“I’m a failure” is the first thing he says to us. “An absolute failure.” It’s dramatic, sure, but it gets me to stop scrolling, which is more than I can say of any of my other teachers—all of them trying to force a rapport... as if the approval of a few hormonal Gen Z-ers means they’re still relevant. Still in the game. Still a worthwhile human being. “This was not my dream,” Mr. Korgy says as he paces up and down the rows, his loafers hitting the floor in a smooth, rhythmic beat. “I wanted to be a writer. A novelist. But I couldn’t handle the lack of security required to be one. I couldn’t tolerate the fluctuating, inconsequential strings of income. The consistent rejection. The scrutiny of my parents’ friends. How’s that novel comin’, champ? The uncertainty. I chose being able to afford takeout from the Thai place on the corner over roughing it, living off of ramen noodles. I chose going to the game with the guys over submitting my short stories to publications. I chose catching up on my favorite TV show over finishing a draft. I chose comfort over betting on myself.” … It’s not about him being a failure... It’s about him being able to call himself one. Him being able to be honest about his regrets, his status, his shortcomings. Not mask them the way everyone else does, pretending to be fulfilled by their nine-to-five and their once-a-year vacation to wherever had a discount on Kayak. By the pride of paying their taxes on time or always having a sheet of stamps in a “just in case” drawer next to a tube of Neosporin and an extra phone charger. This is someone who has faced, head-on, the disappointing reality of where their life landed, and is willing to be direct and vulnerable about it.

If I could understand myself better, I’d probably understand a lot more about the world and certainly about my country, in which so many people seem to revere their persecutors and appear grateful to be subjugated and told what to do, what to wear, what to eat, and how to think. There is something knotty here, something puzzling about the human condition in all of this. But maybe it’s best to leave some things un-understood, mysterious. I’m all for the unclimbed mountain. The unconquered moon. I’m weary of endless theories and explanations. I think I have begun to prefer descriptions.

how alone I was among these people,

Like a “damn bitch, you live like this?” moment, when you thought you were simply including a few, minor reflections and/or traits that wouldn’t draw back to you completely.

Cause this is what I dread 24/7 😩

im very pro making work that is bordering on overly personal, a lot of my favorite artists (writers like Miranda July, Shelia Hedi and Chris Kraus are great examples) do it and i respect them a shit ton for it. and because of my weird insistence on it - to the point that i will literally copy and paste excerpts from my journal to use as dialog or scenes, or design characters that look and act so much like me and people i know that people think it's purely autobiographic - i'm very aware of how easy it would be to draw back themes and traits to me, which i dont much mind because

1. i cant really control how people interpreting my work interpret me as a person and i much dont care to, and