Writing Samples
James is a modern-day asshole, a mixture of stock bros but without their intelligence, just their inflated egos and pretend confidence. He's the type of boy who would take you to a museum and tell you what art is worth appreciating. He's the type to drive fast with his hand unwillingly creeping up your thigh, and he justifies it because you put yourself in his car.
The embodiment of pretentiousness, his persona growing substantially worse with time, age, and an influx of inherited money. This money is the only thing saving him from all the problems in the world that he has inflicted upon himself. When I first met James, he was, on paper, a druggy, slacker, fuck-off rich boy who only cared for himself and sexual pleasure. He's perverted, a fact that has become an aspect of his personality that's neither judged publicly nor questioned by anyone around him. He's recently quit the sex talk, mostly because he hasn't been getting any recently, so his mind is untainted by sexuality and desire. He has stopped the drugs, too, but continues to drink every night, exclusively pounding down bottles of expensive alcohol from his stepdad's house. Aged wine, gin, whiskey; drinks of a mature man that he is far from. He's taken up reading and an interest in fashion focused on designers from the '90s, the likes of Gucci Tom Ford, Balmain—not Hedi Slimane, as that would be too mainstream and not classy enough for his taste. Indie sleaze, but for rich pricks. His style isn't an expression of creativity but of wealth. Pieces anyone could find and think to themselves, "That's sick," and never buy, instead scrounging for something similar for a fraction of the price.
I read him my poem, and he says it's too girly.
"No, no, that's not poetry. I know poetry. I write poetry."
He flips through the book spread open on his lap, which he's been reading, still on the same page from the last time I saw him reading it, to find me an example of what James calls real poetry.
It's one of those obscure poems, words placed artistically around the margins of the page, one of those one-word-per-line poems. Ultimately, the poem he read didn't matter, but, unironically, all it was about was getting your dick sucked from a man's point of view.
"That's poetry," he said. "You see how it flows, and yours doesn't? You're just saying words."
He, with his male vocal fry and deep-set voice, continues, "See, I resonate with this shit. Like, it means something."
Lately, I haven't been able to stand James. He's quickly turning into someone who, every time he speaks of his newfound philosophy of life, makes me roll my eyes because his statements are so idiotic, so selfish, that it baffles me he can't hear how out of touch he sounds. He wouldn't be upset to know that he was being written about; he'd be flattered by the idea of someone observing him. By someone knowing him and seeing him for who he is. Noticing how alone and lost in this world he is. Though I think, at first glance, anyone could tell this is how he is as a person. But at every waking second, he can't help but share these feelings with the world. Let them know he is struggling, let them know he hates his life, let them know that he has it the worst.