As some may already know, I’m not the most social of people. Pancakes in mid-morning with more than two people are enough to make me squirm, and for the New Year, I’ve already set aside several paintings to hang on my door to convey my mood and whether one should knock. I’d rather sit on my bed, undisturbed, maintaining friendships and sharing ideas on pseudonymous websites. One of these is imgur.
I’m no partier, catching myself sadly justifying why I was spending my New Year’s Eve inside, painting, decoupaging, and rummaging through Youtube videos of the worst in standup comedy. For the first time in years, I’ve opened myself to sincere friendships, though home is what I prefer to Bonham Exchange, even on colorful nights. “You’re young.” I am. Twenty-five, if you ask. But always, I’m fifteen.
The featured image above is what I had uploaded to imgur, fully aware of the stigmatization and vilification so inconsistently, yet fervently awarded to uploads of one’s face. While I anticipated comments on the absence of decor, and questions about incarceration, I didn’t foresee an extensive comment thread that once again indicated that while I often fantasize about screenwriting, it’s just not going to happen. I credit Betrael for the banter and zest.
Originally, I wanted to present the conversation with a series of GIFs, but decided that the text does well in standing alone. Note that nothing here is to be taken seriously. I respect the elderly, and no, I do not believe their lives are solely validated by Earl Grey breakfast tea. Prepare yourself for several minutes of awkwardness and vulgarity. Or, if you regularly read Crumpled, you’ll know that oddness is my forte.
Betrael: 25 and you haven’t had alcohol? I was going to go out, but work offered a lot of pay to be here today, so I was in bed by 8pm.
Myself: I have had baby doses of alcohol. And I usually pick colorful drinks with decorative features, like spearmint leaves and limes.
Betrael: So… Mojitos? Well, happy new year.
Myself: They are my favorite. Particularly watermelon mojitos. I also like raspberry mojitos and blueberry ones.
Betrael: Let’s meet up for a drink, I’ll drive 1,300 miles that way and you drive 1,300 miles this way.
Myself: You don’t even know where I live! You do know that it lacks proper decor…
Betrael: Eh, I’ve got tons of art, sitting in my closet. 1,300 miles because it seemed vague enough to be feasible.
Myself: It was a number that was frighteningly accurate. I too paint, although my works are in a box. I try to sell them when I can.
Betrael: Seems like it’s the distance between West Coast and East Coast, or Canada to Mexico. unless your European, then I’d have to rethink in kilometers.
Myself: The second set of places you mentioned is pretty damn close.
Betrael: I’m on the west coast. Lots of cats and coffee and art and video games.
Myself: The West Coast seems like a better place than the Gulf Coast.
Betrael: Well, the Gulf Coast has lots of… stuff, and coast. AND it’s a gulf!! There aren’t many gulfs in the world, so it’s got that going for it.
Myself: But it’s not exactly golf. Not that I care for golf, but the word “gulf” just sounds gross and reminds me of oil and soda can rings and shit.
Betrael: Golf of Mexico would have a better ring, although it may lead to gentrification when rich people move there expecting a giant golf course.
Myself: I hear gentrification’s a real bitch in San Francisco. The phenomenon fascinates me.
Betrael: I hear that too. I live in a beach city that has “low” property value due to a breakwater, but the gentrification is strong now.
Myself: Initially, I did not know what the term meant. I thought it involved tuxedoed gentleman running about the city, greeting girls in monocles.
Betrael: I always thought it meant old people moving in, because it almost sounds like “geriatric.” Those damn seniors gonna take over your town.
Myself: The only thing good about their lifestyle is Earl Grey tea.
Betrael: I like Earl Grey, English Breakfast is decent too. Driving around town in a golf cart is probably fun too.
Myself: I think it’s illegal to do that on the highways here. I have always wanted to try it. You know what is also delicious? Kona Pop tea.
Betrael: When you’re old you can do things like that and feign ignorance. That tea looks interesting, I’m too tame for adventurous teas.
Myself: It’s okay. I’m too tame for Bourbon or any other drink that sounds like a brand for chilled semen.
Betrael: Think of it this way; all alcohol is ethyl alcohol, just diluted. It’s the barrel aging that imparts bourbon or rum and all that nonsense.
Myself: So you’re saying that the more obnoxiously a man brags about his member, the more petite it is in actuality, yes?
Betrael: Totally, that and the level of insecurity shines through almost immediately upon mention of measuring one’s own wingdangdoodle.
Myself: If I had a wingdangdoodle, I’d measure it in terms of the number of macaroni shells to cover it up.
Betrael: It’s actually convex and exists as a thought exercise like Schroedinger’s cat, but is also an illusion and a quantum state type thing.
Myself: Sounds like something I’m not smart enough to understand. Will write a scientifically inaccurate screenplay: Quantum of Phallus.
Betrael: The whole premise of the movie is James Bond going to physicists to find out if his wingdangdoodle actually exists or not.
Myself: I’m afraid we’re gonna spend an unordinary time casting the first transexual Bond love interest to play Pussy NoMore…
Betrael: Totally androgynous person of no sex pulls down Bond’s pants and it’s like the briefcase in Pulp Fiction; only that person can see the truth.
Myself: And like those petals in Beauty and the Beast, Bond has to find true love, void of sex’s follies, before his last pubic hair falls.
Betrael: After a montage of driving and stuff he reflects to finally realize that the one person he can truly love as Bond love only loves is Bond.
Myself: And after this epiphany, with the unsolicited aid of Michael Caine, Bond dives into the Gulf of Mexico, tears spilled on duct taped bondage.
Betrael: Totally needs Michael Caine. He totally says something profound and it plays over and over as JB magically swims to the bottom of the gulf.
Myself: “You know, I’d almost forgotten what your (golden) eyes looked like. They’re still the same. Pissholes in the snow.”
Betrael: “…pissholes in the snow…” “PISSHOLES IN THE SNOW, by god Jeeves. The secret code to unlocking my genitals is in a Siberian gold mine.”
Myself: After a good four hours, thirty-two minutes, and five seconds, Bond digs a hole to China. Underwater. Because China owns Siberia’s gold.
Betrael: The plot must make absolutely no logical sense with lots of jump cuts, just like the actual Bond movies. Only to realize he is the villain.
Myself: So after digging a hole to China with legs of incredible torque, Bond manages to have a restaurant owner’s daughter free him with scissors.
Betrael: Turns out she’s a spy and China is plotting to bury him in the gold mine before he can beckon the moon with his blood ritual transformation.
Myself: However, the spy has a weakness for moon cakes, even at times when moon cakes would not be appropriate. Caine writes a special recipe…
Betrael: Inappropriate moon cake shots? Ooh, I didn’t know we were going art film style for this. I smell an Oscar though, it’s pretty real.
Myself: But as Bond hands the spy the box containing the tainted moon cake, Oliver, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, sits on a street corner, glaring.
Betrael: Oliver, the scorned love of Bond, who was left at the altar when JB couldn’t break the news of his paradoxical wingus, now plots his revenge.
Myself: In scheming, Oliver poorly crafts an effigy of Bond, piercing a stick through its tush, frying it along with seahorses. Voodoo is global and real.
Betrael: Deep in his psychosis he decides to create an effigy of the world, to transfer the pain in his heart to everyone else. So they know he hurts.
Myself: As he returns to his street corner, rattled & convulsing, a European exchange student hands him a corn cob, introducing herself as Mallorie.
Betrael: The corn cob starts ringing; it’s a phone. Oliver answers and a familiar voice echoes through the theater. “To be continued.” DUN NUNT NA NUNT.
Myself: And the audience groans, an older gentleman louder than the rest. “I could have seen Star Wars, and you took me to see this shit?” EL FIN.
Betrael: College professors continue to debate the subtle meanings and intricacies of the film for over a hundred years. Never knowing the real truth…
Myself: …as college students, with their trenta Starbucks cups, continue to pull out their hair, writing another paper on its perpetual ambiguity.
Betrael: Two random (very senile) internet commenters are tracked down by a professor of movie-istics only to leave with an earful of rambling nothing.
Myself: Befuddled, the professor picks up the conch resting on his bathroom sink, listening for an answer that lurks in the dark Gulf of Mexico.
Betrael: Roll credits. Turns out people thought a hundred years passed, but it was actually the same movie, with pooped pants they leave the theater.
Myself: Life is nothing without a box of Pampers.
Betrael: It was a commercial the whole time, in disguise as an artsy think-piece.
The dialogue speaks for itself, and another window opens to reveal a piece of my mind. Not necessarily my soul, but an outlook somewhat freed by Pink Moscato. Thank you for your readership, interest, and time. Also, Happy 2016.