So, for my last post I figured why be edgy. Why be crude, or go on about how you can totally be asking for it, or wax poetic about how Miley Cyrus was wearing pants so tight the pvc was literally touching her anus. No, fuck that. I'm going for something a lot simpler, a lot more... personal. Last night my boyfriend texted me at... god three something in the morning. He'd googled my name. And he found... *sigh* my elfwood account.
I can assure you, there is nothing that will make your asshole clench tighter than your significant other, out of no where, saying "Look what I found" and then showing you an account you signed up for before you were old enough to get laid without it being a felony. I turned so god damn red the room was cast in a terrified, amber glow.
This... fuck. This was painful. I barely recalled what I had even posted as work... but something deep, deep in my gut told me that my memory had elided elfwood intentionally. Maybe it was the fact that I signed up for this account when I was 17... or maybe it was because the more I thought on it, the more I realized I trotally tried to delete that once. And, I mean, sweet merciful fucking Buddha my boyfriend, he read things. Things I had long forgotten about. Things I may be ashamed of; things I may want to hide like a dead prostitute.
Gems like this:
"You know what sucks, dislocating both your knees, havign (sic) a fever, and being attacked by a cat that looks like a minion from hell and not being able to bat the little thing off. I plan on writing an epic poem about that...but since I am a lazy little man, I wont. I have decided it is time to stop bashing tolkein. I am not doing this because i am a fan of his work, nor because other fans get angry with me. I do it because it is time ot bash Laurel K. Hamilton. Now, i have read all of her work. I can say, without so much as a second though that this woman needs to find a man. Why you ask? Read Narcissus in Chains, Kiss of Shadows, Caress of Twilight, and whatever book it was that came out before Narcissus in chains. Now, I, like all human beings, enjoys the occasional steamy hot raunchy Faerie/werewolf/ratkin/zombie love fest...just not an entire book about it. Ok, lets see...msot recent bio. Yes, I know, the basics. 17, male, Pagan, sophomore, not angsty (i have been this way sicne i was two, my mom says I'm satan). I have not had a girlfriend since I was 11. This would bother msot people, but not me. We have established long ago that I not only lack emotion, but any semblence of humanity...now, onto the men in pink dresses and hair curlers..."
Was... was I really that bad as a kid? I remember myself being way smarter than this. And an epic poem? And... Tolkien? I hated Tolkien? I'll give myself this point, the guy is a boring fucking read. But, hey, younger me, settle the fuck down. Not about Laurell K. Hamilton, though. That bitch needs to fire her editor and then hire a real one... and then she could actually benefit from finding a good source of steady cock. I'm not even going to take the time to correct this bubbling horse shit for grammar and spelling rules. I'm just so deeply, deeply ashamed of myself. This is just the opening blurb about me, too. It's not even the part where I tried to get creative, just where I wanted to be funny. God willing I won't find this in 2025 and think to myself how much of a dumb ass I was.
That was so bad I needed to go take a breather. What the literal fuck? If only I knew what I know now, perhaps back then I would have had the ability to string together a coherent sentence. Maybe? Possibly? God, probably not. I know I certainly would have choked myself to death if I met 17 year old me today. How have I never punched in the face? I want to hit me, and I'm me!
Then I looked at the writings, and I found something I forgot I had ever even written down. It was... so... I can't say good. I want to, but I can so easily see the places I drew inspiration from. I can also see myself making the kind of mistakes amateurs make. Mistakes like giving somebody a feminine name without ever realizing it. All the names were Celtic, so at least I had that going for me, I guess?
The thing is, I read it. I read the whole damn thing. I had talent. It was raw, admittedly, but it was talent. My boyfriend even commented it wasn't bad when he read it. I, naturally, want to go back and just fix the shit out of it. Replace every fucking thee and thou with the proper ye and you, remove a few things I don't like... add a ravaging sex scene. Good shit like that. At least maybe make it a little easier to read past the 4th paragraph without cringing at myself.
I judged myself hard. Really, really hard. I cringed, I winced... then I read the single comment. And I discovered something. I was reading a story that I wrote when I was 11. Fuck me running. I already felt kind of old. Now, after seeing something that was actually scribed down in the 90's... now I felt like this decrepit withered old husk. How do women in their 50's handle this?
I'm rambling now, but there is still a point here. Delete your shit. I don't care my boyfriend found this, but sweet Christ what will happen the day he finds my FTP porn stash? What of the day I find it again? I never, as a kid, thought I would look back on this shit and feel a twinge of embarrassment. Seriously, delete your shit. All of it. Delete it. And then drink till you forget.