If you have a little girl, don’t let her grow up to be a writer. You’ll only regret it.
Here’s what could happen: you could end up with a weirdo. A weirdo who sits alone in her room, scribbling in notebooks. A weirdo who you wish would try a little harder to be “normal”. But instead, you’ve got this strange little shit, sitting in her room, organizing these stacks of notebooks as if they actually meant something.
When her birthday rolls around, or Christmas, you hope that she’ll ask for one of those cute little fluffy whatever-the-hell those things are called because that’s what your friend’s daughter wants & they’re the same age, so… you hope. But, no. Your little freak asks for a typewriter.
Never mind that she doesn’t even know how to type. Whatever. You’ll buy her the damn thing and try not to stare at the awkward, hand-flying, key-banging style that she’s developing as she’s teaching herself to type.
Then you’ll notice she stopped reading those Choose Your Own Adventure books & started swiping your Stephen King books.
Appropriate reading for a 10 year-old? Yes. Yes it is.
You’ll wait for the phase to pass & as you wait, your weirdo is still collecting stacks of notebooks. She just sits on the corner of the couch, brooding & scribbling.
She takes a typing class at school, but continues to type countless pages of who knows what like a baboon having a seizure because it didn’t break her of that awkward style of typing she taught herself. Weirdo.
The worst part is, when she becomes an adult, it won’t stop. No, it only gets worse. She’ll write some more of her bullshit & broadcast it all over the Internet. She’ll write stories & they’ll show up in random places about how you’re a big fat fucking jerk for wanting her to not be such a weirdo & you will absolutely hate everything she writes, especially when there’s profanity or drugs or penises because you taught her better than that.
Why couldn’t she just want one of those cute little fluffy whatever-the-hell those things are called?
What were those things called? Who cares. Normal little girls had them. Yours won’t.
Don’t let your little girl grow up to be a writer. Everything she writes will only be another testament to your failure as a parent.
This could happen to you.
If you think it’ll be okay to get involved with some weirdo woman writer, think again.
Sure, she’ll seem smart enough at first. She’ll probably be pretty entertaining, too. But, trust me… no good can come from this.
It won’t matter how nice you are. It won’t matter how many selfless things you do. After it all falls apart – & it will fall apart – she’ll go from weirdo mode into full-blast, drunken-psycho-wreck mode.
She’ll take fragments of you & weave them into every horrible, despicable, rotten, rodent-faced fictional character that she makes up. She’ll tell everyone how you got so drunk that you licked spilled spaghetti sauce off of the kitchen floor with the dog. Everyone both of you know will find out about the time she caught you picking your nose, flicking it across the room & all of the other disgusting habits you let her see.
They’ll all get to read about all the stupid things you did, that you didn’t mean to do.
They’ll learn about all of the cruel things you said, that you really felt bad about later on.
Whatever you trusted her with, once it’s over, forget it. The weirdo had tucked it away & will use it all as writing fodder for the rest of her life.
But, not all of it. She won’t write anything about the time you showed up with a bottle of her favorite whiskey when she got fired from her job. She won’t mention the time you knocked on her door & surprised her with dinner while wearing a penguin costume.
She won’t say anything positive about you. She won’t write about anything good from your time with her because she’s a total mess who doesn’t find those happy things to be as meaningful. It’s really how bad you made her feel that’s worth remembering & writing about.
And it’s because, well fuck you because you should’ve known better than to get involved with some crazy writer.
If this happens to you, if you decide to ignore my warning, then try not to take it personally. This weirdo, this cannibalistic freak, she’s observing you, feeding off of you & everyone else she comes into contact with because that’s what she’s always done & there’s a stack of notebooks tucked away in her basement that she’s been accumulating for years & years to prove it.
Countless things you did. They're in here... somewhere.
So, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Then again, maybe you’re smart enough to know that being a weirdo isn’t a bad thing.
