Modernity

Prose written by the_nev_a_prospect on Sunday 10, July 2011

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One day she's telling me about how shes devestated shes not been out in weeks. The next day shes talking about having her mom buy her an appartment in some little rural piece of land with the population of an eighteenth century lordship.

Overall Rating: 87%

This writing has been rated by 1 members, resulting in a rating of 87% overall. Below is a breakdown of these results:

Concept/Plot:90%
Imagery:90%
Spelling & Grammar:80%
Flow/Rhythm:85%
Vocabulary:90%
One day she's telling me about how shes devestated shes not been out in weeks. The next day shes talking about having her mom buy her an appartment in some little rural piece of land with the population of an eighteenth century lordship. She says its gonna be tamer there. The people will be better the air is gonna be better shes telling me how shell be growing all those fresh veggies that are good for you. She tells me that over the buz of her aerator thingy thats currently sucking up the cigarette smoke from my thin femmy fag - the kind I smoke not because its less tar or less anything. Shes telling me that as Im thinking and the only thought in my head is that nicotine withdrawal is really hot. The way girls put on some weight those skinny anorexic chicks the way theyre all desperate for affection then. It just turns me on.  Shes lived all her life in the big city Shes travelled the world and now she wants to settle down. I tell her its never gona work for her. Shell get bored with it so bored shell be putting that house with all its fresh veggies and great view and fucking terrific air on the market by month three. My friend shes one of those party freaks like youd never tell shes done anything wilder than sex with the lights out under the covers and with minimal contact. Sex like they tell you in those new age young teenager books, and then she blows your mind by sucking off a water bottle as unintended and natural as people spin a pen or play with their hair while theyre thinking. The nights out weve had you'd be surprised her liver isnt a slushie consistency youd be surprised watching her dance youd be in love out and buying her an engagement ring before youve as much as held her hand. Now she wants to settle down and Im holding back giggling so as to not offend her. Even right now as Im writing this shes over there up in the mountines window shopping for her dream house. I call her up every few hours just to make sure she hasnt tripped broken a heel or something or been eaten by a wild animal. West of here in the big big world people have the Hamptons like we have our little eighteenth century shitholes. Whenever someone over there wants to feel at one with nature they go and get wasted. And over here are all those thirty something folk from all around who purchase a house renovate it and grow their fresh veggies and struggle to speak a word or two of the language. To me those people are dead inside like back in the eighteenth century if you refused to grow crop you could be jailed for a decade. These days when you refuse to party your pretty little ass off they look at you like youre already a dead man. The way how when you go to serve ten years and come back people only remember you from before and its like youve aged ten years in an instant. Thats how those village lovers feel. So im worried about her but then again not really. I know how she really is. A firework shes the brightest star out there. Shes got boys on call like at any given moment someones willing to pull stars off the sky for her. At any given moment theres half a dozen engagement rings waiting.  You may be wondering how I fit in here. Its mental. I understand her I see her for what she is like anyone needs someone like me someone with enough perspective to take a huge breath and dive under the surface. She owes me a couple big ones in loans through the years and I owe her who I am these days. I owe her the fly shoes the fly shades the smoking the party drugs. Id die for that girl but more importantly I'll live for her which is a lot more than a ring that can be bought with money can ever mean. So shes not going anywhere as long as Im here which is another couple months.  In two months Ill be a part of that Hamptons crowd or at least one little step closer to it. So think of this as a rehearsal for the part. Think of the concise stupid shit I write as a future career in writing. Im doing the best a writer these days can do. And what you're doing at best is even more isolating yourself from the warm little heart of the world, pumping at two hundred nicotine and extasy fueled beats per minute. Like a self imposed sentence every time you write beyond your experience its like I see you age ten years in a second. Im not worried about her and me but Im worrying about you. I dont want to be offensive but honestly what are you thinking?  Have you looked at the writing world recently? Palahniuk is coming up with Damned in october - a story about a thirteen year old whos ODed on weed and is having a bomb exploring Hell. Nothing is tastefully done anymore. The art is dead and ressurected the way a zombie is brought back not really life, not quite writing as in the old days. At the same time most young writers these days tend to look back at centuries past and forget that for their time people like Miller and Bukowski were anathemised crucified they had to go through years of obscenity trials before their stuff even went in print. Nietzsches most controversial writing only came out after his death out of fear for his life. And what are you doing with all that artistic freedom you have? Nothing at all. There's no reason these days why writing should not be relevant to the current state of events and yet it mostly isnt. And Im worrying you're closing yourselves off to grow veggies. Those people who come here and buy a piece of lqnd they've alrsady made their personal pile of cash living in a few square feet off of central London. What are you expecting to make a buck from? They're not expecting to make a living by selling veggies and why do you expect to turn a buck out of the writing equivalent of a veggie garden.  Of course I realise most of you write for your own pleasure and its all good as long as you really believe living and acting beyond your years is worth it. Cuz when you hit thirty or fourty youre gonna be so desperate to go back. Like the creeps I see on facebook fifty something sad little people trying to start a conversation with a twenty something chick. Desperately trying to emmulate the lingo, only it doesnt work and when you try to write beyond your age its the same level of ridiculous. Im not trying to be offensive here. I consider you a bunch of well-meaning people. This is me being as well meaning as I possibly can. So take it as a friendly advice when i say you need to party your pretty little asses some more. And figure out a way to write about it. I guarantee youll miss it later on.
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Comments

    This is a pretty good rant. However, you overlook one small fact.

    If people write, even people like us, they also read. And that seems to be going away in America.

    Oh, some spelling and punctuation errors.