I met my doppelgänger and fell into the ocean. My soul swam out of my body. It floated on through the cemetery. It listened for the calls of ouija boards. For teenaged girls. For idiots having sex in cabins. It recreated and modernized every parable in the book of urban legend, dressing like a clown, casting hideous shadows. Exhausted, it tried simply to open the door. They came. It danced for the lens, but when they played back the tape, they saw only the dusty air swirling all around it. They called it a moment playing over and over. Dammit.
2 Jan 2009 [Highlighted: Dismay Disco Chapter 6, indicating that these are the notes for chapter 6, not the draft itself.]
In old black and white classics there is often a [scribble] main character who thinks he’s charming, handsome and sophisticated. Some [scribbled out: “modest”; “office worker or rich art dilettante with” (scribble) — these don’t make sense because they’re misc. notes] suited professional with cuff links and a full-service bar in the corner of his living room. A dilettante in both art and literature, his library is filled wall-to-wall [left margin, scribbled out: “and floor to ceiling”] with books he’s skimmed and marked. Famous paintings hang single file in his hallway: they’re originals he bought at auction. He always [insert: “carries” above, scribbled out “has” (scribble)] a glass of [insert: “champagne” above, scribble (possibly “brandy”) below] in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He speaks slowly and with feigned thoughtfulness to ensure that what he’s saying sounds profound, [scribbled out “and”] elegant, and most importantly, sexy. For all of this haughtiness, for all of these chocolates decorated with flecks of gold and served on silk, for every bottle of Merlot, you would be surprised that [insert: “all” scribbled out] his wealth and all this brouhaha are merely a byproducts [the “a” is a mistake; the line formerly read “a byproduct”] of his father’s nepotism and not the reward [another mistake] for years abroad studying his craft or any other genuine source of pride.
April 20, 1999: Columbine High School shooters Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold walk into their school wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the phrases “Natural Selection” and “Wrath,” respectively; by 11:35 AM, they’ve killed thirteen people, and at 12:08 PM, they commit suicide in the school library.
Countless replicas of their shirts can be found online, either in photos of Tumblr users or on Zazzle, a site that allows one to customize products and put the designs up for sale.
July 20, 2012: James Holmes is arrested behind the Century 16 theater in Aurora, Colorado, minutes after a mass shooting during a midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises. According to reports, he is wearing a plaid shirt at the time of his arrest.
Tumblr erupts with an outpouring of support from plaid shirt-clad Holmes fans.
March 19, 2013: Chardon High School shooter T.J. Lane enters his sentencing hearing, removing his pale blue dress shirt to reveal a white t-shirt with the word “Killer” handwritten across the front. The statement he gives after hearing that he will serve three life sentences without parole is “This hand that pulled the trigger that killed your sons now masturbates to the memory. Fuck all of you.”
Immediately after the hearing, T.J.’s popularity skyrockets among the gaggle of mass murderer fangirls on Tumblr. It doesn’t take long for bloggers to post images of themselves in their own homemade “Killer” shirts.
It’s nine o clock.
My [written above: "second"] boyfriend and his cousin are out prostituting themselves. He told me they were running errands. He calls it this because he doesn’t know that I know where all [scribbled out: "the" above "that"] [above: "this"] money is coming from. He thinks I don’t know that’s not his cousin. That Santa isn’t real. That one day, my parents will die.
I lay on the guest room bed watching a tape of a soap opera I found on top of the VCR and eating pink ice cream I’ve had out for so long it’s melted and looks like nail polish. The carton is between my legs and I’m spread out like I’m giving birth. For the bottle-blonde on the screen, the one actually giving birth, having a kid in real life would be a dream. She’s really forty-five, but on soap operas everyone is twenty-four for at least a decade. The children become teenagers in a matter of months, but the parents never age.