ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ian McGaughran was born in 2002 into the Salad Bowl of the World, where he was raised by the merging spirit of confused Catholics and maladjusted Mormons. As a child, Ian dreamt of becoming a spy, an abstract artist, a financial analyst, and a Casanova, though, none of these came to fruition. Currently, Ian works as a useful idiot, and spends his free time obsessing over arts.
“He only listens to that stuff because he wants to be different. He’s as like pretentious as he thinks they are.” “Projection,” she said. “Transference,” he thought. “Yeah he lives in this shed turned house in someone’s backyard and he has like two pieces of furniture.” “Yeah he sounds like a loser.” “I went over once to pick her up once and I he had like a broken mirror with the pieces just like on the ground and he said it was fine like it's not fine and he had a mic stand in the middle of the room with like a blanket on it he’s like a theory guy like he’s a reader guy and has all these theories about stuff like god and stuff and yeah I don’t get it she showed me his songs his rap songs it all sounds like autotune soundcloud stuff like he needs to grow up. She told me he like wrote theories about soundcloud stuff like he’s a communist he wants to like merge the two.” “Capitalism is a beautiful thing.”
Aaron thought most mental illnesses were social constructs and that even believing in such a thing gave power to the cis-het-white-supremacist-capitalist-patricarchal-and-hetero- normativity-complex. He didn’t know if he believed that or if it was just an semi-ironic put on that he faked-it-til-you-maked-it. He liked Lacan but he made sure to tell people it wasn’t a zizekian thing. He was a pervert, Lacanically, according to him. If you asked him to explain, you’d be met with a muddle of words that seem like they aren’t really meant to be placed next to one another. He was of American-Irish-Scottish-Dutch-German-And-Possibly-Italian descent, but only truly had respect for his Irish/Scottish roots. Call it a masculinity thing. He did. His face was as pale as one would expect for a Californian, topped off with a lopsided dirty blond hop of a hairdo. His features were far from unique, though one must say the fellow sure was proud of his attempt of a mustache. Godspeed, one might say. The whole face of him was stuck in some perpetual pensiveness dashed with a haunting taste of confusion. This demeanor, however, one could easily find out, was a front for his happy-go-lucky sense of nonchalance. To him, again, to him, he was a toy for his own use. Lacan’s mirror stage, he’d bring up to anybody who’d listen, or sometimes not, as he’d talk to himself at an almost worrying amount. And for the cherry, he was a nasty daydreamer, more often than not including his daydreaming, or “private theater” as he called it, into his monologued soliloquies. Though, criticisms aside, he was, so to say, filled to the brim with a sort of sympathetic kindness which we have to imagine would utterly wipe the floor with God. Go to downtown San Jose. Show a photo of him to any unhoused folk. Go on. Without a doubt they’d recognize him as “the man” to ask for a cigarette. He thanks you for reading.
“No he’s not in school he works. Yeah. Yeah down in Morgan Hill. Yeah he makes money. Girl shut up. He’s a I don’t know he drives sometimes. Yeah a truck. No he’s not like a truck driver he just he just does deliveries. Sometimes. Electronic stuff. Girl it's worth like thousands. Yes. I see him after work and weekends and sometimes he calls me when he drives. He has like 2 friends. Yeah. No. No his name’s Jacob.” 7:38 AM: Aaron drives to work hoping to crash. 10:50 AM: Aaron reads The Elementary Particles. 1:06 PM: Aaron smokes a cigarette behind Safeway, though deliberately keeps his distance from the special needs bus, and orders McDonald’s on his phone. 5:19 PM: Aaron pours boiling water into his Maruchan noodles. 7:22 PM: Jacob comes over. 7:29 PM: Aaron and Jacob smoke weed from Aaron’s Rick & Morty bong. 8:43 PM: Aaron and Jacob attempt to record music.
> Be me.
> Have 2 friends and don’t talk to family often.
> Don’t believe in god.
> Get Mishima-pilled and realize the beauty of masculinity.
> Get Solanas-pilled and realize masculinity is all just retarded megacope.
> Find out Solanas died an hour from my house.
> 35th anniversary of her death is a few weeks away.
> Make plan to “I am a lowly abject turd. Long live the empress!” myself outside the Bristol hotel.
> Meet girl at rave and tell her about it.
> She says “ur retarded anon”.
> Is God real bros?
“And there he is, Mike, the self professed underdog of the night!”
“Yessir, Jim! Look at him out there, dressed as camp as one can be!”
“That’s for sure! And there’s our prized prize of the evening there on that La-Z boy. All eyes are on her this evening.”
“Ope–and speaking of the devils, there he’s headed now. This is a real high stakes move he’s making here.”
“...He can’t know what he’s doing? Aaron. Aaron just got shoulder checked exiting the crowd.”
“Oh look at him. He’s getting bullied out there. Get up! Get out!”
“He’s beelining it. He’s beelining it!”
“This can’t be real. It almost looks like he’s running to her.”
“Look at the determination on him Mike. It’s like he knows what he doesn’t know.”
“Unbelievable. And she’s just sitting there standing and looking right at him.”
“Wha-What’s he doing now? He’s standing. He’s spinning at a mile an hour. Is he okay?”
“Um…word has it he’s okay, he’s just…thinking.”
“What a thinker…”
“Ok he’s back on the move, with even more focus than last time. Look at his eyes!”
“And he’s going in for the kill! Will he pull through!?”
“Find out next week on A Painful Case.”
He turned his neck and it hurt. It cracked when he spun it so quickly. He winked and he grinned but he didn’t wink and he was in love with me his eyes whispered it. His lips shouldn’t talk they could do so much more than anything ever. He said something. It didn’t matter what he said, just that he said something. It meant his love for me was as strong as a brick house. A few blows wouldn’t knock it down. He was looking at my every feature like a flower. He was awkward I was awkward but I wore it on my sleeve. I was wearing some sweater some I AM GIA sweater. He said my face was so perfectly symmetrically perfect that I could’ve fixed Van Gogh and he said my eyes looked like I was on coke and he said he was confused. He didn’t look at my boobs a lot.
Amidst the whispers of ancient trees, a fair maiden rested amongst the heart of the land. And every night, a celebration in the honor of her soul and spirit. On one unexpected night, Aaron, a nearby villager, having read of this maiden a mere months before, decided to attend the celebration. And to his surprise, when he arrived, it was announced that for only the second time ever, the maiden was to come out from her dwelling to meet one person. Rumors started flying about who that person was. The kings began arguing with the vikings. The soldiers started wrestling with the lobbyists. An all out brawl began, with the one person not participating being Aaron. He remained steadfast, a beacon of calm in a storm of fury. His eyes rested above the chaos, where a gentle hush shook the trees. The maiden emerged from her abode, revealing herself to be a woodland nymph with an ethereal beauty. Her gaze swept the violence in front of her, watching the souls fight over a love they will never have. Her eyes met Aaron’s, and the air stood still for a moment. Parting her gentle skin into a smile, she raised her arm to beckon him. He approached through the chaos, the brawls ceasing to a pause as he walked by. And as his hand met hers, the violence turned into a ceremony of embracement. She whispered to him: “Sister Tracy. Trapped to sound.”
“The rave girl? Yeah I saw her again last month.. Hhhhhh. I know. God you’re so pussy minded. Do you even enjoy fucking? I’m not an animal. Nietzsche was a fucking retard fuck Nietzsche you act that like it will strengthen anything. Because I’m not sex fucking minded! Can I continue. Can I. Thanks. Yeah I saw her again last month. And. And then I invited her to a math-rock. Math rock. What does it sound like I’m saying. Restart. I invited her to a math ro–I invited her to an emo show and she her eyes I mean alright so she had the situationship thing she told me about the second time I’d met her. But she brought that up outta thin air so its like there must be a purpose. Yeah. Yes I’m well aware. That’s what I said. Ok so yeah I mean we hang out like fucking mad times a week. Like four of five. Yeah. Bro it–it–it’s hard to explai–some women just like being friends. Well yeah that’s the thing that–yeah puss time I know haha. But yeah but so the situationship seems is like the things basically done like the things basically over the guy fucking sucks. He makes like ambient industrial shit. Like. It’s like. It’s like drone. Like noise. Yeah I know. Ye-yeah. Yeah. She’s a commie. Yee. Yee doe. Gaddafi gang. Haven’t actually asked her. Probably. Yeah.”
He liked it when she spoke. To be beautiful and poor. Vietnam raised a girl, a pretty girl, filled with prettiness and girliness. Beautiful yet poor. Poor thing. Look at her now: such a pretty girl. So she says to him, she says “be more open. Care. More,” or something like that. Imagine I’m your psychoanalyst, she says. So you know he’s gets all “maybe she’s right” this and “I need to be more open” that until, get this, he starts hallucinating. Hallucinating who? You might ask? Theodor W. Adorno. Crazy, right? So he goes a little off his rocker and starts thinking, you know maybe he is the unrealized fascist he accused others of being. Maybe Lenin did suck. Maybe communism will never work and everything will suck forever and ever and capitalism will kill them again. But I tell ya, and when I tell ya I tell ya, he liked it when she spoke.
“Who? Who’s gonna read my bullshit stupid pointless writing. Post it on substack yeah that sounds like an amazing idea. Yeah I’ll be the next Zadie fucking Smith. Name one person that’s gonna read it. Name. Some Gen Z fuck that wouldn’t understand the concept of transgression if it hit them in the face? They’re bootlickers. Fucking bootlickers. Bootlickers in disguise.”
*huggles tightly* ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜ Wet’s go t-to Wake Cunnyingham and den and den a-a-aftew we can we c-can wawk da stweets and da empty p-pawks ˃̵ᴗ˂̵ *whispers* just you and me and den and den we *blushes* ÚwÚ we c-can become onye wike we can become onye anyothew ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡ *screams* EEEE yay!!! C-C-Cowwective consciousnyess?!! And we c-can sit ^-^ we c-can sit (∪ ◡ ∪) in da dawk x3 and wait untiw its dawk *kisses you* (ˇᵋ ˇෆ and we c-can wisten t-to da smifs and we c-can be beautifuw!! We awe you and you awe me and we awe awesome!!!! YAYYY!! sowwy *screams* am I tawking too fast ˙◠˙ ow too swow (っ◞‸◟ c) ow is my voice too hiii _(:‚‹」∠)_ ow too wow (ᗒᗣᗕ) ow is i-it youw voice ꃋᴖꃋ ow I sowwy I make i-it awkwawd I sowwy! UwU Pwease fowgive me. But in youw eyes (ó_ò。) I c-can see my eyes (ᵒ̴̶̷᷄﹏ᵒ̴̶̷᷅) and I c-can see youw eyes ; ^ ; and I c-can see minye again *cries* 。・゚゚・(>д<)・゚゚・。 and I c-can see the speck of dust we awe (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`) but nyo I sowwy *crosses arms* I sowwy what’s wwong what’s wwong is i-it me?!! *runs away*
AITA for wanting something more? I (20F) have been talking to this guy (21M) for a few months after we met at a rave. I had a boyfriend at the time, but he was being an asshole and was pretty absent from participating in most relationship activities, so I started hanging out with this guy hoping it would go somewhere. Last week, I asked him when he was going to ask me on a date and he just got all defensive and gave me the whole “it’s not you, it’s me” routine. (Mind you, we haven’t even kissed or anything.) I definitely felt a spark there and I know he did too but did I do something wrong? I feel like he’s been wanting to make a move for a while, and I’ve been waiting for him too, but was I too forward? I haven’t talked to him since then. (We used to talk everyday.)
A many of a few moments later, a year passed unto the next year. Aaron was the same. The same as he always was. His life was mediocrely chaotic, the same as it always was. On his countertop sat a copy of A Thousand Plateaus, unread, just like always. He sat in his beanbag scrolling X. To him, it would always be Twitter. Always. He thought about that word a lot. Always. He retweeted an image picturing a wolf cowered and presumably crying as he sat on his rear, and a nose-down view of a sweater-necked woman walking away from the wolf as she buttons up her jeans. The supporting text read: “Men are innocent creatures in a world full of women who violate them.” It was watermarked. But it was ironic, of course, just like always. But not everything was always. His job was not always. He’d been laid off a month ago. His mother was not always there, quite apparently. But the streets were. And social media was. It’s called a digital footprint for a reason.
The boy pulled the vape to his lips,
but his phone, it left his eyes fixed.
In its inventory,
an instagram story
made him search for some water to sip.
He stuck his thumb onto the screen
for stillness. He wanted to read
the lines up and down,
but he grew such a frown
that he didn’t want to be seen.
His coffee was no longer hot.
He thought about how bodies rot.
He thought about life,
and looked for his knife,
but then he decided to not.
He walked himself up to his mirror
Decay, the thought caused him fear
A smile of a farce
Is a true piece of art
Unless he collapses to tears
Upwards swipe. Click X. Derrida on Seinfeld. When you get paid biweekly. Lil Tay’s back, that’s right. His thumb dragged all across his screen. He was almost crushing his phone. Ha Ha. This is so funny. Inhale. Scroll. Exhale. This is so funny. It’s always so funny. Upwards swipe. Set phone down. Pick up phone. Open Instagram. He mumbled under his breath.
GoFundMe
In Loving Memory of Tracy
Hello, my name is Kyle Duong. Last week, my family endured a massive loss, my sister Tracy, who devastatingly died from a fentanyl overdose on March 28th. She left behind her father, 49, her mother 46, her younger sister, 9, and me.
My sister was such a loving, kind, free soul. Our parents loved her more than words can describe, and our sister is devastated. Our sister was the one to discover her. We are hoping to use some of the money raised to help pay for her therapy. Tracy will be deeply missed by all her friends and family. We are now asking for donations to help with my sister’s funeral and memorial services as well as family assistance, as we have had to take work off during this horrible time.
We are also hoping to spread awareness about the fentanyl epidemic and help destigmatize the conversation of drugs, as the taboo is what causes these issues in the first place. Our mother had noticed odd behavior, but the saddest aspect of fentanyl is that it is never expected. People can say what they want to about free will and the victim's choice to use, but they have never dealt with an active drug addiction as powerful as this addiction is.
All unused donations will be donated to the Michael Leonardi Foundation.
Please feel free to share this post.
It was a wasteland. Real biblical. Dead bodies piled up all over. Blood flooding the streets. And the drains were stuffed with bodies, so no chance of the blood clearing anytime soon. Half-zombies crawled in circles around him, and a few vampires lurked around every dark corner, waiting. He sat on a bench in Cesar Chavez park and stared at them. They circled him. They fought. They fought to kill him. And they killed themselves, leaving him alone. Alone to smoke a cigarette. He rolled up his pant leg and picked a flea out of his sock. Helicopters flew by at a low altitude.
What happened. I’m asking but I know. What happened? The trees are shaking. What an end. I told her things. So many things. Things about myself. She knew me. She knew me once. And I knew her. Once. And what happened. What did she do? She embarrassed me. She embarrassed me that’s what she did. Her fucking her fucking vices her fucking her fucking issues why can’t she control them why can’t she just be good? Of course she’s dead. Of course she’s dead because this is what she wanted just to fuck everything up. Why did I do that. I could’ve saved her I could’ve fixed everything everything. I. I.
Her hand. Her hand I don't remember what her hand felt like. Is that it? Is that are you there Tracy Tracy are you there? God. God dammit. God dammit God dammit. I. I need. Outside. Walk. Walk feel. God dammit. Feel sick. How could she. Walk.
Zero. Zilch. None. Nothing. Ceased. Over. What could I have done. What could I do? I didn’t know her. Who was that? Who was I? Did she know me? What did she know? She didn’t know me. What could I have done? What can I do? What can I do now? It's my fault. It's my fault she was alone that she died that her breath. Night after night. Alone alone alone. Me. Just like me. Forever. And always. Forever alone. With nothing. She is now.
Stupid. SJSU stupid. Stupid place SJSU. Oh but walking. With her. Walk anywhere. I would. With her. But she. Can’t. She can’t. I can’t. Her steps. Her steps were here. Her steps here once but. And her friends. Her friends go here. More steps. I can hear her. Hear her steps. Her voice and her steps. Oh.
He made it somewhere. Santa Clara St. He watched the cars drive by. Lowriders. Altimas. The only two he knew by name. There were homeless people gathered next to the city hall. And there were furries under the light tunnel. And who is he? They glared at him. Even outcasts have their fellow outcast, their fellow friend, their brother. An outcast from every aspect of life he was. Every life except hers. Tracy. He killed her. He did. She was him. Her. And what did he do? Killed her. Death. By fear of commitment. He heard sirens roar from the early streets and pass to the east. They echoed her name. Another’s love is dead.
Darkness fell a second time. Goodnight. She was gone. She was gone a long time ago. The echoes blared in his ear. Was she? Actually? Good morning. He pinched himself. Not dreaming. Ehh-err-trehyh-cerhr. A tree. A tree. A fallen tree. In grass. Was it? Can’t be. Her. A dove. Quiet. It’s quiet now. The tree. Whispers. Whispers. Nothing. No sound. It’s free. It’s. Quiet. Alone. Tracy.