My First Book, page 2
At my college on the hill above the factory, above the river, above the town, we have clean water and emotional support rodents and a salad bar with feta cheese and classes to help us understand the contaminated water. I have a friend who receives a box of Essentia every month, because her mom doesn’t understand that our water is now perfect. I have another friend who grew up here, and for his “Understanding PFOA 101” final, he’s decided that he is either going to poison an emotional support ferret or sell powdered PFOA to first-years and tell them it’s coke. Instead, he turns in a blood test, a sheet of paper proving the plastic is inside him, proving that he understands. I’m eating my feta cheese in the dining hall and I realize how little I understand. I see a poster for a volunteer opportunity: the public schools in town are understaffed, spend afternoons with elementary schoolers, help them with their homework, help yourself understand, so I sign up.
I can spell Maroon 5. I can play Bakugan Battle Brawlers. I can apologize for the tuna. I can hang out, but can I help? Carson tells me I have bad ideas. Jessie says my books stink. Ryan sends himself to the padded “quiet room” so he can punch the wall in peace. Hailey is yelling about her slime collection. Caleb is mumbling about “Killary Clinton.” Chastity is telling Mia that reading sucks. Mia is crying because reading sucks. Landon is throwing pretzels. Tyler just wants to go home. Thomas is on my lap. I’m beginning to understand that understanding is not helping.
Before Louis XIV was the Sun King with a hall of mirrors, he was a little boy and there was a civil war. He lived in a palace in the middle of the city and the city was on fire and the people were unhappy—unhappy with him. He was five years old and already king. The walls of his home were falling. It was so loud and he was so little and so afraid. By his tenth birthday, the revolt had been quelled and new laws implemented in its wake, strengthening the monarchy. The revolt’s failure smoothed the way for the unprecedented absolutism of Louis XIV’s rule, for his lavish country palace at Versailles, an escape from the city and the people he feared there, for his many lit fountains and legendary parties (example: Les Plaisirs de l’Île Enchantée; early May 1664; themes of love, comedy, gallantry), and for his hall of mirrors. And eventually for a factory in upstate New York and for plastic in a river and for cancer in some people and for a class at a college on a hill.
Afterschool is over. It’s time to go. Thomas’s uncle comes to pick him up, pushing the baby brother’s stroller and holding his brother’s hand, the mean one. Thomas pries open the baby’s eyes so I can see how blue they are. He gives me his drawing of Pikachu and then he’s gone and it’s just us volunteers. The ladies from the church sigh in relief and begin to complain about what a disobedient day we had. The Americorps people leave to drink their beer and write their grants. I walk to the parking lot, hitting my JUUL™, puffing out cucumber-scented vapor and trying not to cry. Why is Pikachu lost in the forest?
On the drive back up the hill, the other volunteer from my college tells me that she’s an empath. She has to quit. She’s a highly sensitive person and this is just too much. It is too much. She’s right, but it’s also not enough. I feel like it’s too much because I’m not doing enough.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
She tells me that she gets it. It’s hard to see a system fail. It’s hard to know that we benefited from this system. All systems are the same. Empathy is crazy. Yeah. She asks me if I get it. I tell her that I get it.
We say we get it to each other a few more times, but maybe we’re lying. Maybe there is nothing to get. She asks me if volunteering makes me feel good. I ask her if she wants to rip the JUUL™.
I want to feed something that isn’t myself. I want to look in the mirror and smile. Sometimes I have dreams about being Thomas’s mom, not his real mom who works at Burger King, but his dream mom who goes to college on a hill. I don’t know if I am her or she is me, but whatever we are in this dream is perfect. We take him to philosophy class and he colors quietly, listening. We brush his teeth with that children’s strawberry toothpaste I used to use. Over winter break, we take him to Versailles and make stupid faces in the stupid mirrors. Other times, I dream that I’ve given birth to a litter of kittens. I’m at the hospital and they come out of me and everyone tells me that I did a good job. Anne of Austria was thirty-seven when she gave birth to her first child, Louis XIV. The official newspaper, Gazette de France, called the birth “a marvel when it was least expected.” Everyone told her good job. I wonder if anyone said that to Thomas’s mom.
Every birth is a miracle, but Louis XIV’s spectacularly surprising arrival was taken by the court as proof of divine intervention. Finally, by the grace of God, there was an heir! He was a miracle son, the Sun King, raised by a single mother, and also God’s avatar on earth, here to rule us all. A hall of mirrors was only fitting. Light demands to be reflected. Rivers demand to be polluted. Factories demand to open and employ and close and lay off. I demand to be pregnant in the next six years even though it feels like that should be against the rules.
Hailey can’t bring her slime collection to school. I can’t have a baby yet. If you sell PFOA to first-years you will be expelled. Thomas’s mom cannot take Easter off. I cannot bite his fingernails off. Carson can only have two chocolate milks. Milk must be pasteurized. Caleb can’t put tuna in his backpack. Tuna must be tested for mercury. Flavored JUUL™ pods can no longer be sold. In the library we have to be quiet. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Don’t stick your tongue out! No running in the halls! On a field trip, you must stay with the group! On a field trip, you must follow the rules! Rules are rules for a reason! I understand this, but who gets to make the rules? Whose reason is it anyways? When Hailey yells, “Why? Why? Why?” I want to join in. Why do kings get to build palaces while the people starve? Why is no one punished when rivers get filled with plastic? Why did I get to eat Nutella on a field trip to Paris while these kids have to stuff tuna sandwiches in their bags because they don’t have food at home? Why did I have to write a sentence so on the nose? Why is there a college built on this hill? Shouldn’t there be rules to ensure food access and a clear clean river and time to clip your child’s nails? Yes, but no because existing rules exist to control and exploit and protect the interests of a select few in their Nutella-filled halls of mirrors. Breaking the rules is the only hope we have, so if Landon wants to throw pretzels and Hailey wants to play with slime and Thomas wants to sit in my lap I might as well let it happen. We’re all in trouble and we always were. I’m ready to say sorry. I am so, so sorry.
Brief Interview with Beautiful Boy
There he was on the street corner. There he was in a photo in the preloaded album on the iPhones at the Apple Store. There he was on every channel, being crowned emperor of China. There he was strutting down the Paris runway. There he was in a black hole speaking to the dragon that controls him. There he was speeding down the PCH. There he was in the dreams of everyone he’s ever met. There he was on the couch in the trap house. There he was upon a pale horse; there he was going nowhere faster than you’ve ever gone anywhere at all. But this was before that, long, long ago. This was in another present.
Girls say he’s beautiful. He thinks he’s gauche. He’s just a nihilistic upper-middle-class teenager in Southern California who was once beautiful. He’s drunk as fuck and maxing out his credit cards. He’s trying not to scare the hoes, but it’s hard. He’s a spoiled brat. He absolutely despises liberals. He can’t even do a single push-up. He is a parasite. He wouldn’t last a single day in the jungle. He’d be gay if that were still transgressive in any way. He’s going to be sad if this is the only global crisis he gets to live through. He doesn’t want to think, he wants to die and live and die again. Nobu takeout. What a shame. He doesn’t produce anything—he destroys everything. He likes to watch things. He doesn’t like sharing. Blame his mother. He always knew the collapse would begin this year. He honestly prayed for it. Try to take his swag—he will try to take your life.
Why does no one understand why he’s voting for Biden? Radiation gave him the vision. He feels so numb. He wants to become the dullest person alive. He likes listening to electronica, driving sports cars, beautiful women, organic food, organic wine, and the sunset. He enjoys taking pictures of the sky in all seasons. Those are the only photos on his phone.
Police helicopters and patrols started up like two weeks ago. The block is always hot. South LA idiots flood Venice every single day. Lincoln Boulevard is no longer safe to drunk drive at 70. He’s had enough, he’s leaving. Maybe becoming addicted to nothing wasn’t his best idea. He’s skinny, he’s attractive, and he believes all other people are unattractive. He should maybe be banned from driving, he admits it. He literally just ran some guy over.
He’s listening to Oneohtrix Point Never in the Hollywood Hills, drinking La Colombe, waiting to vanish. Ronan Farrow is the only person who could truly relate to him. He wishes he were less . . . wistful. He’s so sick of performing masculinity. He wants to be absolutely annihilated. How would you feel if your father always called you a metrosexual child? He thinks Venice is a disaster again. The single most avant-garde performance piece anyone could do would be to purchase a few dead bodies from an organ broker (which is completely legal by the way) and create a private necropolis. Google “how much does a dead body cost” if you don’t believe him. He’s so done with America. He recently smoked weed and he believes it may have made him gay? He hates being trauma bonded. He’s trying so hard to trigger psychosis. He realized a lot of his friends are misogynistic psychopaths. This is not a good thing. If you think this is ironic, he doesn’t care for your opinion. His heart is beating loud. He will stay sober unless and until he finds himself in a mid-engined sports car.
All he does is listen to “Disturbia” by Rihanna and think about Steve Bannon. He still wants to become the dullest person alive. What is the most transcendental thing possible? He’s thinking private military. He’s not sure about much, but he’s sure he’s going to die with a severe opiate addiction somewhere in Malibu, with a net worth over one hundred million. Democracy dies in darkness! He’s drinking raw milk. He thinks the best decision he’s made all year is taking the blue pill. It feels great to have the same politics as attractive women. Nothing he says is offensive.
He was not the prince from the prophecy, or at least he didn’t identify that way. If anything, even back then he would tell you that he was just directionally correct. Always two steps ahead, possessed by Japanese cough syrup and the absolute spirit of history. He is laughing now as he abolishes the moment itself.
Internet Girl
honor.baby/internetgirl
Password: imsorry!
I’m eleven. I’m on Safari on a safari on the internet after school in my bedroom on my computer, my 2006 Apple MacBook Intel Core Duo 2.0 White 2 Ghz/2GB Memory Laptop Computer. I’m alone. I get past the parental controls. I am so hungry to know what’s out there. It’s 2008 and I am so little and so free and so empty and there are 186,727,854 websites on the internet.
Pope Francis says the internet offers immense possibilities for encounter and solidarity. This is something truly good, a gift from God. He’s right. I think. I pray.
Here are some people I have encountered online thanks to these immense possibilities. Here are their Twitter bios. This is who they want to be/who they are/who they think they are/who they want you to think they are:
Self-Made. Makeup Magician. CEO
Wellbutrin® brand ambassador, ego death survivor
former child star
Dad, husband, President, citizen
CUCK
Retired Soldier, Combat Veteran, #PATRIOT #CAPITALIST
cyber bully, star-fucker, alarmist
Queer ecosocialist they/them
Post-prophet
Super relaxed, diamond-hard confidence, really out of touch!!
Russian bot
Something truly good, a gift from God
I’m eleven. On Neopets I am God. I let my Blumaroo and my Xweetok and my Lutari and my Shoyru starve. I want to see if they will die. I want to know the rules of their world and mine. I can’t believe I’m in charge of this little dragon life. I can’t believe I’m in charge of my own little life. I can’t believe that they can’t die. Only things that can be lost matter. I want everything to matter. Can only things that are real be lost? I want everything to be real.
It’s 2008 and the stock market is crashing. Are stocks real? Who made them real? I should Google it.
My dad says, be careful; everything you do on the internet is forever.
These are supposed to be the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse:
I’m eleven. I love to say goodbye because I haven’t had to say it yet. Goodbye, parental controls! Goodbye, bossy daddy and mean mommy! Goodbye, aimless clicking between Club Penguin, Webkinz, Girls Go Games, Neopets, Scholastic Kids, Miniclip, Poptropica! Goodbye Puffles! Goodbye Dr. Quack! Goodbye Neopia! Hello everything, everyone, everywhere, all at once. Hello immense possibilities for encounter and solidarity.
It’s 2008, and my dad gets laid off and everything is happening all at once. All at once, there are two girls and one cup and planes hitting towers and a webcam looking at me and me smiling into it and a man and a boy and a love and a stranger on the other end. All at once, there are a million videos to watch and a million more to make. All at once it’s all at once. It’s beginning and ending all at once all the time. I’m twenty-one. I’m eleven. I’m on the internet. I’m twenty-one.
Melania Trump says, BE BEST. Being best is the first lady’s first initiative. There are three parts. 1—WELL-BEING. 2—ONLINE SAFETY. 3—OPIOID ABUSE. She hopes it helps. She wears a blue dress. She cares about the children.
I’m eleven and I want to be the best. I’m twenty-one and being best is the best. I’m eleven and I’m on the internet and I’m obsessed with winning. I want to win the tube race between the icebergs on Club Penguin. I want to win Dance Dance Revolution at the arcade. I want to win the Scholastic Kids summer reading challenge. I spend most of my time on a website called Girlsgogames.fr, dressing and undressing digital paper dolls. Dress-up games are the best because there are no points, no winners, no one to play against but myself. They are games for girls. Games where I get to decide if I’ve won or not. Games where I am the best. Winning is a choice. I can be BE BEST if I decide that I am.
It’s 2008 and Bernard George Lamp murders Bonnie Lou Irvine. They met on Craigslist. He said that he was lonely and looking for love. She believed him. She wanted to be loved. He told her that he was a normal guy. Decide it and tell it and you are it. BE BEST. It’s easy. On the internet you can be anyone or anything you want to be. We all can picture the scary old man with glasses luring the little girl out from behind her computer screen to the mall, to the ditch, to her death. The Lovely Bones! My lovely bones! Imagine him undressing her like a paper doll. Imagine that you are him or that you are her or that you are #BLESSED or a child of God | interior designer | a chelsea fan or a Goofy dude with BIG goals or a godloving adorable beast of burden or a Cowboy/Communist or a Chad Fascist—Prep Supremacist. As long as you make someone believe it you are it. You are whatever you want to be and I wanted to BE BEST before Melania even said it in that Old World accent, like an order, in her blue dress.
I’m eleven. It’s the best day of school, the Scholastic Book Fair is in our library. I read about vampires, Cirque du Freak, The Vampire Diaries, Vampire Academy, Evernight, and so on and so on. Online I look for illustrations of my heroes. I’m eleven and I’m past the parental controls and I’m on a new website called Deviant Art. I learn about sex. In Shadow Kiss, the third installment of the Vampire Academy series, the protagonist, Lissa Dragomir, breaks all the rules and ends up naked in bed with the gorgeous Dimitri Belikov. I wonder what exactly it is that they do in bed. I wonder when it will happen to me. When I have a question I Google it.
When I was eleven I Googled, what does the internet look like? Have you ever seen a picture of the internet? It’s beautiful. It’s the best. It’s neon spiderwebs. It’s easy to get stuck like a stupid fly. It’s easy to stare at. It’s like what we saw on our field trip to the planetarium. It’s a map, not a photo. You know that Borges story about the map and the territory? No? Just Google it. Google knows:
Who owns the moon?
What would happen if I only ate eggs?
How old is that hot kid on Stranger Things?
How many calories in cum?
Why don’t terrorists blow up the moon?
Does Barron Trump have any friends?
Where is the internet?
Where is the cloud?
What is the cloud?
