July 12th & 19th, 2021 - Young Girls

FOREWORD: Hi. Welcome, to all of those who googled some form of “young girls fucking” and found my humble literary critique website. Your arrival here is an artifact of Google’s algorithm based on the shadows of people much like yourselves having googled something similar in the past. Rest assured, this critique does not contain, nor does any other on this site, the material you are looking for. Because, well, it’s not okay. But let me explain.

I wrote this critique of a short story published in The New Yorker in June of 2021. That’s about four years ago as I write this foreword now. So why am I writing additional material on such an old post? Well, it’s because so many of you seem to be seeking something which isn’t okay. Like, you guys know it’s not right. I know there’s a version of you that knows what’s in your mind is wrong, watches what you do in the dark, and tells you that you can be so much more than you are. My hope is that voice gets louder.

It’s sad for me to think that the vast majority of people who click the link to this page are afflicted with an inability to place another’s worth over their own. How so, you ask? Well, Google, for better or worse, is an amalgam of what humanity’s zeitgeist is. And for me and this FTNY experiment, that means watching, year after year, the Google keyword searches and website visits for this particular letter go up and up and up. And I thought, why would the public be so interested in this particular critique? They aren’t. I’m going to show you what you already know. Here’s what the Google searches were that brought all of you here:

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And in case you think I’m being unfair, those keyword searches were from this week. JUST THIS FUCKING WEEK. And those are the distinct searches, not the search count. And I want to sit at this keyboard and berate you. I want to call you all the horrible shit that you 100% believe you are an have been waiting for someone to call you. I want to validate the idea that you are a monster and that you deserve every fucking ounce of punishment coming your way. But then I’d be everyone else in your life, whether they know or not. I’d play a role. That ain’t me.

See, the reality is that somewhere along the line you got fucked. Genetics, upbringing, abuse, trauma, mental disorder, and/or any other form of “how the fuck does a person wind up like this.” But that doesn’t have to be your reality. These “subjects” you google, these women, they are not women. They are children. They are human beings. Just like you. Little kids with dreams and hopes and blood and tears and they want a life that holds happiness and family and joy and laughter. They are devoid of all the oppressive bullshit that was placed upon you, until such time they weren’t, which is why you wound up finding them. They were abused and broken and they will struggle to lead normal lives for the rest of the time they draw air on this planet. They are victims of an uncountable number of safety checks that went unchecked. They will never know a life without a base level of horrible trauma they would never choose for themselves (for that matter, trauma you would never choose for yourself). They grow up to be mothers, just like your own. Did you ever think about that? That your mother was once a little girl? Do you want to see her violated by someone? Someone who is recording the pain of that little girl such that someone much like yourself could watch it at their disposal, to rape your little girl mother with their eyes over and over again? Is this what you think life is about? Base satisfaction? To bend to whatever horrific designs your mind has come up with? And I say horrific knowing, from experience, that a human mind is capable of such indefinable atrocities upon the person in said mind’s body, and it’s terrifyingly hard to escape.

What do you want from life? How many times do you wish that that Google search had not brought you somewhere horrible? How many times did you wish these urges would stop? How many times have you wished that you were dead? How many more times before you do something about this? How many before you seek help? Try to fix this so that no one else gets hurt? How many times, bud? How many times do you wish you were someone else?

This doesn’t have to be you. This isn’t forever. Right now, you can stop. You can put your hand back on the steering wheel, the wheel that’s been in front of you the whole time, and you can course correct. And you and I both know there will never be enough of this to satisfy you anyway. Because it’s not this that you want. What you want is to be loved. And you believe that you cannot be loved if you crave this. Or you cannot be loved because of what happened to you. Or that you cannot be loved because of what you have done. Or for any number of other reasons, some of which I’m sure aren’t your fault. But you don’t get to decide that. The world does. Hell, it only takes one person to prove that you are worthy of love. But if you keep going down this path, it will only get worse.

The deal is that it doesn’t have to be like this. You can change. You can be the person that you always wanted to be and you don’t have to be the person that you think you have to be or are. Every day is a new day to turn shit around. Put this down. Go outside. Talk to someone you trust. Try to find the voice within you that says you’ve had enough. Stop. Stop all of this. I know it’s hard. But doing hard things is what living is about. Fight.

I know that when you searched for what you searched for, Google offered you helpful resources. Take them. But if you are afraid or embarrassed or filled with shame or whatever, reach out to me. We can find a way out. Together.

I hope all is well on your end. Please don’t come back here again unless you need help or are looking for literary criticism. But if you are looking for something different than what you googled, please let me know.

ORIGINAL CRITIQUE TO FOLLOW:

Dear TNY,

So I’m writing this first paragraph after reading the first paragraph of your published version of “Young Girls” (the italicized one).  And what I have determined is this is a boldfaced reader-grab by publishing our dead-boy, Proust.  This shit is literally fucking notes.  NOTES!  Fucking Proust’s toilet paper is what you worship!  He’d fucking shit a brick if he knew.  I say again, NOTES!  Pathetic.  Okay, now I’ll read them there notes…

Nah, I can’t.  I made it ¾ of the way through and gave up.  What the fuck is this shit?  It’s just as bad as the Hemingway and/or Kafka from last year.  You’re fucking Burger King.  Fucking Panda Express.  Pier One.  Fucking Baby Gap. 

You know, on that point, you wouldn’t know literature if it put its Pier One in your Baby Gap.

I’m done.  You can resume your regularly scheduled destruction-of-literature program, in which you embarrass yourself week after week.  Take-serious-note:  The guy that said that last sentence also said the Baby Gap sentence, and has the right to be less embarrassed than you do.

On the reals, I don’t normally skim this many stories. Nor do I write such short responses. You know this. This fiction issue is a dream I won’t remember after waking because my subconscious determined it was a fucking misfired jelly fart. An aborted wet dream because it involved relatives. A waste of neurons firing. That’s it. That’s what I meant to say! Your three stories were a waste of neurons firing for all parties. You’ve wasted life energy for everyone involved. Winning!

I’ll see you later this week in person.  Just kidding.  I know you wouldn’t make time for negative criticism and/or a constructive conversation and/or any narrative outside your picture perfect reflection.  That would be way outside your echo chamber and possibly diminish your very well earned, established, and bolstered ego.

Fuck off and keep preening away.

Nick