May 11th & 18th, 2026 - Standings
Dear TNY,
“Standings” isn’t for me.
Who doesn’t love a coming of age story? They are the best. This one is not. It’s fucking 8500 words when it could have been 6000 or less. The most developed character is Tommy, so that means that everyone else you read about, including the main character, is cardboard. It doesn’t come to life. It’s slow as shit. And even though there is a potential knifing and/or beheading, it doesn’t really matter.
I have said this before and I’ll say it again: I’m the problem. I think literature has gotten stupid. It’s written by people who believe they know what they are doing and it’s read by people who believe they can read good (sic). Now, I don’t know that I know what I’m doing and I don’t know that I am a good reader. What I do know is that if everyone is going right, and you are running this business for profit, then you are going to go right with them. A few of us out here will quietly go left, looking for more. Looking for Art. Looking for a life less travelled. Looking for something real. Looking for magic. And that’s fine, I guess. “Bumf for the Plebes” could be your new slogan. Who cares, right?
Boy howdy did I have a few episodes this week. Sorry for the late entry, btw. I was with a friend and as you know I have begun prioritizing people in my life over your bullshit. When I arrived to visit her, it was a day early and I had a casual night of street sleeping while waiting. I say street sleeping but I didn’t sleep. Not a minute. And come 0630 I had a wild hit of the hand and feet shakes, the big gag waves, confusion, shivering, cold sweats, and general agitation. But I made my way over in the morning and choked down a smoothie and drank some water and things started to iron themselves out as the day progressed (shoutout to Lady S for being an incredible caretaker full of compassion and empathy and tenderness the likes of which are rarely seen). Same for the next day. And the next. But then at 0300 or so that night, even though I had been better for days, the big wave hit. It was everything all at once and all I could do was lay on the floor and let it pass. She rubbed my legs and I could see she was concerned. It all passed in about ten minutes or so, but for those ten it was quite the humbling internal experience. A few days later and after some research, it turns out because of the new pain meds, I might be suffering from something called serotonin syndrome. This new pain med is also an antidepressant and allows me to keep uptaking my serotonin, which means if I get a flood of serotonin to the brain and there’s nowhere for it to go, I get these crazy symptoms. Which means I’d like to get off of this shit as soon as possible. I will know more about that this month as I have an MRI later this week.
Thing is, all of this seems pointless. The rollercoaster goes up and down and up and down and those things are good and bad. Overall, the fact that the coaster goes up and down is good. Happiness and joy mean nothing without sadness. But it’s like, at what point do you opt out on the ride because it’s all the same after a while? I don’t know.
Cardiologist did not recommend ablation today. But we don’t have to make that decision now. I will book a cardiac CT hopefully by the end of the month and then we will discuss new meds after that.
I’m fine. Everyone is fine. I’m not sure there is a point to this life if you aren’t doing things for others and my lack of money is making that hard right now. I wish I had a million dollars. I would travel around and help people. I know that has killed me in the past. But I’ve come to grips with it now. What am I supposed to do? Get an apartment and get a dog and get healthy and do what? Living life for yourself is fucking pointless. Congrats, bro. You did it. Tell yourself that in the mirror while no one fucking cares. Better yet, take a lesson from the woman who died recently under the hospice care of a friend of a friend, when there was absolutely no one who showed up for her death. Good luck with that one.
Oh, and here’s my favorite part of this fucking story: You used “insure” again instead of “ensure”. That’s a three count, baby!
The level of fucking ineptitude at your “literary” magazine is staggering. I’ve farted better vocabulary with 0 staff over here at FTNY. Nice one!
Nick
P.S. This pic of the knife is not mine. It was taken by our preeminent boy, Ben, a few months before his death. Note the shoes. And note the location. The Moosehead, his local watering hole in Palmer, Alaska. I am reminded that, for the people we truly love, no story can be too sooted for us to continue loving them. Their struggle is our struggle. We cannot be separated from their journey, even if it would be healthier for us. For our loves, we dig deep and we find new ways to try. Even if we eventually fail because they fail. The endgame has nothing to do with the story. It’s the try that matters. And for those special ones, we keep trying no matter what. We owe it to them because if roles were reversed they would do it for us. Everything else…well, that’s just stones skipping off the surface of a stagnant pond.
