Excerpts From Grandma

Hey there! This is from an unfinished project I was writing, called Fugazi. There will be more to come! Enjoy!

Hear this, Payte. Come a little closer. Closer. Closer. For God’s sake, I’m your dying grandma, why won’t you talk to me? I know that I can barely hear and my voice is that annoying groany thing that you make fun of, but Jesus, just listen to me. Listen son, I know none of your dreams have come true. But, there is a silver lining, they are underway. Yes, I know those little angel number thingies that you see are, supposedly, guiding you. Yes, I know you see them constantly. So constantly, it’s to the point that it’s rather annoying. But, just trust me, they’re underway.

Oh, what’s that? You created a website? And a guy is designing it for you? Well, with how bad the views on your YouTube channel are, I doubt it’ll do anything.

Hey! Wait! Don’t run away from me, talk to me! Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for saying that to you. But, sometimes, you have to get in touch with reality. Don’t expect to be a famous writer from just one novel. It takes time, Payte, time. I know that you don’t want to work, or be in this town, or be with your family. Such nasty business. All you need to do, is be patient. Things are happening behind the scenes.

What? I’m a hypocrite? Just because I said things are underway, doesn’t mean that they’re gonna happen quickly. And why isn’t it happening quickly? And why was there no response when you got down on your knees and begged God to make you a writer? Well, son, god is… not real. He’s just something we made up so the population could be controlled, and old pedophiles could be in power. Ask anyone who’s been on acid and they’ll tell you that we’re all divine beings and God experiencing itself. That too, is total bullshit. And, to be frank, it’s rather disappointing. We’re divine beings and we’re still this bad?

You see son, expand your horizons and you’ll hear about this little thing called dualism. I think the Kyballion might’ve explained it a little bit. Basically, its the fact that everything has two sides, and whatever those sides are, is, well, up to you. Most people I’ve talked too about Dualism say that everything is both good and bad. But if everything really is both good and bad, explain that to a rape survivor. So, I guess you can see that, this too, is bullshit.

You see, there are no rules to life. Everything we have created is simply, well, made the fuck up. I mean, think about it. If you’re smart enough, you can just kill whoever, and whatever, the hell you want, and never be caught. Where’s the justice in that? Where’s the divinity in that? Oh, the killer’s karma is that, he or she, now has to live with the fact he killed someone? Well, most serial killers are devoid of any conscience whatsoever. They’re also pretty smart which means they can get away with it. So, in a way, serial killers are actually the most powerful out of all of us. It’s like that old Charles Manson quote, “The game is mine. I deal the cards.” Technically, he’d be true if he was smart enough to not get caught.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic. I know you tried your best with this novel. And I know you heard about this little thing called manifestation, and you tried that. Well, let me tell you something, you are, by far, the stupidest grandchild I have ever heard of. If all of our thoughts really changed our reality, then wouldn’t the world be different? There’s a reason that the stereotypical new-ager is a blonde woman who speaks in a very airy voice and has no concept of intelligence whatsoever. I mean, they’re kind of like assholes since they take all this shit from Eastern-mysticism and make it their own. Assholes, I tell you. Assholes.

You see, Payte, people like easy things. They’re so afraid of the unknown that they only want what’s already in their little circle. That’s why everyone bullied you at school and you had no friends. You were too different, and not, well, easy.

So, son, it seems that your work has just, truly been for nothing. I’m sure that there were many great novels that could’ve helped people, and really changed their lives. But unfortunately, there’s this little thing called money. And the only people who get to the top of the literary agency, are pansy-motherfuckers who only publish the same slop that will, “sell.” If there’s even, SLIGHT, deviancy from the expected norm, everything goes to shit.

But, after a hundred-or-so rejections, you’ll get accepted. And here’s the fun part. It’ll only sell a thousand copies. So, you’ll write another novel, and that too, will only sell a thousand copies, so you’ll work your ass off to write a third one, one that’ll sell, and that too, will sell even less than the other two. So, sorry son, it seems you’ll only be noticed after your death.

Now, go to your friend’s house or whatever. I’m out of shit to say.