The Last Echo
Note: This was written for “Speedhaven 2”, another amateurish challenge event run by Tomas Bjartur (whose mendacity has only grown since last time) where you have 30 minutes to write a 500+ word blog post off of a random prompt. Background context for this piece here.
“Chopped!” I shout into the canyon. “Chopped… chopped… c h o p p e d…” it calls back.
On hearing the last echo, I wipe away a tear and go back to my car. I speak to myself over the sound of crunching snow. Stupid loser. Pussy-faggot. Keep crying pussy.
Lyra dumped me. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. A millenial tech-bro and a zoomer art-hoe. A bit star-crossed, that. My “friends” all said she was out of my league. But I’m out of her league, intellectually & spiritually. Why can’t everyone else see her for the fraud she is?
When did we hit an inflection point? When did it all start going wrong? I can’t finger it.
Was it at the very beginning? We met at a house party in Bed-Stuy. I was doing my monologue about how much damage Freud has done to psychiatry. I hit all the key points: the whole thing is unfalsifiable; it’s science for wordcels; the psychosexual development stages are complete bullshit; whatever… Eventually Lyra walked over and said:
“I think the people who say Freud was a fraud haven’t actually read him. When I look after toddlers, the psychosexual development phases seem totally correct. Don’t they to you? Sorry for being confrontational.”
This had me intrigued. Was I being a complete pseud? I sought her out later in the night.
“I’m Günther. 6’5” by the way. I’d be 6’7” without the scoliosis.” She liked that. She threw her head back and laughed. I hadn’t hit on a woman in 7 months. This felt good.
She gave me some book recommendations, and we started texting about them late at night. I shouldn’t have been suckered in by this. Freud is for idiots. There must be some shard of lunacy in human nature that makes people want to believe in him.
Was it at that brunch? Five months later, Lyra was dragging me to zoomer brunch. She was fawning over me. We sat next each other as always so she could brush her fingers through my hair while yapping, and could tip over and pretend to faint into my shoulder.
“So this is my gorgeous, beautiful, brilliant, post-political, money-maxxing, Chopped Unc millennial boyfriend!”
Chopped Unc? I hadn’t heard that before. Why is she calling me ugly?
Another zoomer girl chimed in: “Ughhh, where’s my gorgeous Chopped Unc millennial boyfriend?”
Her gay clamored: “GIRL. Pause.”
Why did I join in? I showed them the tiny tube of Korean sunscreen Lyra likes to buy me. I had a stupid grin on my face. This was a big hit. Absolutely killed.
I felt my status slipping away. I was the silverback gorilla. Now I’m the gay little panda.
Was it last week? She told me she was into race-play. How was I supposed to know that went too far? I’m from fucking Austria.
No, I don’t think it was any of these things. There is something cosmic at hand. Some metaphysical Unc Chopper has come for me, rendering me unfuckable, unlovable. I’m giving up on the whole thing. Maybe I should get into ceramics, or some shit like that.