Thread by @Soundsaboutrig4

Well, my own hack writing doesn't get any attention. Now, some people would take that as a clue to just give up or, maybe, change their style or actually gain some talent.

Others will just rip off their betters.

So let's do that. The Great Gatsby is in public domain now.

In my younger and more vulnerable years my twin (@Soundsaboutleft ) gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. Mostly because it was fucking stupid.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” Left told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had. Of course there are plenty of assholes who did and they're just as stupid and evil. So...forget that. Drink whiskey.”

He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a "fuck you" sort of way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that.

Mostly that he wanted me to go buy him whiskey. If I didn't he'd shank my ass.

In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements until I read their twitter posts, a habit that has opened up many curious kinks to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. Shit. I meant "boring assholes who post the same memes and retorts."

The Abby Normal mind is quick to detect and attach gifs to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a soy boy, because I was privy to the secret briefs of wild, unknown men. I sold them on ebay.

Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, masturbation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation (first date fuck and dashes) was quivering on the horizon like a puckered butthole;

for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.

Except me...I never plagiarize. This is all original to me.

Left can confirm that shit.

Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope, but dumb as fuck to think anyone today does that.

We're all a bunch of monkeys reacting by slinging our poop and running from flashing lights.

I am still a little afraid of missing something on tv if I forget to record it, as Left snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

Basically...eat the fucking rich.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance and how big my dong is, I come to the admission that it has a limit....except how big my dong is. That thing proves infinite largeness.

It's like the hulk.

Conduct may be founded on the hard rock cafe or the WAP, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on.

Mostly because I can probably find it on wish and that's good enough for me.

When I came on the back of East last autumn, I felt that I wanted the world to be in rare form and at a sort of only pay attention to me forever; that and to see boobs.

I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.

I wanted Del Taco and better bandwidth.

Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn.

I'm just kidding. That dead bitch was an asshole.

If personality is an unbroken series of successful tweets, then there was something lame ass about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of WAP, as if he were related to one of those machines that register earthquakes ...what's that called again? A shake-weight?

This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby ass which he tried to dignify under the name of the “creative ass temperament”

it was an extraordinary grift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.

Basically, he was naive as hell and sucked down propaganda like candy.

No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end...except that whole "shot to death" thing. Uh...so I guess he didn't end up all right. I mean I guess he was like that Mcconaughey alright alright alright...as in cool.

Well, he was lame. He didn't give me money.

it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

Wait...what the fuck did I just write? I blacked out.

Where am I?????? WHY AM I DRESSED AS A FLAPPER?