True Life: I'm a ¯⁠\⁠_⁠ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Some of you are too young to remember, and some of you are too old to have watched, and some of you will know exactly what I’m talking about. 

MTV had this show called True Life, and each episode followed people who had a weird issue or lifestyle or problem.

Episodes were titled like True Life: I’m Looking for My Father or True Life: I’m a Fanboy.

And it was never glamorous the way The Jerry Springer Show was never glamorous, but I watched it and liked it and secretly wished to be on it, if only my life wasn’t so plain.

But that’s never really been quite true, has it? 

It just seemed plain on the inside.

Like study abroad. We send college kids to these far-off exotic places, and it’s often the most enriching, unique experience of their life, but for the sap in South Korea hosting, it’s literally just his regular life. They send kids here—there’s one four blocks over visiting for a semester from Germany—but we don’t often talk about that.

So what I’m getting at is sometimes it’s the things that seem most plain and basic, because they are always there, that people are most interested in.

I haven’t been on the blog much because, to be frank, I wrote a 170-page story, then a 270-page sequel in two months. I sent out the first to trusted friends to read—one finished, and all have been enthusiastic. The second one I am holding back because I don’t want to overwhelm, but I think it’s good. So good that, for a brief moment, I went down an hour rabbit hole of r/self_publishing.

I could do it. But it’s so much work to do it right.

Then I stopped at branding. 

Apparently you need to figure out your genre…your audience.

And even though, of course, authors move a little bit from genre to genre, it’s not by a lot. Neil Gaiman is weird and surreal. James Patterson is crime and law. Stephen King is horror.

I am ¯\_ʘ‿ʘ_/¯

Poetry? Personal essays on domestic existential horror? Flash fiction that tries to be romantic and sweet but inevitably twists into the darkest parts of myself?

This is time for a second True Life confession.

I tried to monetize my blog six weeks ago. I get a surprising number of hits for whatever the fuck this is.

Actually, can my genre be “whatever the fuck this is” and leave it to the reader to decide? Uh oh. The guide for first-time authors says no. You really should prep the reader like a gay man about to bottom—no surprises, let’s negotiate all the boundaries like a BDSM scene before you pay 99¢ for this detective noir to spill on your screen.

Anyway, I tried to monetize. There was a full review of my blog and—

¯\_ʘ‿ʘ_/¯

They rejected me.

My content can’t make money. Even GoDaddy ads and TaxExpert.com and Walmart don’t want two inches of screen with me.

Blah blah blah, something about sexual violence and drug use and grotesque body horror.

Whatever.

Hand on the Bible, all those were intended as romances. Whimsical lil tales of lonely people finding each other.

Freak 4 freak.

Asshole 4 asshole.

Douche 4 Douche.

Whatever the fuck this thing I made is.

Like when we had to explain our piece in high school art class.

It’s a fucking vase, bruh.

That girl just drew the Nine Inch Nails logo.

I made this but am now in the principal's office.

It felt like all the other times I had to explain what I made.

It’s all romantic if you look to the feeling and forget I said hard-on and acid. At least it felt romantic when I was writing it.

I petitioned the judgment on my content. Please, Google Ad Daddy, lemme corp suck you off. I explained it wasn’t about the words or actions but the ~ f e e e e e e e e l i n g s ~

Any human would get it.

Google Ad came back with: ¯\_ʘ‿ʘ_/¯

They rejected my appeal.

Alas, I won’t make my lil 50¢ a day from you reading this, but whatever. I didn’t need it. I just liked the idea of some money from my writing—a few bucks I could hold up as some legitimacy trophy in a world where there are full, genre-perfect novels completely AI-written and sold straight from computer to Kindle like a digital rim job.

¯\_ʘ‿ʘ_/¯

I lied to a stranger yesterday—told a realtor I was 51. I lied up, and he said I look good for my age, and he said he was 60-something, and damn if I couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not because he looked my age. But he said he retired as a school teacher and had been selling realty for 20 years, so the math maths.

As a young child—actually not that young, well into college—I was a pathological liar for fun. Like a hobby. Stuff that no one would know if it was true or not. Show up to work and tell someone I almost hit a bird on the way in. I didn’t. But I was interesting for a moment.

And they always said the truth will set you free.

But I think it’s the lies that keep us living.

Things like there’s an audience for this.

Things like this retinol cream will change my life.

Things like I’m not all that weird.

Things like if Kafka can be published, why not Caroline?

Then I step one toe out of my comfort zone and realize how quickly the world asks me to pick a lane. But I want my own.

Keep in mind, dear readers: This is just about the stuff I share, and not even a glimpse into the stuff I journal and keep to myself.

That's more like ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ͠⁠°⁠ ͟⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠°͠⁠ ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

P.s. The astronauts on Artemis II had their iPhones with them as they went further in space than any man has before. What the fuck is that—going further than anyone ever has, and still needing a screen? That's the world I'm trying to live in.

P.p.s. Sometimes, I get delusional enough to believe I'm just ahead of my time.