Birthday Quest

Jen vacated her Vividus and walked to the bathroom. Two hours later, about twenty minutes before school's initial buzz would sound, she logged onto Facebook. "Oh, only thirty-five so far. Cool," she mumbled to herself.

Her replies to the oft-mechanical wishes started off as somewhat-personalized thank you cards. After reading a second obscure freshman's misspelled message, she realized that she wouldn't finish the process if she'd keep adding boring tweaks to each response. Thus, each of Jen's final nineteen comments were "thanks" -- those six letters applied to the unknown and the beloved.

The newly-crowned Queen of Thumper walked to school alone on March 10. Full of independence and self-satisfaction, she arrived to first period without regard to its content. Not that X-Treme AP Physionomics (Fo' Kids) was an important class! X-TAPP proved to be a lovable distraction on Jen's birthday path. In her lamentable opening class she fantasized about a Dutch guy she met on Chatroulette. (Even though she has a boyfriend!) Her March 10 Physionomics notes consisted of abstract drawings and twelve instances of the same bubble-lettered "Scott" -- one may interpret that as symbolizing the ties between the Scottish and the Dutch, or one may argue that Jen's "a classically romantic chick, appreciating her boyfriend's name in a stylized sense." The latter is ridiculous, and the owner of the excerpted quotation is probably a freckly-faced dork who Jen stopped hanging out with years ago.

Second period Spelling Honors -- a class in which Jen usually wore a derisive glare -- felt like an extended joke. Although, by its end, she finally knew that incest was unaffiliated with food and contained neither a q nor a z, Jen laughed throughout the forty minutes of letters. She was anticipating Web Design, and, unmistakably, she overlooked third period -- Illegal Substances with Mr. Wâstìd

Taught by a former cocaine-abuser in the widest classroom in the school, IS was a natural choice for an "exotic, highly esoteric" girl like Jennifer. But, after six-plus months of chemical names, states' specific drug policies, and a room full of delusional bassists, she loathed the class. She never had any intention of dropping it, though; for every twelve instantly-forgettable technical bits, there was a fact so interesting as to illicit emotion from the pretty basket case.

"I told you we'd leave marijuana 'til the end. Yeah, well, there's a heck of a lot to cover. Best to make sure we get it all done before May." He waited for some reactions. After a few seconds of oddly awaiting stares, he continued: "Ha -- I know you start not caring after spring break."

One of Jen's acquaintances told Wâstìd that she was "sweet sixteen" -- he congratulated her and warned her against the dangers of "getting absolutely drunk." Another reason Jen failed to consider dropping IS was Wâstìd himself. His amiability and knack for casually using phrases which she thought were specific to kids often made her laugh out loud. And, as she was being lectured to, she realized that this teacher honestly cared about her. Thus, after Wâstìd's speech, she promised him that she certainly wouldn't drink much wine on the following Saturday.

"Anyone want to go spy on her to make sure she doesn't break her vow?" he responded, mostly joking.

"Mr. Wâstìd, chill out," Jen answered, in her distinct overly-sarcastic tone.

"Alrighty then. So: let's talk about weed. You've all smoked . . ."

Jen didn't doze off for even a second. As a result, Web Design was before her seemingly within seconds. Every student in WD was hyperaware of the occasion, and Miss Teacher gallantly led a rendition of "Happy Birthday" -- which had begun, by the present folks, microseconds before Jen even entered the room.

Annoyed at her popularity in that moment, she dismissed age as "nothing more than a number, faggots." Miss Teacher loved Jen's take on age so much that she deleted the closing pejorative from her mind and hugged the girl. The passion of the gesture turned another inappropriate thing into an entirely relevant and normal sight.

"Today . . . people . . . we're . . . Jen, what do you wanna do?" our benevolent enforcer said.

The addressed wasn't sure how to respond, but bit her tongue before the "I don't know."

"We shall do nothing today, unless Jen's a loser and wants to work on her birthday," Nick K stated.

Jen smiled and spoke: "Yeah . . . and our group is almost done with the project. Can we relax today?"

"I suppose so. But groups who are behind: please just try to get something done. Hmmm -- you've probably only got two weeks to do this."

Web Design's March 1oth installment somehow digressed away from Jen. For the star it consisted of Chatroulette, filtering through spam, chatting with her neighbor, and listening to Lady Gaga. On that day, at one particular moment, she concluded that Web Design was easily her most boring class. Then, with little more than 200 seconds left to bear of WD, she grabbed her books and fled the room.

"Emergen--" was all that escaped her mouth. She had crashed into a useless freshman on her way to the lavatory. Everyone in Web saw it, as the incident occurred only a few feet north of the entrance. Unsurprisingly, no one laughed. Surprisingly, no one was hurt.

"I'm sorry," the 4'10'' fifteen-year-old told Jen.

"Don't worry about it. I hope you're okay," was the nervous response.

Mysteriously, the freshman nodded and walked away. The Web students and their leader were crowded around Jen, and Dave began to speak.

"Uh, J--"

"May I please go to the bathroom?" Miss A asked.

"Of course," Miss Teacher hesitantly replied.

She looked around. No one else was in the bathroom. She looked at the mirror. Why the fuck was she so confused? "What -- is -- happening -- to -- me?" Jen examined her body to make sure it was the same one that she went to sleep with. Check. She quickly listed her hobbies. She quickly listed her best friends. Check-check. "Ha! I'm a young adult . . . but that's not it. It's just that I was bored and I guess too underwhelmed. Breaking point?" She accepted that: she lived for each moment; indifference was deadly. Then she trudged into U.S. History 1 Honors. The professor: none other than the "Terminally Chill" reincarnation of -- or the postmodern daughter of -- theindiehippie.

Mrs. Smokestack initiated the period by handing Amy C a painting of Paul Revere and instructing the class to pass it around. John Singleton Copley's most memorable portrait struck Jen as simultaneously passionate and resolute.

"Paul Revere knew what was up. He was a silversmith by trade but a hardworking everyman by choice. He accepted himself. He did what he had to. He enjoyed it. He never got too stressed because he realized at a young age that life isn't candy and matchsticks."

The words flew from Jen's mouth in a fit of socially-ignorant angst. Her peers and Raychel Sonveeco's spawn didn't interrupt her during this moment. It was thirty seconds of ardent self-reinforcement. Curious stares followed. Jen was never one to inspire. And although none of her classmates felt tinges of euphoria invade them, she did. Jen; sixteen; master of her own destiny; smart kid; (Paul Revere fan); inspired and inspiring human.

Jen's history class was no longer the product of a stoned microblogger; nor was it the ongoing effects of unchanged academic guidelines; it was Jen's Class, Room 231. But, as talk of a misrepresented ride and "revisionist quotations" concluded, the birthday gal temporarily forfeited her title and headed to period six -- the controversial Internet Slang: Bay6.

"Today, now, IRL -- LOL -- we will focus on Tumblr's continued employment of acronyms as comedic devices. Hey, wake up Nick L!"

Jen's second IS was, every single day, dismissed as a "joke." Oddly, though, teacher Miss Lulls championed the course, constantly referring to it as her lifeblood. She outputted a terrible amount of information; her style was informal, quick, and confusing. The QoT adored Lulls, and ISB6 became Jen's loveliest class.

"Um, Nick . . . how could you possibly sleep in my room? And you just got here. Wake up. Name three derivates of LOL."

The bowler mumbled something about Formspring, then answered: "The spoken lawl, the typed lol-ipop, and that Russian meme thing. What is it?"

Jen knew precisely what Nick was referring to, and said, "Ha, 'Trololo.' Better than the chorus to La Roux's 'Bulletproof.' Possibly."

"WTF is that?" asked Lulls, ignorant of the English duo, attempting to steer her class away from non-IS material.

"La Roux? She's a sing --"

"Jennifer, AYS? That's unrelated. Quick: 'what even' is the shortened version of which Internet meme?"

"Sorry, and: 'what is this I don't even.' Love that one."

"Sure! Now -- my students, my passions -- we must discuss the relevance of microblogging! This new platform relates directly to the ubiquity of certain acronyms, like . . ."

"Wow, that was fast," Jen exclaimed to her pal Allie after the bell for 6th-to-7th intermission rung.

"Yeah -- what do you have next again?"

"Let's see . . . seventh is Anthro-Socio-Psych with Mr. Vijjen. "

"Um -- oh. No wonder I forgot."

Jen laughed -- the sound was bursting with nostalgia. It recounted September's exploits in ASP. Fun and festive, the next period was Jen's daily mulch.

As Allie slid into Creative Reading -- the experimental course "coached" by Mr. Letterette -- Jen walked for a few more moments and landed in Room 210. ASP began with a quotation.

In a Holocaust of trolls, I'd be Hitler

Under the words was a URL -- which, to Jen, looked awfully maladroit. It was the web address of Bebe Zeva's Twitter account, where "words to live by" appeared quite often. In fact: this was ASP's eighth use of Zeva as a discussion-starter.

"Kind of funny, right?" As the bell officially opened the day's lesson, the laughter and side conversations died down. Vijjen's question spiked them -- truthfully, it wasn't very funny, and Jen appeared offended. She was a detractor -- a fiery opponent -- of Internet trolls. They ruined her anonymous life; they were purely interested in their own entertainment. Jen raised her hand and, upon acknowledgement, spoke.

"I fu -- I friggin' hate trolls with all I am. And like you said before, this Zeva chick isn't a bad person. But trolling is so fun. Sometimes I feel like we should troll, like we gotta keep people awake. I was on a Lady Gaga forum, like, and someone just listed reasons why she sucked. It was good because I knew he was trolling. The post was just nitpicky reasons why Lady Gaga is an 'atrocious' musical artist. It was obvious because I've done things like that. Now I hate it. And want to kill them. You know?"

Vijjen smiled in agreement. "Alas, we shall examine the psychological aspects of modern trolling. Also, as per Zeva's quotation, we need to view it as a competition. We must look at the psych of these people and wonder why they spend their free time trying to get reactions out of other leisurely individuals. According to Internet researcher Barry Wellman, humans troll -- indirectly -- out of boredom. Reactions . . ."

Jen loved Vijjen's smooth orations and his grasp of life's social fruits. Eventually, ASP ended and Jen was left with a sea of statements to reflect upon. Her night was to be filled!

AP Life was a disaster; Jen was enamored by it. In May of 2009, Jen's counselor -- depressed pedant Miss ☹ -- recommended that the love-soaked, heavily-Nexted microwoman delete Lunch from her schedule. Quickly, ☹ explained AP Life. Orchestrated to prepare anyone for anything, allegedly homework-free, and expected to be taught by the expressionless Mrs. Blerg, the class was a must-see for Jen. Especially since the 2009-2010 school year was the course's first.

"Today: electronic music." That was AP Life. Each brutal day Blerg would talk about one thing. A specific component of life in the 2K10s. Some were important (journalism, photography); some were obscure (short-form blogging, reverse fascism) -- all, though, had thrived gallantly in 2009, and were assumed to stay healthy in '10. It should have been a gift from the edu-gods. It proved, though, to be nothing more than a fact-based dead zone. Blerg's organization of each topic was interesting, but her morbid delivery and knack for erasing any humanity in Life drove the course into the gutter.

"Can I speak?" asked Jen. Everyone in the room stared at her. Although Blerg regularly encouraged questions, Jen's inquiry came after the teacher had said but three words; plus, the question wasn't an end to itself.

"What do you want to say, Jennifer?"

"I just know a little bit about electronic music."

"The most crucial electronic release of the 20th century?"

"No -- well I was gonna mention La Roux's --"

"She's pop. She's pop. She's pop."

"But 'Bulletproof' uses a syn --"

"Jennifer, would you like to go to the principal's office?"

"No, ma'am. It's just --"

"Released in 1978, Steve Reich's Music for 18 Musicians is an American minimalist masterpiece. Before we speak about electronic music, we must speak of its precursors. Historically, Steve Reich's work is neither important, introductory, or representative. It's simply brilliant, and . . ."

Jen went to bed on March 10 and dreamed so vividly that she woke up the next morning thinking that her life was just a break from those images. Then, after realizing how old she was, who she was, and how she was, she enjoyed Thursday, March 11, 2010.

Kitsch Vulva

Greetings, indifferent souls. Thank you kindly for stopping by! As you know, The Fictional Account is going out of business. It's been a long run. It's been a fun run. But most of all, it's been a marginally inappropriate run. But boast of all, I've snatched a job at the local erotica shop. Last week, Chief Overseer of International Matters Mathias M informed me that lately my blog has been "globally irrelevant and random as [his] newly-hatched Roman goatee." I fired his Canadian ass and clasped Fictional Account's failure in my hands. Once the melancholic realization entered my heart, I kicked my Manhattan office's door down and took a walk. I came to the conclusion that I must fire everyone at once! Alas, when I returned from my stroll -- which consisted largely of pensive circles in Park -- I asked Editor-in-Chief Mr. Christian P what I should do. He gave me a perfunctory glare. Then, turning both interested and cautious, he informed me that we'd need either "a post that's aimless, informative, simple, and vague" or "a few thousand dollars, like before the end of January" if Fictional Account was to continue publishing cute entries into the dated-but-fun blogosphere.

Some night, in the middle of this confusing month, I concluded that my ultimate goal is to maintain a waking life which rarely treads cot culture's still path. After smoking some marijuana and viewing some sketchy pictures on Sarah B's tumblelog, I penned something in my journal. I titled my findings -- which are edited here -- "Irreality." An excerpt:

It's been . . . hmmm, forty hours since I last had an ounce of sleep. I haven't lapsed. I've predictably fell off the "sleepy" stage. I'm just dazed. But -- and yes, I have taken into account the small amount of cannabis I've ingested -- I've never felt better. I'm enamored with the concept of free will; I've been touching things to feel their peculiar existence. To make sure they are there. I'm having trouble articulating my in-and-out-of-touch spiel. Here we go. If you begin sleeping as little as possible -- not for some work-related reason; purely because you enjoy your actual, fantastical existence -- you'll gradually begin to find your life more desirable and dreamier. When one strikes a balance between relaxation and unflinching drive, which I'm almost at -- I kind of feel that Ayn Rand "you exist in and of yourself; there's no meaning besides your self-aware pursuits" vibe. It's fun. I'd say that in terms of extremes, I'll resolve to go "all out" sometimes, but I kinda feel that when I push myself, it's in a competitive way. Not good. Let's treasure the individual's fantasy and his methods and view his opponents as nothing more than fellow, less-driven humans. Not objects. Going to go all out now in terms of sleep. You know? Treasure your fourteen hours of sleep and your two hours of sleep. Seven-eight hours? Eh. It'll definitely be harder, but if you must dismiss 1/3 of your life as "sleep" -- in either a "there's not enough time in the day" or "I wish we didn't get tired" style -- I pity you. Nah I'm kidding. But zzzzzeriously, I'm going to bed.

Forward to the present tense, which only I'm in now! You're jealous! Yeah you are. Um, and probably elated, because The Fictional Account is ending its run. I'm not a global person. I'm influenced mostly by my town, less-so by my state, and even less-so by my country. I'm Binx Bolling over here, and I need to flee the malaise and start up a fictional blog which, although will contain characters that echo their NHS counterparts, is for the world. Doesn't mean I'll write a story about Clara Claims (Sarah B) going to Japan. No, Clara will enter Burger Queen (Burger King) on Franklin St. (Franklin Ave.) in Nutley (Nutley) and realize that her life is sub-par. She'll cry and stuff. And write a melancholy diary entry, which, by its final period, will be soaked in tears. There's a post.

Regurgitation, round-up, headlines, summary, plot, rehash . . . nah, what you're about to read is the true Fictional story. Not what you've been told before. More than a paragraph-length recap. More than copy-and-synonyming my previous posts about how this blog came to be. For real, for you: here's the definitive history of The Fictional Account of Miss Teacher's Exploits in Technology.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Nick, you're a big fat moron," Dave exclaimed, inches from my face. We were in Web Design, and he was just joshing, but I considered by stomach. I laughed out loud after realizing I was 140 pounds -- a very weak 140 at that! After remembering that it was Friday, I nudged Dave's shoulder and asked the Flannel Ravioli guitarist if he'd like to see 9 with me after school. He returned my inquiry with some spit and a firm declaration that I'm "a bit too homosexual for anyone's liking. That's a no, munch."

There were ten minutes left to go in Web Design. I needed to attack Dave in some indirect way. I needed to do it at that moment. Alas, I silently declared Dreamweaver "gay" and opened up Firefox. There the bulb lit: I'm going to criticize Dave on a blog. Alas, the post was stupid and simple -- it just explained that Dave is a faggot and gets the worst weed. [That entry was entirely edited and is now the unrelated "Rough Beginnings."] What struck me was thus: Dave C, in some world -- one which apparently records itself -- is a faggot. To my audience -- which, by the end of Friday's Web Design, was Dylan (my computer neighbor) and the villain himself -- it didn't matter that what I wrote was false. First-person accounts are rarely fact-checked. My blog was but a few minutes old before it was being railed. The problem was: Fictional Account was born a weapon.

Dave immediately told me to take him off my then-ridiculous offspring. Blow number one. "Dave, I'm not gonna use your last name." I felt swell about my counter -- legally, I was set. Artistically, there'd be a little compromising. It didn't matter.

Two days later, The Fictional Account was officially something that could survive. I had given my creation wings. Day one's relatively idiotic posts were nothing. But day two's post introduced Nick Rapper, your well-groomed, indulgent narrator. More importantly, six other inhabitants of Miss Teacher's fifth period Web Design entered true non-privacy. (Anyone may view this blog!) Unarguably, though, day three put Fictional Account in the air. In "Cute Girl," Dave C has a crush on Jen. It's so innocuous. My blog became a narrative. Words like continuity and canon flew through my head.

Fictional Account was born during an informal war. But by post five it was post-combat, and rather aimless. Notice how "Goodbye Sanity" and "Old Lyrics" hardly look like cousins. During this stage, I was gaining fans at a rapid pace. The weirdest part was: to my knowledge, there were no onlookers at Fictional Account. My biggest fans -- Sarah, Anthony C, Hye-Sung, Angelo, Nick L -- all (eventually) became part of the action. They read about themselves. They commented on these posts. In one entry -- I think it's "Severed Brains" -- Shvet walks into Gary's Pharmacy and robs the owner at gunpoint. Shvet read it, let out a laugh-sigh, and commented, "Actually it was Rocky's. But whatever you write, noob." Big deal -- my blog is a work of fiction. So? Everyone at Fictional Account exists. They've just been transported to a slightly-tweaked world. My metaverse is simply louder and glossier.

Everything was running smoothly. My life. My blog's life. My friends' lives. My computer's hard drive. But then, on November 4, 2009, "Fame Kills" was released. Long and enthusiastic, it informed everyone that my popularity had taken its toll on me . . . essentially: I needed a break. That's all it was, but many bloated, on-edge (opposite of "chill") folks thought I was actually gone for good. Some assumed I was dead, and started biting their fingernails. One young man -- I think it was Mr. Ryan A -- informed me "[he] became unchill" after completing "Fame Kills." Just goes to show you: people are both tools and skimmers. If anyone read the full story -- 2,000-plus words -- you'd also see that part where it specifically says, "I'm going to a better place, now. I'm sorry for leaving you all." Tell me: how the fuck could that be misinterpreted? Obviously that meant I was going to the shore to work on my spray tan. Dummies.

Needless to say, my popularity grew exponentially. The moment "Fame Kills" was released, I checked my follower box -- a cool forty folks. As soon as I entered NHS -- to applause, sighs, and groans -- I realized that everyone (in Nutley) was paying careful attention to my little blog. I logged onto Blogger as soon as the school day terminated, and realized that thirty-seven more people had subscribed to my prose. I had every right to be elated, but I considered my infamy and hissed -- then, true to my words, I took a small break. Oddly, my little bout with misconceptions and ambiguity boiled over. The successor to my "misleading-but-wondrous" post was the breathless "Delectable Dissertation," originally titled "Fully Realized." This entry entirely ignored my situation, and rambled and scrambled its way into the Nick Rapper Empire rafters.

To backtrack: I now had seventy-seven mouses eating whatever crumbs I threw at their sorry grey skin. I publicly announced all this shit, and, in "Delectable Dissertation," gave Anthony C the sole responsibility of making products and slogans to push my brand to its logical max. He fucking delivered, designing seductive t-shirts that dawned the Fictional Account logo in erotic script. Also: he came up with hideously-catchy slogans, like "Nickrapper.blogspot.com -- a mouthful to say, a mouthful to read," and "Visit Nick Rapper's blog -- it's about Twilight." Ha -- that little lie reeled in a few dozen tweens. (Sure they found about my blog's anti-Twilight sentiments, but they were now aware of Fictional Account.) Even greater, Ant promoted my little blog to countless social groups. He twisted my blog's title. To whores, I was Dick Rapist, writing for The Dic(k)tional Account of Miss Teacher's Sexploits in Sexology. To emos, I was the lonely Nick Rapsucks, the cracked narrator of The Personal Diary of Nick Rapsucks' Cutting & Screamo Endeavors.

Again: of course when all those losers found out that Fictional Account was nothing like Anthony C's twisted descriptions, they fled the scene. (Some may have stayed; but mostly, they angrily departed.) Who cares? On November 11, I had left the blogosphere and entered The Blogosphere. Although the world was never blocked from seeing my pieces of narrowly-entertaining high school anti-drama, I -- for the first six weeks -- considered my audience an approachable group of bored humans. Basically: I wasn't being scrutinized. People would either like or dislike the things I scribed. My blog was neither important nor influential. Fictional Account was a kid they knew describing people they knew and, often, themselves.

Anthony's promotional methods, though . . . they were bitterly creative and terrifically placed. One of Ant's best moves was placing and ad for Fictional Account on a literature forum's main page. The marketing was deceptively simple -- it was a 4 X 6 banner ad which shifted its message every thirty seconds. For the first half-minute, one would see, in 9-point Times New Roman font, my blog's title and a fake, hyper-positive review. The second half-minute presented my blog title in 12-point Comic Sans, with an excerpted quotation saying "Fictional Account is deadly." After that time was up, it reverted back to the original ad. Ant explained why the banner was a raging success.

"People on a lit forum, Nick: they appreciate all art. This is a subtle, self-aware, sensitive group. First off, the ad comes at them silently. The review -- it's from something called . . . what did I call it? Oh yeah: NYC Media Pile. It sounds credible. Or at least realistic. So, they find out that there's some weirdly-titled blog that is praised to a hyperbolic, almost euphoric degree. My fake zine is like some selector or aggregator. Like, 'We've gone through a bunch of terrible blogs so you don't have to.' That's what Media Pile is. Um, so let's say no one cares. But they spent a good five-seven seconds reading it. Then they have to select a thread. If the ad switches before they make their thread pick, boom -- there's a visitor. Comic Sans shocks anyone. Calling a blog 'deadly' -- they'll appreciate it in an ironic subtext. They'll vote on your poll, maybe follow you -- probably just stop by and give you traffic. Exposure. Note! Even the people that just know Fictional Account is something. That's what you need. And I secured this ad, this one-off, this first and only ad, in one of the best places possible. You're lucky. This was so cheap too. Oh you owe me."

The stunning success of Ant's promotional endeavors scared me. Being in The Blogosphere meant that any of my strings of words could easily land on somebody's literary pastiche, tumblelog, Twitter account, etc. The possibilities for recognition and dissection seemed endless. On November 12 I innocuously released "Dull Blouse." It was about an English teacher and my crush. The quick post was narrow in its scope and cost me seventeen followers. I was down to ninety . . . but, since all the leavers were results of Ant, I felt a bold exhilaration.

Finally: everyone who would want to read something written by me, who would get the various inside jokes and nicknames, was here. I knew Fictional Account wasn't going to decline in popularity anytime soon; but more importantly: since my blog was written in a way which contained an ideal man as its base (the narrator may not represent this all the time), by default, I was enamored with each reader. Someone reading Fictional Account was either a smart Nutley inhabitant, an easily-interested Internet lurker, or a fan of the specific (self-absorbed, tangent-centered, sardonic) prose I was releasing.

No one could be ready, though, for the night of Tuesday, November 17, 2009.

Three folks were working for me by that ambivalent date: Anthony C, Nick L, and Dave C. I had hired Nick as my editor because he's a fastidious, scrappy bro who doesn't miss a beat of his life. Also: he thoroughly enjoys his Syntax Snob title. Dave was employed in an all-purpose way, claiming the title of Chief Plotman. (He actually pushed for his imaginary relationship with Jen.) I'd contend that about 75 people read my blog, consistently, leading into November 17.

After a tedious school day of mad indie matrices, self-fulfilling prophecies, and hugely fun improv, I stormed home and wrote "Global Aspirations." At the time, it was my longest post. Comically, it contained five first-person short stories aimed at different stereotypes. And, well, it was effective. "Global Aspirations" propelled my comfy little cottage into a fancifully-painted condo. Three separate webzines published mini-reviews of my post. Blogpile called it "mostly funny, and gleefully defeated." Stumbler also praised it, claiming that "it works; though sometimes Mr. Rapper ventures away from satire an enters pure imitation." Web Lit, in a highly critical review, concluded that "there's so much to be discovered in 'Global Aspirations,' you'll forgive the blandness of it."

I discovered all this press the following day. November 18 was long and laborious. It consisted primarily of sifting through a ton of congratulatory emails, Googling myself, and thinking about Fictional Account's prospects. Now at 237 followers -- and a public presence only a few rings away from celebrity -- I needed to hire some more people. The next day I consulted with Dave, who said that Angelo would like to be part of our team. Thus, Angelo became Fictional Account's Social Events Organizer. I gave him the title during our initial qualifications discussion. He suggested that I should expand the brand through parties and paint Fictional Account as a "festive outlet" -- he said that my posts were unnecessarily meticulous and frustratingly internal. To assist Angelo, I put Sarah B in charge of coordinating future social gatherings.

On November 21 I earned my 250th follower -- JOEv420. Then, on Saturday, November 28, Fictional Fun took place at Yantacaw Park. Advertised as "Fictional Account's FIRST fan gathering spectacular," Angelo's bash was rather bare. Granted: it did say on the flyer to bring your own fun. Still . . . fifteen folks showed . . . five of them worked for me . . . and then, in a fit of dreamy realization, I said to myself: "Who actually reads my blog?"

Dumbly, I had uttered this in the company of my devotees and employees. Nick L told me I had 256 followers; I responded, "Yes . . . but who reads my posts?" Ang was right in a terminal, terrible way: my words, although neither banal nor uninterested, were alienating! Nicholas Sparks, however disagreeable he may be, writes in an approachable way. He doesn't interrupt his literary works emotional porn with self-aware garble. I fled Yantacaw Park upon my epiphany, and read my latest post. It was November 25's "Blank Dust," which was based on my attachment to the news of Fictional Fun's proposed occurrence. The thing was: I found myself skimming the damned entry -- it's unreadable!

Fictional Fun, although somehow tedious, pushed Fictional Account to a higher level. Too bad: on Sunday I told my staff that I'd continue writing annoyingly, and make sure I only attracted wide-attention-spanned dorks. I couldn't do it any other way.

December was wonderful -- as 2009 was running out of a stream, I became an esoteric fiery furnace, producing only first-rate sentences. On the 15th, GriffyQ became Follower Three Hundred. On the 19th, I had earned my twenty-thousandth American dollar; I was going to lease that debauched Manhattan office on 44th street. I remember saying, possibly to my staff, "At least one month of pure heaven . . . fuck yes!" Oh -- by then I had made a few additions . . . and one subtraction. December 5 brought Mathias M to our crafty bloghold to deal with foreign affairs. On the 12th, Jill C became our Beloved Inspirer. When a staff member felt depressed, she'd splash water on his face and enliven him. In terms of inverse operations, Nick L stole money from my savings account -- he was promptly fired. Christian P stole Nick L's title -- he was quickly accepted into Fictional Account's cozy premises. Chris garnered a reverence for his pristine typed reports of my posts' problems. He looked at my blog as something that could not contain errors -- it was a difficult, convoluted read before we took in its grammatical inconsistencies. And, truthfully, a lot of my peculiarities look strikingly like mistakes.

Thus, 2010 couldn't come sooner. Oh! On that glorious January 1 -- I loved tasting that refreshing date on my tongue -- my hangover-doomed staff and I (still drunk . . . on life) moved into our pristine Manhattan offices. Everyone said that posts would now come at a furious, divisively upfront and beautiful pace. Everyone said that the first three months of Fictional Account was an ultra-serious prologue. Everyone said that God Himself was opening a new door for us. "Nick . . . before today, I've only been to New York twice. The first time was when my boyfriend and I needed inspiration for a Saint Harlot's monologue. After a couple hours in New York, fuck was I inspired. I wrote a thirty minute epic about an impersonal, confusing world which keeps going up but never looks at the ground, however synthetic it is. The second time . . . yep, it was the same situation, except my sermon was an hour this time. New York . . . no matter how oppressive and monotonous it can be, always is, to its core, a new beginning. It's time. It's your time. It's our time. Let's hold hands and experience this new world together." Jill's words towered over me. I had heard about this. Most Saint Harlot's folks felt exactly the opposite of Jill's message when they departed from her church. Instead of experiencing some Transcendentalist burst of individuality, they felt that Jill was a god. Why wouldn't you feel lesser -- maybe even worthless -- standing feet away from something Holy?

Five postless, euphoric days led to the terrible "Willful Women." The next day "Floral Foam" followed, correcting one of the biggest atrophies I had ever committed. On January 15 I had my big dream-life realization; January 16 saw me asking Chris and Mathias what to do; January 17 brought about the idea of a Fictional history; today (whatever that means to you) I'll say that, well, I no longer have an urge to write nonsensical bullshit. The month of January became -- and still is -- the point in one's journey where one is more excited about the journey back . . . not being back, but walking home and seeing one's footprints. Looking at those (in this case) permanent marks and laughing, wondering why they are so goddamn bittersweet. There's been a lot of rumors floating around. Some faggots claim that I'm leaving because I don't have the money to stay around. Um . . . you're "somewhat right," but I can easily run Fictional Account from my New Jersey home. It's not that; neither is it because I've clashed with the law a few times. And to those who say The Great Wiener Incident had anything to do with it: well, you're in the right Ball Park Franks, but you're off by a couple Nathan's. Enough hot dog talk, folks. More wrapping this blog's anti-narrative up and proclaiming that Didactic Fizzle is "where it's at, muddafucka." Revved readers: I'm leaving because there's nothing left for me to say. Ha ha -- I was out of things to say light years ago. But honestly, January . . . New York . . . the sunlight bursting through the fifth-story window . . . museums . . . office relationships . . . "I won't tell him if you don't" . . . "Nick L, you're fired you conniving, racketeering, bitch!" . . . "Nick, don't feel inclined to write more! Relax -- we've made it. We're in New York" . . . "You're all fired! Ha! I don't wanna do this anymore! Come on, lovely staff: we're all goin' to traverse the streets of NYC in search of everlasting love. Who's in?" And with that, my presence dissolves and you start crying. You laugh? You trip over something (Sarah)? Whatever you do, just . . . just feel it.

Love,

Nick