Brad Pike

You see, I’m not like other deities who love all people and are merely disappointed by their failings. No, I feel hate, and I hate you.

The book is basically unreadable as, it turns out, I was not an undiscovered literary prodigy, but it’s interesting to note what I thought made a good story at the time: fighting, lasers, monsters, horrifying deaths, etc.

We don’t all use words like “ain’t,” “ya’ll,” “folks,” and “shucks.” We don’t all use double negatives like, “haven’t got no food.” Even my grandmother, who grew up in Arkansas (which, upon discovery, people often say, “Oh, I’m so sorry,”) doesn’t use “ain’t” because, as she would say, “I was raised better than that.”

If I had a stable living situation, a large house, and no one to judge me, I would stock the place with cats the way a pond is stocked with fish. Everywhere you turn — cat. On the table — cat. On the couch — cat. On the window — two cats. The walls would have a series of platforms for cats to perch on and glower down from like gargoyles.

Ever since I discovered him via a small role in the movie Gentlemen Broncos, I’ve become obsessed. His videos on YouTube — telling stories at The Moth, giving a drunken tour of his home, clips from his plays — are unspeakably mesmerizing, so much so I’ve watched each of them at least ten times…

The transformation from pale skinny ghostman into slightly paler slightly skinnier ghostman was one that occurred with shocking speed, and once it’d taken place, I no longer walked but slunk, no longer ate but gobbled, no longer looked at things but stared ominously.

‘Why is he scurrying around?’ you wonder. ‘Why won’t he let me go to sleep?’ These questions don’t concern me because I’m a wild animal with a tiny brain, and most of my behavior is based on operant conditioning principles.

After seeing it a third time, I stood up, pointed at the window, and declared, “Justin, there’s something going on out there!” He said, “What?” I said, “Suspicious activities transpiring by your driveway. Someone in a black coat keeps running past the window.”

As a toddler, so I am told, my diet consisted of healthy foods like broccoli, green beans, pineapple, peas, and other such unpalatable toxic plant poison. All these disgusting nonfoods were consumed without complaint, were even requested—the mind reels in disbelief. Why would that happen? Why would I do that?

I’ve watched every movie, listened to every band, read every article on the internet, viewed every meme. I’ve seen all the TV shows, all the YouTube videos, all the paintings, all the gifs. I’ve read all the books, all the comics, all the magazines, all the poems, all the restaurant menus. I’ve heard every podcast, every song, every comedy album, everything anyone’s ever said aloud.

I finally break down and read a book. A book! My roommate says, “You’re reading? What is this? The 1800s?” I say, “I know, right? Reading a book is like lighting your house with candles or buying music legally — anachronistic.” He says, “What does that word mean?” I say, “Who cares!” And then we laugh and laugh and laugh.

Earlier this week, after performing an undoubtedly hilarious improv scene, one of my classmates grabbed my arm. There must have been a perfectly reasonable context for this because when I jerked away and shouted, “I am being touched! What is happening? What are you doing?” everyone acted like I was being weird.