Prologue
Who’s this novel for? It is for you, dear millennial reader – attention span of a goldfish, immersed in social media VR acid. Read my stories, look at my pictures, skim my posts. It’s all for you. Just say you really want me. Say you really need me.
The methodology is simple. Read the intro, where I the Author with a capital A tell you upfront what to do, then do it. Read the stories about Dutchess and her adventures. Read them in order or not in order. Or don’t even read them at all, just screenshot this. Re-post this. Instagram, TikTok. Tweets are always great, too. That’s it, there’s nothing else I ask. Just enjoy it. Just go with it. You’re in for a ride.
I’m addressing you, who will pick up this book at some hipster Brooklyn bookstore, hungover or still high from the night before. You felt like you needed to do something meaningful with your day. And since you imagine you are an intellectual—because you left your shithole of a hometown somewhere, in the midwest, in fucking Sweden, anywhere there is money but no culture, and because you live in NYC—that thing is a book. You’re so cool. This book is for you. Put it on your shelf. People at your fake loft parties will see it there, adorning you in the background as you drone on about how you survived the pandemic but were so worried (and how the Zoom fatigue is real). As you make sure to mention that every underground party you went to (because you knew that dude who knew someone else who knew the label), you wore your mask. I see you. You never worried for a second—you felt utterly invincible. You won’t admit that the greatest sacrifice you ever made was the couple times you decided to not be an asshole and just stay home. You stayed home getting drunk—and you didn’t even read. Once a week you saw the therapist your parents pay for, where you ranted about the state of mental health, and then you reiterated it again in ALL CAPS on social media. I despise you. I am you. Yes, this book is for you.
It is also for you. The underdog, the one who comes from an abusive family, your uncle touched you, you were on food stamps growing up, but nobody fucking talks about it, especially not your hipster millennial friends. All you want is to fit in with the other assholes, and maybe sometimes, just sometimes, to fit in you share a detail or two, but mostly not, because you’re embarrassed about your poor parents and where you came from. For some reason your rich friends seem to fetishize your pain. They can’t even hide it. They should be embarrassed, but they’re not, so you are. I pity you. I am you. This book is for you.
It’s for you too, pretty gold diggers and sugar babies, low lifes, schemers, daddies, dealers, hoes. For every prick that posts about #blacklivesmatter, #fucktrump, #covid19, #metoo, but all they do is get high, collect unemployment and watch Twin Peaks. For the broke-ass lovers in the Bronx or East New York. For the artists who go out at night and spray chaos on the walls. You all worked hard to be where you are today. This book is for you, you with your multiple hustles, desperate to create some tiny thing of beauty your everyday life is deprived of. I am you, This book is for you, too.
And you, too, you corporate psychopath. This book is for you because even though you will not understand half of it, it will make you look cool to have it on display in your Soho loft apartment and it might even help you get laid. You know I love you. I want to be you. This book is for you.
Read my stories, you millennial fuck, look at my pictures, skim my posts. Or don’t. Don’t look, don’t even read, just let me see you seeing me.
