What, exactly, am I to do with this?

This is on the internet. I am the ex-boyfriend. My ex used his real name when he posted this. I can use this in the book, right?

fetch the (moral) compass, kids

[Note: as I wrote this, I got madder and madder. Enjoy it now: it may be deleted or altered when it’s not as hot in my house and I’m not as pissed.] [Note #2 (the next morning): Never mind. Deleting nutty posts is for wusses who are scared of sounding crazy. I’m not! Live it up! Whoops, late for therapy… ha ha ha, just in time? Or too late? You be the judge!] It’s ugly hot. And New York City is a miniscule town. Full of idiots. Most of whom I have married previously. Allow me to illustrate. I’ve begun leaving the house again, but only to get out of this sweatbox. Out of desperation, me and The Scribbler went to see AI. What the fuck was that? Steven Spielberg must have late stage syphilis or something. I just wanted Stanley Kubrick back alive so that it could have become the fully dreadful insanity that movie should have been. That movie was cynical and dark, through and through. I mean mostly in its being made. But man that kid creeped me out too. How icky. Tepid badness is just bad. On the other hand, crazy-bad badness is the most satisfying thing there is. Anyway the air conditioning rocked. Oh and the air conditioning kicked ass last night too, but have I mentioned what a horrible, oppressive, small town this is? I decided to go on an adventure last night. The air conditioning center of the East Village is a small basement men’s club a short walk from my house. I sweltered on over. It must have been free night for ugly guys in there, down in that dank frosty black-painted basement. I don’t have anything against the ugly per se: some of my best friends are ugly. I mean they’re really hideous. But these guys were dull ugly, not fabulously ugly, not gorgeously Rossy de Palma ugly. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like pretty boys. They bore me with their clean shiny faces and their cute haircuts and their gym bodies. Do you see now how too much of a (culturally regarded) “bad” thing isn’t enough? If you’re gonna be hideous, well, work it, hatchet face. Anyway it was like a dog fight in there. So I’m watching the TV they have down there, smoking and leaning against the pool table, doing my Steve Hurley impersonation. I’m sorry, that’s only hysterically funny if you know what a wussy babyface I am. So I’m chillin’ and this guy creeps up to me. He looks like an old chicken. He’s wearing horrid 1998 bronze-colored track pants. Worst of all? He’s wearing a Walkman. For our straight and lesbian friends, let me explain. There’s a certain class of people who wear Walkmen to “gentlemen’s clubs.” Usually they’re on crystal meth. When you’re going out for a simple evening of cruising, and you need musical accompaniment to block out all the noise, it means you’re not all there. Warily I watch the old man approach me. As he gets closer, he sort of waves, and I see that… it’s my ex-boyfriend. Yes, the man I lived with from 1995 until just six months ago. Huh. He looks like crap. Evidently the divorce has treated me far better. So. There we are. Smoking. He’s listening to Schubert on the Walkman. A classy touch, eh? Here are the thoughts that are rushing through my head: “Oh my god his skin is GREY. Hey, what’s he doing at a sex club? He’s having sex again? WE didn’t have sex for years because he wasn’t having sex anymore! Why is he wearing those tacky pants? And why is he here to fuck up my big night out on the town? Oh man, if he says anything out of line I’m going to throw a giant fit right here in front of everyone and not be able to come back for months. When did I stop speaking to him—March? April? After those retarded emails he kept sending me? Are those pit stains on his t-shirt?” Like that. Actually it was nice to see him. He looked mellow. I didn’t have any ill feelings at all. I felt totally clean. So we made chit chat. Oh yes, I have some things of yours that I bet you’ll want before winter, too, hee hee. Oh, gosh, how is Scott? (Yeah, Scott (and Scott is his real name), his ex-Marine friend who beats his boyfriends. My least favorite person, umm, in the universe?) Wow, that’s a terrible story. Sorry to hear that. Oh yeah? Well Paul really always was full of himself, that’s true. Oh sure. Small talk. Then the Xboyfriend asks if I’ve “heard” anything about him. I tell him I haven’t. “Well,” he says, “I’m on medication now.” Well, no duh. He’s been on 30 pills a day since I’ve known him. “Medicaaaation,” he repeats. “Oh,” I say, “you mean crazy pills!” So after the divorce he finally goes to see a shrink and they tell him he’s manic-depressive and put him on anti-psychotics. “Yeah, I’m bipolar,” he says. “No kidding,” I say, just to piss him off. Ha! I’m not crazy! You’re the one that’s crazy!!! YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY! Ugh. All that fucking time? When I was like, “Gee honey, sounds like your doctor’s right, why don’t you go see the shrink at his clinic?” Well he can kiss my ass. I’m so glad our breakup was the time for him to get it together. It would have been JUST AWFUL if he’d gotten it together, say, while we were still together. That would have been far to considerate of me and the people in his life. I mean, then he wouldn’t have been a disruptive, self-centered, annoying prick for the last year of our relationship, right? If he’d gotten it together and admitted he actually did need help? Grr. He makes me boiling mad. Fuck him for not being able to respond to me. That’ll teach me to be supportive and kind and gentle. Next time a motherfucker starts to lose his shit on me I’m gonna be like “Off to the nuthut, bastard! Don’t pull a theatre people trip on me. You’re going on the crazy pills and you’re starting yesterday!” So great. I’m just the universe’s instrument in helping him hit bottom with his mental health. Gosh that was fun.Thanks, can I have my 20s back now, ya bastard? And what’s my part? I went along for the ride. Would you like to grind me down to fix yourself? So ask yourself, future husband applicants—are you a user? Are you a two-time loser? Are you not through suffering? Well get the psych eval before our first date, cuz I have a very firm no dipshit policy. ——– TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/22/2001 01:05:00 PM —– BODY:


4 thoughts on “What, exactly, am I to do with this?

  1. Frank

    Well, since this is his side of the story, it’s only fair that you include it so that you can give YOUR side. I think the side that can spell its own first name correctly deserves to be heard loudly.

    My mouth is agape, BTW, about his scurrilous accusations of Scott. I’m sure if any boyfriends were beaten, it was part of a degenerate sex game with full consent.

  2. Scott

    The only and I mean ONLY reason Corey says that I beat my boyfriends is because THAT is what Bill told him. Speak to Mike Kelly, Oliver Kamm, Patrick Branson et al., and they will all tell you that is complete and utter bullshit and nothing more than the concoction of the fabulist and drug addled mind of Bill Cullum. I’ve read this before and its old news and, Frankly, typically poorly written Corey Sicha bullshit. Except for where he describes Bill as being a creepy old man, of course.

  3. williamcullum Post author

    As a matter of fact, I consistently told Choire that you did not beat your boyfriends. I did tell him the story of Kristallnacht which he interpolated into you beating your boyfriends. Remember Choire was 30 when he wrote this. He obviously didn’t have the firmest grasp of what might be going on outside of his pointy little head.The theme of the piece seems to be how badly the world is treating him without any regard to what might be happening to others. And I’m still proudly creepy and, thankfully, so are you.


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