Kids, cozy on up in front of the fire with hot coco in one hand in the other cradling your balls: it’s Asshole Week here on the Conceited Crusade and stories like this can only be enjoyed while masturbating to your favorite childhood treat.
That’s not how you read? To each their own.
Several years ago, I took a train over the yellow hills of California, through tunnels under high cliffs in Oregon and arrived in a densely populated train station in Seattle, Washington. That’s right, a train. I’m a fucking writer, keep up. Before I got swept away into the slam poetry scene, I was received by old friends who I’ve abandoned since then*. They welcomed me into their home and I ate all their food and fucked all their women like I was a goddamn Lannister.
That’s a lie. I was 16 and barely knew what my own penis looked like. I met a girl there. I remember her name but I pretend I don’t so it gives me a reason to call her bitch. We stayed up all night and walked to the beach in the morning. It sounds romantic – it wasn’t. I was a 16 year old writer, I just needed experience. I needed material. This was the kind of sappy shit that would give Shakespeare a boner, so I milked it. We spent the next day together and I ditched my selfless hosts who had originally planned a whole day with me. I’m pretty sure one of them was graduating, the other one was going through relationship woes, and the third through financial stress. I didn’t care, apparently. That stuff doesn’t make for good chapter fillings. When I left to take the train back home, I wrote pages and pages of material before getting a text that this girl that she missed me. I could’ve easily told her no then. I could’ve said, “I have what I came for. You’re dismissed.” But no.
No, no, no, nobody milks it better than this guy.
Our relationship went on through cyperspace until I flew back to Washington to see her again. For two weeks, during which I never went to go see my selfless friends. We had sex once. I made promises that sounded good coming out of the mouth of the character I was portraying.
The next week, she told me she was pregnant.
I was 16. I didn’t know better, guys. For all I knew women get an instant message from the United Stork Service the day after they get fucked explaining they’re pregnant. This is the point of the story where all of my assholeness has built up and the climax will ejaculate over all the people in my life and crust into a hardy life experience. She told me she was pregnant. She told me… as she stood at the top of the stairs leading to her basement. She told me, and only a single survival instinct trembled through my mind. That’s when I pulled out my machete and sliced right through her throat before kicking her down the stairs! That’s what I should’ve done. I didn’t. I asked her how. We tried to stop this with condoms and birth control. This thing must be indestructible – are you giving birth to a baby or a cockroach? She cried. She told me she never took birth control. Bitch.
I flew back home, and we kept in contact. We talked about what we would do with this baby. She got me to commit to more things than a Buddhist monk. Buddhists man. Talk about commitment. Two weeks later, she tells me she wasn’t pregnant after all. Then more lies. Then more. I should’ve broken up with her, but part of me thought, “This shit will look great in a book one day”. Like an old Hollywood producer who is too afraid to put down a franchise. As his cast dies off he’ll just keep hiring their relatives and hope that people come for the cars and explosions, anyway. One day, though, I’d hit my emotional bankruptcy. I couldn’t afford to produce another lackluster “Love ya”. I called it quits the only way a 16 year old can – through a long, fleshed out email edited by my mom.
So, who is the asshole in this story? I guess it’s all of us, really. We’re all pretty much assholes all the time, everywhere, and to everybody. My friends weren’t assholes then, but I’m sure they were assholes to other people once upon a time.
Asshole Week at the Conceited Crusade might be over, but rest assured, there are all assholes everywhere.
Even you might be an asshole.
*This is an overarching asshole trait – unless you’re related to me by blood or you’re Sam eventually you’ll be forgotten. My dad forgot me, blame him.