of which i am on the periphery. it involves a shitty man.
my story intersects with it, overlaps; they are contiguous.
but it is not entirely my story to tell.
as someone whose primary means of emotional coping is writing stories, i deeply resent this. because, on some level, part of the infringement that has occurred here is that my story has been thieved away.
to compensate, i'm telling every straight man in my life this story. from beginning to end.
may i tell you a fucked up story? i ask them. because, first, i want their consent. then i want to see their faces fall. to see them shake their heads and laugh-- because, horrible as the story in its entirety is, we all agree that my role in it is both tragic and darkly funny. to see them struggle to find words to meet the horror i have just laid out. i want to watch them grapple.
this is not kind of me. but, right now, it seems fair.
it's been striking that each man i've asked this of-- when i ask, may i tell you a fucked up story?-- their first response, before they say yes, is are you ok?