NIK SLACKMAN / "TED BUNDY HOT" TWEET
I come home and find it interesting. I find what I find. I come home and find it interesting. Years in a hole have swallowed me, turned me into something I’m not. Always distracted, uncertain of the code of waiting, of its disguises, where it hides. I find what I find. Thought becomes an algorithm inside the hole—everything becomes whatever the mechanism translates it into. It can translate “waiting” into “home,” or anything, really, I mean I’ll buy it if the words are convincing. I come home and find it interesting. What’s wrong with that? Well, everything is interesting, interest is passive, a disguise. Years in a hole have swallowed me, turned me into something I’m not. I’ve heard stories about you and don’t believe them on purpose. Those bullets were the sweetest touch we had ever received from you. Always distracted, uncertain of the code of waiting, of its disguises, where it hides. The more deeply at home I am, the deeper the hole. There was a time when stories were home, before the algorithm developed codes we eventually grew into. I find what I find. We ran deep before you needed us to spread shallow, translating “grave” into “kiddie pool.” Cleaving “mass” from “mechanism.” Thought becomes an algorithm inside the hole—everything becomes whatever the mechanism translates it into. If I wasn’t so distracted I’d untangle the codes, I mean the codes. A body count of one hundred million is a number, I mean it’s a disguise, I mean it sounds convincing once you realize a number can be a mechanism. It can translate “waiting” into “home,” or anything, really, I mean I’ll buy it if the words are convincing. Crafting “mechanism” as “means” or “media” means nothing, it’s just a distraction from the story at hand, the story I stopped telling at the beginning, the one where sentences are a violence which never dies. I say “I’m thinking of asking out this really cute guy but I’m not sure how he feels, like I don’t know if he feels the same way, or if he’s gay even, and apparently he does some sketchy shit outside of school, but that’s just what I’ve heard, and he seems sweet and keeps texting me...” I come home and find it interesting. My little brother is wearing my clothes, speaking in tongues, “serpent-charming” loose ethernet cables. He told me he wants to move to the South and handle snakes in church because of a documentary he saw online, which I say is stupid, so he yells at me. “What’s wrong with that?” But I’m already in my room before he gets into a tantrum, reveling in my ability to make my loved ones upset. I can place my language into other people's speech, or at least I have a talent for making them say something interesting. Well, everything is interesting, interest is passive, a disguise. I’m never more comfortable than when I’m inside my room. I scroll through my phone and find myself falling deeper into numbness. Years in a hole have swallowed me, turned me into something I’m not. My notebook is full of doodles of stuff like slaughtered pigs and smashed heads or whatever, but these feel like empty codes, ineffective and unworthy. I block a friend who’s telling me not to text you. I’ve heard stories about you and don’t believe them on purpose. Tonight I dream of you as one of those sexy serial killer types. You’re a powerful man going after little boys and obviously I’m one of them. Those bullets are the sweetest touch we had ever received from you. The last thing I remember is looking up at you staring into my body as your face spread into a number, and my open torso became a pool of television static, a hollow softened by visual snow.
Nik Slackman is a writer and editor living in New York. He is a digital editor at Fence, and currently working as the managing editor for Fence Books' upcoming release The One on Earth: Works by Mark Baumer. His writing has previously been featured in X-RAY and Bertelsmann Foundation. Additionally, he is one of the founders of Bard College's Meme Lab, an interdisciplinary research group focusing on digital memes, online media, and content dissemination.