schweblog

This is a warning. A warning to everyone and anyone that has entered or will enter into my social circle–which is a broad term encompassing: long-term friends, ex-friends, ex-girlfriends, relatives, one-night stands, objects of infatuation, people across the bar that I’d like to fight with, cashiers at the grocery store, that cute girl that makes my espresso, bus drivers, co-workers, teachers, teachers that I would like to sleep with, teachers that would like to sleep with me, fellow students, and any other category I’m forgetting. This is a warning to all of you.

You are objects in my imagination. When I write a tragic retelling of my life (also known as an autobiography), you will be there. Raw and uncut. Probably altered for literary devices. Sometimes severely. You will be a drunkard, even though you never drink. You will be a slut, even though you can count the number of people you’ve slept with on one hand (you’ll also be missing a few fingers, just for added comedic effect, the juxtapositional irony of reality and fiction). You will be the incessantly teasing bitch, even though you’ve treated me with nothing but respect and kindness. There are no guarantees that you will be heroes, even if you deserve to be.

You will all be ammunition for my metaphors, seen through blood-tinted glasses. You will all be cogs in a machine, serving a purpose in this grand plot. You will betray me. Did you ever betray me? Never, but it will make it so much better if you did. You will have slept with me. Several times. And you were really kinky–whips and chains and hot wax and piercings everywhere and blood. Did we ever even see each other naked? Of course not. But it adds some variety into an otherwise boring part of the story of my life.

No one is safe or immune. You will be eternally remembered on the pages of a book and when you are dead and gone, you will not be able to defend yourself. You will not be able to cry out from your grave because the worms will have eaten your jaw off. Your relatives will forget about it all soon enough and read the book, probably convinced that you did all of this, even though you told them you didn’t. You will be morally repugnant or angelic. You will be gorgeous or disgusting. You will be a sociopath or a necrophiliac. All is permitted. Nothing is off-limits. And it will all be written. This is just so you know.