Twitstory (an Holiday letter to the sheeple.)
This was the first thing I was gonna tweet. I about had a heart attack doing it. Then, I deleted the tweet. I might still have it. Way too lazy to look. Heh. Fuck off.
So, I’ve never had any “dance” education. Nope. Never took a lesson. Never learned more of a line dance than I had to to get a grade in high school physical education (phy ed, we called it) class. Which is not to say that the meatbot ain’t been dancin’ since forever. Aks facebook. That’s what they’re there for. Witnesses. Please recount to the jury (everyone) the earliest that you witnessed Tyler Mertes flailing about wildly to the music, or “dancing” as he occasionally calls it. Dancing has rules. Regulations. Judges. That shit is .. obscene! Whatever. Just point the camera at you and say when and how you saw it flail about. If you don’t like it, delete it. Do another one. It’s not that tough. Look, nobody hates people as much as me. Promise. That don’t mean you gotta be mean to them. Or hide from them. Who writes this shit?
So, I was born in Wausau, WI. September 9th, 1976. For those of you doing your math, that will mean I’m gonna turn 35 about 2 months before the 2012 election. For the constitutional scholars in the bunch, that’s a relevant statistic. To anarchist freethinkers like me, it’s a rather arbitrary, nay harmful cutoff. That’s why I’ll just be the entertainment. The real rulers will be you guys. All y’alls. WikiWorld. Yeah, sorta like WallyWorld, but different. Clarke! But roasted by that anchor who tells them liberals where to stick it. Yeah. That guy. Bacon!
My earliest memories are of the family homestead. We had a huge garden, chickens and a chicken coop, a relatively small yard which was flanked by raspberry bushes. Yum. There were other kids down the dead-end road we lived on, but their folks were as socially rejected as me own folks, so they were oddballs, too. Occasionally, we got along. I ain’t heard from most of ‘em in years. Who the fuck knows.
The town where I went to school was an enigma. A self-starting house builder and technology buff (my assessment, not his) began a publishing empire there which provided “white-collar” employment that fueled the town. The quaintness of this place was off the map. It’s decreased as of late, due in no small part to the fire which I (oddly enough, and a good percentage of the rest of the town) witnessed burning over half of one side of downtown. They said the basements were connected, that the regulations would have prevented that kind of fire in new construction. The only way they saved the whole rest of the block was to level the next non-burning building with a tank-treaded backhoe type thing. I’m getting choked up just thinking about it. You can’t get anywhere near depression-era construction any more. Hand-hauled, hand-crafted shit. Now it’s all pre-fabricated, fucking steel studs that make everything feel like a tin can. Nobody gives a fuck about making little details functional any more. Slop it together, finish the next unit before quittin’ time. Fuck ‘em. Foreman’s an asshole. And somehow, nobody bears responsibility for the shit we all have now. Liability just up and disappeared.
My parents had picked the town because it had recently decided to build a theatre instead of a pool, and they liked those “values.” Their friends lived elsewhere, if they had any. I can’t really tell. We lived three miles away from the middle of nowhere. I don’t think they quite realized that two cops would be murdered in that sleepy little town. The publishing company had spawned the midwest’s largest grease-monkey convention, which brought cash well through the wazoo and funded many a “community service” organization. It also bought the death of what I can only assume were honest cops. Yeah. Fuckin’ money. Expecting more money than you need or deserve is offensive. I still don’t understand why actual capability isn’t rewarded, not by the institutions (they’re lost causes), but by you folks. Jealousy is the only response you’ve ever had presented to you regarding one more capable than yourself, isn’t it? Or, cover ‘em in cash and don’t let ‘em have a moment to themselves. What the fuck. I choose death.
So anyway, small white-collar town in the middle of farm communities and factory towns… we were the jealous envy of the area. Sports were vicious. Competition extended beyond the field. “Warm up the bus” was chanted at games. Often. My teammates would elbow me in the face on the basketball court during practice. They knew I didn’t care about winning at all. Then I got fat.
The first summer I worked at the Iola Mills Soft Serve Shoppe, I ate as much ice cream as I wanted and didn’t put on any weight at all. I had a three-mile bike-ride to work. That fall, I turned 16, got my license. Got a car. Next summer, I spent more time in the shoppe, and drove to work. I went from 160 to 180 in one summer. I had worn “slim” pants as a kid. I was being normalized. Girls hadn’t treated me like a sexual being when I was thin, so what was the difference. Sports? Who cares. Fuck it.
So school was fucking easy. I was smarter than most of my teachers, and y’all know how much of a fascist I am. What kind of grades do you think I got? I had one A- from band (and I still maintain it was for not telling my director that I was docked for being at an away game and not telling her why I was missing pep band. I forgave her years ago. I just still remember. Why the fuck do I still remember!?) and one A- from a particularly difficult quarter of Chemistry. That teacher knew like CIA Black Ops shit. Or he liked to lead us to believe that, anyway. I don’t doubt it. The rest were A’s and A+’s. Yeah, we got those. If that had been averaged in, I’da had well over a 4.0. As it was 3.987 was my GPA. I cried during my Valedictorian Address. I was class president, too. Headed to Yale for “Applied Physics.” All the pretty girls signed my yearbook. A few even said something about hanging out. None did.
There’s a picture in the yearbook that about sums up my time in school. It’s a “goofy” picture of the fucking glee club or some such shit (I wasn’t in it, but I was in Yearbook, and they wanted a full pic). There’s a girl lifting herself up, fore-arm style, on me. Sort of pushing me down as I stand, blissful that she was actually touching me. She’s the first girl I ever “asked out,” and she had stopped speaking to me for two full years after that fateful misdeed. The shame of my asking was dwarfed only by the loss of someone I had hoped, in some odd, not-really-allowed-by-society way, was my friend. The look in my eye, in that picture. That’s the look of me forgiving her. I’m that easy.
As with most of you, I sadly suspect, the whole social operation of that school tended way more towards violence than kindness. I personally witnessed drunken acts which I now understand to be rape gaining giggles and ultimately, “girlfriends.” Huh. So that’s how it works, then. Fuck that. I’ll just be alone. And so I was.
I broke my friend’s finger during a one-legged fight during our “combatives” unit in Phy Ed. Same kid and I nabbed two ND hotties while our classmates were getting drunk on a band trip in some far away land. I found out later that one of my close friends had a crush on me at the time. She never touched me. Still hasn’t. I’ve sat and listened intently to details of her sex life with dudes I couldn’t stand. This wasn’t torture. It was being a good friend. That’s how it works, huh? I’ll just be alone then. And so I was.
College was little improvement. New batch of people to immediately offend fully by flailing around to Ugly Kid Joe at the first freshman dance. Outdoors. Right in the courtyard of my dorm. I took solace in the architecture. I would go days without speaking to anyone. Occasionally called dad on his 800 number, fueling his vicarious academic lust. I gave up on science shortly after arriving in New Haven, what with the long walk up science hill from Pierson. Fat, remember? Knowing nothing about nutrition, not having time for activity or really wanting any sort of competitive environment anyway, I just ate and got fatter. I dove into the thought supporting the whole system. How the fuck do they justify this shit? There wasn’t any. That’s what I learned. Zero justification for this enslavement. Censorship. That’s how it was done. Fucking joke. Two years of Psychology, ending with throwing “psychology” out the fucking metaphorical window, and two years of “philosophy” ending with about the same. I wrongly assumed that I would easily be able to get a job with this resume trump card. Turns out, you have to actually get into that old boys club during college in order for it to pay off. The freak everyone laughed at in college is no more likely to get a call back than a state-schooler. Especially an honest one. Really? 60 hours a week? Taking orders from stressed-out, alcohol-fueled, rich, violent assholes? That’s how that works, huh. I’ll just be alone then. And so I was.
I met plenty of cool people during college. I friended as many of them as I could think of on FB. Don’t want the family to think my time there and their massive investment-in-their-family was all for shit. I don’t know who or what they thought it would turn me into. I got no advice on class/major selection, means of surviving socially, or cash from them during school. My dad borrowed money I had made working in the dining hall, washing dishes and managing. Fucking debt addict. Yeah, like that’s rare. I think he did a fine job given the hand he was dealt. It’s not like you people make it easy for people like us. You leave my parents alone. They’re solar-gardener-homesteader-artist-revolutionaries whose experiences in Room 101 landed them in the same boat as yours truly. ‘Cept they don’t turn down their Big Brother. Nor do they see the remote off-switch I provided them with. You can’t see what you’re not ready for. This is why I remain invisible. At least I’m meeting other ghosts now. Bless you, twitter.
Post-college, I went to Minneapolis. What the fuck was I supposed to do? The last people on earth I considered “friends” were there, and I had to fix that. I lived within close enough proximity of them to offend their sensibilities and peripherally wreck enough relationships near them to not be missed when I left. It’s just how I do. I was still addicted to TV and bullshit then, too.
I was gonna talk about the dancing today, but I’ve barely mentioned it. WTF. It was in Minneapolis that my weight peaked, around 270 lbs, I estimate. I was far too terrified to weigh myself at that lardiness. On December 14th, 2000, sitting in my cubicle, I decided to do something about it. The next day, I brought my gym bag. I set it within view under the built-in desk of my cube. I ran 50 minutes on the treadmill in the basement of the Roseville Corporate Center. It fucking hurt like hell. I never looked back. Yeah, it was supposed to be a New Year’s resolution. I realized, as I tend to when I let situations play out to their logical conclusion in my head-process, that this mission would be an ongoing one, well past any notions of seasons or years. What the fuck was I waiting for? Clearly, I was waiting for me. The gym bag made it to my cube an average of three times a week in those next six months. I dove into Atkins hard core. At many different points, I was dropping a pound a day of fat. I was coming back to life. I think I took the bag out of the office unused once, but the shame made me vow never to do it again. During slow days, I would take an hour-and-a-half lunch to treadmill and shower. At having lost about twenty pounds I started getting lingering glances from the terrified shoulda-been-home-with-their-kids working mothers. The career ladies just liked the fact that I treated them like humans and respected their actual work capabilities. I fell in love multiple times, witnessed screaming matches of dear friends with health and family problems, and listened to my CD collection blasted through my computer headphones as if my life depended on it. I leaned a shit-ton about computers, databases, and Excel at that point, too. Work friends were just as terrified of me as the rest of you. I managed to eek out some post-work drinking from some of them, but those people had lives. No sex for me. Typical. It’s not like it mattered. I had a high-speed internet connection and persiankitty.com. Plus, I was, for the first time in my life, losing weight. What more did I need?
Yo, I’m back. I just paged through a book called “the Illustrated World of Thoreau.” Nope, just the Walden author’s words and pictures. The dedication inside the front cover is older than me. I love used books. There’s kiddy porn in there, too. Naked people. Fucking ‘70s. Better burn it, prudes.
So that was the first half of 2001. I was still just an occasional weed smoker at that point. Weekends, typically. I’d smoke up with the roommies as I got drunk. Then, I turned 25. Two days later, yeah, I became much more interested in Google than I had been before. The guard in the lobby of the downtown building where my interview had been told me “they fell” when I asked him for the news. I was like, “what do you mean, they fell.” He said, “both buildings, fell.” I knew immediately – controlled demolition. I’ve probably been wrong before, but I can’t think of a time.
That was the day I became chronic. I never smoked before work, but as soon as I got home, that feeling of universal oneness and humanity really got under my skin. It’s really too bad it took me so long to learn all the rest of this shit. I had a job at that point where I was making $33 grand a year. Easy. I probably could have made more had I stuck around. I couldn’t bear it. Spring of ’02, I was off to Madison. No job lined up. Flying blind, as usual.
I think I learned of what would become my new job on the road trip from Minneapolis to Madison. I also learned that one of the women I love was gonna get married to the dude she’d been seeing for years. He’s a great guy. He’s just not me. I talked to her, relatively recently, at a friend’s wedding. It was like picking up with a dear old friend, right where we left off. I woulda fucked her right there on the table in front of her husband, old family friends, and all them slightly larger versions of people I tormented from my Mini Apple days. No, you’re right to keep “your” woman away from me. That is all I think about. Making her happy. Yeah, hate me for that.
So, the job I had in Madison was a small computer recycling company (13 employees when I got there, 20+ when I left), which I thought would be a welcome change from my experience with Wells Fargo’s Institutional Trust Group (how’s that for double-speak irony!?), but small fries who dream of American are no better than fascist-designed pieces of paper that run shit. Fucking owners. Sorry, share-holders. Slave drivers. What the fuck ever. Much like when I worked in the dining hall, my best friends at that job (and therefore, in my life) were “the African-Americans” who worked there. I drove a couple of cousins to a 50 Cent show in Milwaukee. We smoked a blunt on the way, through a violent shitstorm of slush and ice. No fucking way I’m missing that show. I didn’t protest when they cracked the Zimas in my car. I’ve never knowingly let anyone drink in my vehicle since, and they were the first. Dude’s dad had just died, too, that day. I didn’t know what to say, so I just tried to be useful. They didn’t know what to do with me or how to treat me either. I don’t fit any system of social interaction, so people just eventually go away. I break all the unwritten rules, as soon as I find out there are any. It’s just how I do.
Someone stopped me after the show and invited me to the after party, but sold me a backstage pass. Laminated, signed in sharpie. He took all the money I had. Or, I should say, I gave it to him. The doorman at the after party took it, or someone nearby. I looked away. They let me in, smoked me up, and gave me a drink. My co-workers left before I wanted to leave. Then, murmurs of someone having been shot outside, and talk of cops. I took the back door out, and the cops were there. They let me leave. Nothing in the paper about any shootings. I have no fucking clue what happened there. I mean, other than my honky ass sticking out like a sore thumb. Fucking cops. Bad neighborhood my ass. Why do I feel more at home surrounded by poor black people than whites? I must be a white chocolate covered oreo or something. White-chocolate covered chocolate Twinkie? Yellow, brown, and “Hispanic” folks make me feel right at home, too. And you wonder why the white people around here don’t like me. Fuck.
Look, I’ve been called a nigger before. And ‘cuz. And bro. Who am I to argue? I hang out with fags and faeries, even ones that want to touch my penis. The girls I’m in love with all seem to turn into lesbians if they’re unattached, and it’s not like I love them any less for that, so what the fuck are you complaining about? The girl who took my virginity was Jewish, as is my step-brother. I don’t hate any people. I never have. I take issue with actions of institutions, but that’s a very different thing. I used to use the word mulatto before I found out it was an offensive “animal husbandry” term. Amongst society folks, anyway. Fucking poor people don’t care. They just wanna eat. Fucking poor people rule.
The other thing is, it’s possible to be horribly offensive, dismissive, and unloving without using any cuss-words anyway, so what’s the fucking difference. Why can’t I talk about my niggaz? I don’t mean that I own them, like how you all think you “own” your spouses and children. I mean my like “my friends.” My people. You all, being people, are my people. The darkest-skinned of you have just been nicer to me more than the melanin-deficient. So what? I still trust everyone I see. This is me loving you. All of you.
Which brings me to my next favorite demographic. Well, for now. Pigs. Cannon fodder for the man. Soldiers and spies, Attorneys district and defensive. “Lawmakers,” those tv-entertaining fatass old boys chortling and tutting their “philosophy” to the cameras. Oinkers. My fucking cousin is a cop. He’s one of the most gentle people I’ve ever met. I know soldiers who couldn’t hurt a fly, either. I heel-flipped head-over for more lawyers in my life than you could possibly believe that one person could even know. I studied their craft along side them. I spoke to them in offices, restaurants, and judge’s chambers. They’re all decent human beings. It’s not their fault that they have no means of communicating other than this shit-fucked example of life that makes its way onto TV. Big Brother is people! It’s made out of PEOPLE!
So, during the course of this writing, I decided that this is my Christmas letter. Not my x-miss letter, x-ms, or x-mas. Christmas. Jesus H. Fucking Christ. This is my gift to all of you since I quit buying shit, and shall be my gift as long as you expect that of your human associates. Fuck your societal obligations. Nobody has ever heard this story before. No friend has lasted through all of it, and no family member has cared enough to dig up any of the gory details. Ok? There. Leave me the fuck alone.
Merry Fucking Christmas.
I’m gonna go take a dump, get some ice cream, and tweet. You’re welcome.
Door-slammers. You are wearing out the architecture faster than needed. The door will latch if pulled or pushed (depending on which side you’re on) gently and firmly. Slamming is as childish as pouting. Use your muscles. Recognize the points of friction, the pivots, and which part latches. The window is already loose from your abuse. Yes, it is abuse. You abuse the water fixtures, too. I have no idea why. I have fixed some of those sinks multiple times already. The first part of maintaining shit is NOT BREAKING IT IN THE FIRST PLACE. Really. You need sink use lessons? I teach those.
Queerer than you are. Yeah, you might be gay, but you’re white-bread gay. You have a boyfriend and you follow the rules. You know nothing of societal rejection. You won’t get any pity from me.
I explained to a friend here today about my boycott of holidays. You don’t act like my tribe or family the rest of the year, so why should I act like you care now. You don’t worry or care about feeding me the rest of the time, and forcing me to gorge on that shit with you just makes me want to drink to stop the yelling and dismissive voices in my head. Oh, wait, those aren’t in my head. They’re coming out of your fucking mouth. I don’t need that shit. Leave me alone. My holiday tradition is to meditate by myself, then watch a movie alone. Don’t fuck with my holiday traditions and I won’t fuck with yours. Deal? It’s an outright rejection. Family. Friends. Co-workers. I ignore everyone this time of year. I find it offensive. For once, some of you actually act like humans, but you do it mockingly. Then, all of you participate in ridiculous farcical re-enactments of events which may or may not have taken place (read: WHO FUCKING CARES!?), and continue to ignore the real shit that’s going on right now.
Hey, did you know our “governor elect” is trying to “boost governor’s power over state agencies”? He’s a member of the corporate wing (republican) of the fascist party (American politics generally), so his wishes will somehow just magically be granted and then some. More interesting is the very top word on this paper, above the masthead. Oh, it’s supposedly about sports, but it says, in all caps, “OVERWHELMED.” Oh, fucktards and fuck-tardettes, I’m just getting warmed up!
“Government to phase out mailed checks” – headline. If you don’t see how this is meaningful, you’re retarded and blind. Go shopping, idiot.
“FCC approves rules to protect Web traffic” – AP story. Huh. The rules “will discourage investment in broadband.” Why do you let the murderous assholes decide anything about your communications capabilities? Oh, that’s right. Because you’re dumb.
Ooh, “Banking, other deals drive stock indexes higher on day.” The fact that Milwaukee-Based Marshall & Isley just got boughted by Bank of Montreal for $4.1 Bils. You think this has anything to do with the fact that “they” know you’re out fighting each other and clogging their polluting arteries of commerce to fall all over their traditions of social enslavement, too? I’m sure that never crossed your tiny, atrophied little mind, now did it.
Oh, fuck the times. I can’t take that shit right now.
What? Only seven pages? What kind of an autobiography is that?
It’s not. It’s twitstory. Same thing, but different.
Love you all dearly,