Nerds who um actually lovecraft shit
Die in a fire.
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Writing about writing. Writing about not writing. Who cares which
when the bandwagon is rolling? My father's death, the birth of my
children, not writing my book and my general uselessness were all in the
bag. So what next? Who can say whether memories are real or an act of
imagination? No one, fortunately, so I was entirely free to reinvent
some of my miserable childhood.
The bus rolled down the hill towards Tromøya on an overcast day in
August 1969. Or maybe it didn't, as I was then only a year old. But it
feels as if it must have done. We lived on a new estate in a dreary
suburb, swamped in existential misery with a broken television. Each
time a rainbow appeared, I would search the woods for its end. Never
once did I find a pot of gold. Never. That's how hard it was.
Every morning I ate a bowl of cornflakes. Sometimes I would pour the
milk on first, sometimes the sugar. "Make your mind up, you big jessie,"
Dad shouted. Every day, I would run to my room and cry for three days.
Then I walked to school. Sometimes my friends, not that there was anyone
I knew whom I would really call a friend, would have pissing contests
on the way. I didn't join in as my willy was too small. Geir was very
good at maths. I was better at English, having read the entire oeuvre of Rachel Cusk by the age of three.
The highlight of my day was having a shit. How I enjoyed sitting on
the toilet, seeing how long I could delay my turds falling into the bowl
with a big splash. Once I was very close to breaking my record when Mum
knocked on the door to tell me she had bought me a girl's bathing cap. I
rushed to my room, sobbing uncontrollably for a month. Dad shouted at
me to stop wailing as he couldn't hear the television that didn't work. I
hated swimming after that.
It was a bright summer's day, possibly, and I stood on a bridge
dropping stones on cars. One landed on an Opel, smashing its windscreen
and causing a pile-up in which seven people were killed. I ran home to
listen to my Wings album. "You accursed boy," my dad might have said, if he had had a particularly stilted turn of phrase.
Mum bought me a brown tracksuit which made my bum look quite big. I
cried for almost a year and no girls would talk to me. The only thing I
enjoyed doing was writing. "You will become a great writer," my teacher
said. Fireworks of joy exploded in my brain.
One summer I was eating my cornflakes in my bedroom, when I overheard
my mum saying her name was Sissel Norunn Knausgaard. "I didn't know you
had a middle name," I blubbed. Oh oh oh oh, I sobbed. My whole
childhood world was rocked by this news. Later, my dad told me I had two
middle names. "What are they?" I whimpered. "Annoying twat," he
replied.
The cat died. It was as if all my joy had descended to the bottom of a
well. Then Mum said she was going to Oslo to get away from me. "I don't
blame her," said Dad, before casually abusing me yet again. The house
was lifeless without her. I tried to forgive my dad for being so horrid,
but I couldn't.
I eventually plucked up the courage to ask a girl out. But she dumped
me when she found out how dull and self-obsessed I was. I then kissed
another girl. "What shall we do next?" she said. "Let's go home so I can
write about the shame of prematurely ejaculating in my pants," I said.
To my horror, she didn't want to see me again, either. I sobbed for
seven long, long years.
As I reached my word count, I decided I needed to confront my father.
"Why do you hate me so much?" I pleaded. He laughed. "Why do you expect
me to feel any differently to everyone else?" It was time for me to
leave my boyhood. No one came to say goodbye.
perhaps not wholly or as vehemently, "read real books" isn't something i agree with, but i think i get the point being made
I'm not getting this across well. How do I put this. I look at this thread and I see myself tearing at my skin. I see that time I got so angry that I bit my hand such that the bruise lasted a few days. Juuuuust a lot of anger. It's not "righteous anger" or whatever, even if the people you originally had in mind (those little clubs of like-minded fascist freaks you insist on keeping up with) are inarguably douchebags. It's just tearing and ripping and cutting for no real reason.
not an attack on everyone who liked a Lovecraft story