A: I’ve decided to start doing my vomits in the form of dialogues.

B: Why?

A: Lately I’ve been feeling a little stifled and limited by the monologue format. It’s just me talking over and over again, and some things seem harder to explain just by talking out loud.

B: How does a dialogue change anything?

A: I feel like it’s going to make a difference, like it’s going to allow me to explore things without necessarily taking sides. There’s something about the monologue format that makes it harder to do certain thought experiments. For example, suppose I said something like, “I think people are disgusting.”

B: Uhuh.

A: Somehow it feels worse if I’m saying it as some sort of confessional– because I don’t actually think people are disgusting all the time. Actually, I don’t know what I think. I think that’s the problem– I think it’s hard to express doubt, uncertainty and such in a monlogue without coming across as really… navel-gazy.

B: How’s this any different?

A: I feel like it’s easier to process. I feel like it’s easier to breathe. It’s easier to make sense of things by going back and forth over them, rather than simply by sitting on them and meditating endlessly.

B: Really?

A: Maybe, maybe not. In any case, the whole point of these vomits is for me to express myself and to write as much as I possibly can. And I feel like I’ve gone through a bunch of the same old ideas over and over again, and I’d like to cover more territory. And somehow I feel like I’m not comfortable covering certain territories because… writing in the first person feels like some sort of admission or confession. And I don’t really want to admit or confess to anything, I just want to explore ideas!

B: So you’re saying that somehow, by writing your perversions into some sort of fictional dialogue, you’re not a pervert– your characters are.

A: Yes! Well– yes. I worry about what people will think of me.

B: Why?

A: You know. Respectability and stuff. I still have bills to pay. I still have friends and family to worry about. I don’t want to embarrass everybody by writing about twisted, depraved shit. I wonder how Louis CK and George Carlin do it.

B: Well I suppose there’s some sort of theatrics to it. They’re rock stars. A rock star is the intersection of who you are and who you want to be. There’s a certain plausible deniability built into the fact that they’re performing, they’re performers. They can pour their hearts and souls out on stage and then maintain a calm facade afterwards, as you have a conversation with them, and they’ll tell you that it was an act.

A: Right. But the fact remains that the act was so powerful and profound because they were extremely honest in it. They were telling you what they really felt. George Carlin wouldn’t say “Why is it that people at abortion rallies are people you wouldn’t wanna fuck in the first place?” at a polite dinner conversation with his relatives, but he can say it on stage as a comedian. Does he really have those thoughts? Of course he does. Same for Chris Rock. “They spinni’ n***a, they spinn’!”

B: We all wear different masks in different roles. You’re just tired of your current mask and you’d like to wear a different one.

A: Yeah.

B: You’re aware though, right, that there is no “true reality” underneath all the masks? There is nothing apart from the masks. We’re wearing masks even in this conversation.

A: Sure. I think I’ve made my peace with that. I’m just really edgy and bored and feel like there are all these fuck-yous I want to say to the world– but maybe that’s just me being imprecise, me not knowing how to express myself. Maybe instead of yelling at people or getting angry and frustrated, I should just write it into stories. I should write about people who have horrible things happening to them. I should reveal how circusy the world is by writing about it. And if people aren’t going to listen to me when I go on an extended monologue, maybe I could turn it into a story.

B: That makes sense. A couple of things are coming to my mind. One is Obama’s interview with Vox. You saw how well-composed he was during that one, and how he spoke with a quiet thoughtfulness. It’s interesting to contrast that with when he was giving his hope-and-change rallies, and when he was informing the world that Osama bin Laden had been killed. And when he’s singing Al Green, and when he’s at the White House Correspondent’s dinner. All of these sides of him are all equally valid, equally true, and yet they’re so different.

A: Yeah. I want to be able to code-switch. It’s not that I’m embarrassed about my “native tongue” or my native mode of being, but I feel like I can’t even tell who I am without trying on something different, you know? Maybe that’s why men sometimes wear women’s underwear.

B: I thought they wear it because it’s so soft and satin-y.

A: Isn’t it too tight though?

B: Beats me.

A: See, now are the people reading this going to think that I’ve worn women’s underwear, or that I’m thinking about wearing women’s underwear?

B: That probably depends on whether they’ve worn or thought about wearing women’s underwear themselves. Or if they’re women, whether they’ve had partners who want to wear their underwear. Or it depends on what they’ve read.

A: But see, I don’t wear women’s underwear. I just think it’s INTERESTING to think about the people who wear women’s underwear, and to explore that idea. And for the record, I don’t think it should be embarrassing to wear whatever the fuck you like. I don’t judge anybody for whatever they wear, or whatever kinky thoughts they might have. I wish we lived in a world where we could all just share our kinky thoughts and not be judged for it.

B: Sure, you do you, dude. Why do you feel a need to point out that you don’t wear women’s underwear, though?

A: Because I guess I’m still nervous and scared that people will think of me weirdly.

B: It doesn’t matter if they do, though.

A: That… is true.

B: So do you wear women’s underwear?

A: Nah.