhood.
I don't even need to do that. All I need to do is lose 40 lbs. Once upon a time, I did that and more in one summer. I don't expect that from my 36-year-old body, but maybe, by the time the holidays roll around, it would be nice to be back in shape.
So here it is: time to quit my bad habits again. I say this a lot, but I think this time, I might do it for real. Caffeine is my one true addiction. I've battled it in the past, and recently I defeated it. However, I've been partaking again recently. Not to the point where I'm addicted again, but I'm afraid if I keep doing that, I might backslide and get hooked, just like I used to be. I also need to quit fast food again. I love McDonald's double cheeseburgers and Wendy's Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger and Taco Bell's quesaritos (among other things), but I've got to stop. I really have to.
Also, I should cut back on the booze again. I don't drink much anymore because of my pancreas problems. I usually don't drink enough to get beyond buzzed. Buzzed, for me, is OK. Beyond that is testing the limits. I haven't gotten really drunk recently, except for last night, which was fun but also scary at the same time.
So here's the plan: tomorrow, I'm allowing myself an energy drink in the morning, but that's it. It's late now, and I'm still kind of wired, so I've taken a sleeping pill. Sleeping pills make me feel like shit the next day. If I don't have a Monster, I'll lose my job. If I lose my job, I'll just give up and spiral down into lunacy and depression and don't-give-a-fuck-itis. But after that, no more bad habits until Thursday night, which I've already planned on. It's an unofficial work outing, so I'll indulge my booze-tooth. On Friday, I might allow myself another Monster, and Friday night might involve a couple of drinks. Nothing crazy. But after that? I don't want to plan too far into the future, because my plans tend to fall apart after a week's length. But I'll want to pull back on everything at that point.
Yesterday, I saw Nicole Evans in jail. She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE with me. She's been behind bars for nine months, and she might be gone for another year in actual prison. The last time she saw me, I had twenty extra pounds on me, so even though I knew I looked like garbage, she said I looked nice.
I bring this up, because the next time I see her will probably be a half-year from now (since the drive to actual prison is about three hours, and there's no way I can make that on a regular basis). Here's my goal: the next time I see her, I want to be in shape. I don't have to be perfect, but I don't want to look like a fucking slob, like I do now. Wish me luck.
Goodnight, you wonderful, wonderful fuckers.
I did well for a while, but I gained it all back and more--at the tune of 306 lbs. A few years later, I lost it again, down to 220 lbs. Not perfect, but much better. And then? I shot back up to 260 lbs. I'm holding steady at 240 lbs. right now, but I need to get this fat off of me as soon as possible. I would like to be around 200 lbs. If I can pull that off, my doctor will take me off of my meds. That would be very nice.
When I was younger, it was so much easier to lose weight. Now? I'm 36, and it's next to impossible, especially since I've found so many other fast food wonders, like the quesarito at Taco Bell. Sometimes, it's so difficult that I feel a craving, and when I give in to said craving, I spiral out of control. My main thought, and I am fully aware of how flawed it is, is this: "Well, I already fucked up. I might as well continue fucking up because I'm just not suited for this. So fuck my plan, let's get some quesaritos."
I'm getting too old for this shit. I've got to find some way to control myself, especially since I've got all of these health problems.
I saw GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY this weekend, and Chris Pratt is a very attractive man. Imagine my shock when I learned that not too long ago, he weighed 300 lbs. How is that possible? Did you see him with his shirt off in the movie?
Holy shit, right? Recently, someone asked him how he got in shape, and he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that anyone who wants to do this needs to cut the shit out of their diet and get some exercise. Some advice never fails. There are no shortcuts. There's just hard work, and he's right. This is a truth I've always known. I mean, shit. I've lost a lot of weight before. This guy lost a lot of weight in an amazing way.
He weighed 300 lbs. I'm at 240 lbs. Why can't I lose my stupid gut?
Granted, he lost the weight because he knew he had a great paycheck waiting for him. I have no monetary reward waiting for me. However, it would be nice to live past 40. I never expected that, but it would be kind of cool, especially since I have two and a half new books coming out soon. It's not even a matter of making myself more attractive, because shockingly enough, I still got laid at 306 lbs. It's a matter of being successful, I think, and maybe being able to look myself in the mirror without blanching at the flab hanging over my belt.
In fact, fuck Chris Pratt for the moment. I mean, I like the guy. He's attractive and charismatic, but he's Hollywood. Let's turn our attention closer to home: Jon Michael Lennon, creator of PRODUCT OF SOCIETY. I've known the guy for a long time. When I first met him, he was not in good physical shape. Now? He's doing pretty fucking well. He's got this old driver's license, and for the first time since I met him, he actually looks like that old photo. He lost a hundred pounds, or somewhere in that neighborhood.
I don't even need to do that. All I need to do is lose 40 lbs. Once upon a time, I did that and more in one summer. I don't expect that from my 36-year-old body, but maybe, by the time the holidays roll around, it would be nice to be back in shape.
So here it is: time to quit my bad habits again. I say this a lot, but I think this time, I might do it for real. Caffeine is my one true addiction. I've battled it in the past, and recently I defeated it. However, I've been partaking again recently. Not to the point where I'm addicted again, but I'm afraid if I keep doing that, I might backslide and get hooked, just like I used to be. I also need to quit fast food again. I love McDonald's double cheeseburgers and Wendy's Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger and Taco Bell's quesaritos (among other things), but I've got to stop. I really have to.
Also, I should cut back on the booze again. I don't drink much anymore because of my pancreas problems. I usually don't drink enough to get beyond buzzed. Buzzed, for me, is OK. Beyond that is testing the limits. I haven't gotten really drunk recently, except for last night, which was fun but also scary at the same time.
So here's the plan: tomorrow, I'm allowing myself an energy drink in the morning, but that's it. It's late now, and I'm still kind of wired, so I've taken a sleeping pill. Sleeping pills make me feel like shit the next day. If I don't have a Monster, I'll lose my job. If I lose my job, I'll just give up and spiral down into lunacy and depression and don't-give-a-fuck-itis. But after that, no more bad habits until Thursday night, which I've already planned on. It's an unofficial work outing, so I'll indulge my booze-tooth. On Friday, I might allow myself another Monster, and Friday night might involve a couple of drinks. Nothing crazy. But after that? I don't want to plan too far into the future, because my plans tend to fall apart after a week's length. But I'll want to pull back on everything at that point.
Yesterday, I saw Nicole Evans in jail. She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE with me. She's been behind bars for nine months, and she might be gone for another year in actual prison. The last time she saw me, I had twenty extra pounds on me, so even though I knew I looked like garbage, she said I looked nice.
I bring this up, because the next time I see her will probably be a half-year from now (since the drive to actual prison is about three hours, and there's no way I can make that on a regular basis). Here's my goal: the next time I see her, I want to be in shape. I don't have to be perfect, but I don't want to look like a fucking slob, like I do now. Wish me luck.
Goodnight, you wonderful, wonderful fuckers.
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