A Story In Which Ginger Baker Kicks My Ass For Writing A Story In Which Ginger Baker Kicks My Ass

Shut your mouth. Just shut your mouth. Because right now I have no other interests. All I want to do is keep punching you in the face. You say all you wanted to do was write story about me, well then you should have asked. I would have said no but you still should have asked. But you didn’t ask, now did you? You went ahead and wrote your little story about me even though you don’t know me or know the first thing about me. All you know about me is what you’ve seen on the telly. Let me tell you something. I am not a scary person. Ginger Baker is not some kind of monster. What I am is not scared. Did you hear what I said? I said I’m not scary, I’m just not scared, and there’s a difference. It’s a huge difference. But you don’t understand what the difference is. If you understood what the difference was you wouldn’t have written what you wrote and I wouldn’t be kicking your bloody ass right now. It’s all the rage, huh? It’s all the rage to pretend you’re someone you’re not and to what end? You’ll never be me. You could live a thousand lifetimes and you still would never be me. You could be reincarnated as me and you still wouldn’t have any idea. You’re just better off being you. I wouldn’t want to be you, though. Not for all the tea in China. The story should have been about you. The story shouldn’t have been about me. The story should have been from your point of view. That’s what is making me so mad right now. Someone I don’t even know decides they’re going to step into my skin and see the world through my eyes and they don’t even get it right. What were you thinking? You could just plop me down in the middle of some garden party? Sucking on lobster chunks? How dare you. That’s not something I would do. That’s something you would do. But you’re too afraid to admit it. So you have me do it instead. You have me doing the things you’re ashamed of doing, and then you have me doing things that I would never do, like kicking your ass. I wouldn’t waste me time kicking your ass because you’re not worth it. So that’s why I’m kicking your ass. Because you write a story about me kicking your ass, and that’s not something I would do, and it makes me angry, so I have to kick your ass, which means you’ve gotten me to do something I would never do in the first place, and that makes me even more upset, and it makes me want to kick your ass even harder. You want some advice? Focus on your life and not mine. My life is not yours. I am the writer of my own life. I am not a character in some story. You can’t just use me for your own ends. And you know what’s even more galling? You don’t even take the time or care to place me in a story that has any meat to it. You put me in this piddly little story that takes about as long to read as it does for me to take a shit. At a some poncy party in your mother’s backyard? Dipping shellfish into some melted butter? And then getting mad at you because you ask me to pass the butter? So I leap across the table and throttle you? That’s it? That’s the story? Had you extended yourself, had you written something lengthy, really gotten into me and stayed there for a while, well, I would still be upset, but maybe not as much. I’m a fucking book, mate, not a short story. I don’t even know if what you wrote even qualifies as a short story. It’s more like a blurb. I’m no blurb, goddammit! You think you can capture Ginger Baker in a thousand words or less? I’m one of those thick books, motherfucker, one of those doorstops that twats like you carry around so people will think you’re smart. But you can’t write one of those, can you? Because you’ve got no stamina. You got no sense of time. If you were a musician you would be one of those cunts that plays the tambourine, or the electric jug. That’s what you are, you’re a jug player. I know you. You think everyone is the same, and maybe some people are, but I’m not. You just can’t plug your experiences into me. I’m not universal. I’m local. I’m my own zip code. And plus I don’t swear as often as you would have people believe. You’ve got me with a real potty mouth. But it’s not me that’s got the potty mouth, it’s you. So you know what we’re going to do now? I’m going wash your filthy mouth out with soap. Open your mouth! I said open it! That’s right, eat the soap. Isn’t that good? Not so much for you, but good for me. Maybe now that’ll shut you up. Huh? What? What was that? That’s a stupid question. Ask me another.  


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s