...narrative stance. Honestly, she does. Just ask her students: she
won't fucking shut up about narrative stance. Autofictionista finds
a great deal of freedom in the third person. You're forced to look
at yourself from a distance, as though through the eyes of your
audience. You're forced, sort of, to hold yourself accountable. If
you write a sentence like: "he wanted a girl who was as comfortable
in jeans as she was in an evening gown," you've got to step back
and recognize yourself for the unoriginal asshole you really are. I
mean, come on: NOBODY IS COMFORTABLE IN AN EVENING GOWN, you jerk.
They're not made for comfort; they're made for hotness. The
infrastructure alone, my god. Put on a pair of Spanxx and then get
back to me, my friend, about being comfortable in an evening gown.
Don't even start me on the shoes. Fuck you.
Om clears his throat and suggests Autofictionista calm the hell
down and get back to the point. He says she should perhaps go for
the risque in this moment: tell them you think about sex, Om
whispers. Add some naughty bits like the stuff you publish in those
obscure literary magazines, he says. Men like to know you're, you
But Autofictionista has a daughter, for godsakes, a teenager, who
let’s face it may very well end up reading this profile. Let’s not
fool ourselves, she tells Om: our kids can find us here and they
probably do. Plus, Autofictionista is a college teacher; more than
once a student has discovered her profile (hi, folks!). Her point
being that she can’t be any more bold or risqué here than she could
be let’s say in the middle of Home Depot. It’s true that she does
wear short dresses into Home Depot and she adjusts her hair &
applies lipstick in the parking lot, because Home Depot, hello, is
a great spot to find men who are good with their hands. But she
doesn’t hang out in Home Depot talking about her sex life to the
guys mixing paint.
Then again, okcupid is less like Home Depot and more like a singles
bar, isn’t it? In which context Autoficiontista is apt to start
blabbering about her sex life before anyone even asks to hear about
(Entertaining update: Autofictionista received a message from a guy
who mixes paint at Home Depot. He informs her that he wouldn't mind
a bit if she wanted to come by for a chat.)
And here, buried where those with less fortitude won't find it, is
a note to the few who have kept reading. You readers, you patient
ones, you fine souls who have hung in with Autofictionista through
the terrible length of this profile, may be interested to know that
her human alter-ego, the real human woman behind this oddball
enterprise, shares her first name with a city in Ireland known
almost solely for its airport and her last name with the son of
Adam. The murderous one. If you type these names into google, you
will find her. See the rant below on privacy.
Here she camouflages the above revelation by adding this vague and
uncommunicative series of words, a meaningless final paragraph
designed to throw off track the skimmers and the easily bored.