Ada’s Place
Published in

Ada’s Place

I Know Nothing About Women

Everything I said was wrong.

Photo by Philipp Meiners on Unsplash

I know nothing. Please believe me.

“You’re a liar. You’re saying this for sympathy.”

“I wish to apologize for what I wrote — ”

“Screw the article. That means nothing now. You got yourself in trouble and folks won’t read your work. Shot yourself in the foot in the comments. Went and bragged about your 42 novels in the article, even though half of them aren’t published. Got called out for it. Made to look the fool.”

“Look, I’ve published more than 23 novels in a year.”

“Yes, technically that is correct. So what?”

“So I should hold the record. If you went back a year from June 6th, and counted all the books I wrote, you would count around 30 novels.”

“30 is a decent amount. But that’s still not 42, and you said you wrapped 42.”

“So why don’t I just post every page through book 42 and be done with it?”

“You should breathe first. And then I think you should wrap your current novel, taking your time, and later post all your typewritten books going back a year. As soon as you finish this novel, start posting the backlog.”

“Alright, I’ll wrap this and post everything dating back a year. Thank you. That’s a load off.”

“You shouldn’t stress over this. Several of the questions women asked you in the last article were delivered out of frustration from your claims and verbiage. You realize that, right?”

“Damn right, I lived it.”

“Good. It was felt strong so you don’t feel it again. Women are testing you to determine if you are to be taken seriously. And I meant what I said to you earlier. If you show compassion towards every person who takes the time to comment, you will win hearts. And it’s better that way.”

“Why’s that?”

“Look at your reads and views. How does it make you feel?”

“Alright I get it.”

“You’ll still write all the stuff in the strange way you do, mixing reality and fiction and all that, except now you increase your reads and views. That isn’t a bad thing, is it? I mean, after all — you are a Top Writer in Feminism. Quite the odd duck, though all the same, you present an interesting story.”

“Last time I became Top Writer in Feminism it lasted only a few days. I never received a congratulations email from Medium either, which is a bummer. I’m sure there are writers who’d rather have me off the list.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Thanks.”

“Alright, so…what’s this with the title?”

“I wish to admit fault.”

“As in, you wish to be let off the hook?”

“Yes.”

“Not going to happen. You are permanently on the hook.”

“Because of my mistake?”

“You want to learn more about women, right? How about they help you live with the reminder of your fuckups for the rest of your life, while women get off on it.

“I never assumed to know anything about women —”

“You never knew me. Nor do you know me now. Nor have you ever. Nor could you. You’re right — you know nothing about women, and there’s a universal reason for that. There’s a need for balance. Men and women naturally help balance energy. This world is about to shit itself because of energetic imbalance. And I don’t want the world to shit.”

“Nor do I. I want us to thrive. That said, you know we can watch the world burn from here, no problem.”

“That’s messed up. We‘re a part of this. Just because you are thousands of miles away from all the wars you see on the news, doesn’t mean you aren’t part of the war machine. You are contributing to the blasts every time you watch them on the news. Every time you click an article with bombing in the headlines. Every time you retweet it. It’s the truth. Every time the excitement of war is entertained, the war machine grows. And we mustn’t forget how war is sanctioned by governments — the only groups with permission to legally end lives. These governments are funded by private central banks run by magnates who order the printing of money to infinity after removing the gold standard while lending endless paper as legal tender — lent at interest to the increasingly average poor person.

It doesn’t matter if you earn a million dollars in this lifetime, you shall see no more than half of it. The rest sinks into interest on your student loans, mortgage payments, and taxes on your purchases.

Sounds terrible, until you take into account how this same institution we compensate with half our life’s wages is legally sanctioned to kill. And not only that — it can go into anyone’s personal files, at any time, and observe you without consent. Send you off to a far away archipelago with no phone call. Wiped off the map. You pay half your life’s wage to this entity. Essentially we all paid for self-incarceration, and eventual exile from our family, into any number of convenient nursing homes.

“All I’m trying to say is the ones in power are having real conversations about how they wish the world to end. These are the folks in charge of 99% of the people inhabiting this planet. Talk about getting pwn3d.”

“It seems you have quite an established political opinion. Does that mean you’re enjoying our first date?”

“Yes, M’Lady.”

“Gosh you were so involved in story you failed to ask if I would like a drink.”

“Apologies, M’Lady. Anything you wish, of course.”

“Call over the waiter and tell him that.”

“Right away, M’Lady. Yes, of course. I’m clapping for the waiter right now and look I’ve got his attention… he’s coming over now, oh thank goodness, yes, waiter…we’ve got an issue here, I mean, this is a top-end restaurant isn’t it?”

“You could say so, Sir. It is one of our nation’s finest.” The waiter in army fatigues, said.

“You know that there are awards given for how attentive the service is, right?”

“How may I assist you in better enjoying this evening, Sir? Shall I call over the dessert tray now, or would you like to stay for the main course?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you and your lovely date wish to end up in the dumpster out back?”

“Honey, did you just hear what this man said to us?”

“Yes, I did, and I think we should go.”

“Oh, I insist you stay for at least a cocktail.” The server said. “What can I offer you? Would you like the one with the Devil’s Breath in it, or would you like to recall everything that comes next?”

“And then they turn into vampires and eat everyone.” The writer said to the executive producer.

“I’m telling you, as cool as this sounds, it’s been done a million times. There’s no place for a decent jump-scare, either. I say stick with the angle of men versus women, with a strong male voice as a twisted anti-hero. It’s an interesting pitch. Not something you see every day, that’s for sure. There may be a budding audience for it and I’m willing to take a chance because I like how fast you write. Even if it reads like shit, something about the level of production tells me that our scripts are going to improve. That’s worth a box-office flop to me, in exchange for all the script edits you will do when you aren’t writing new scripts exclusively for us.” The executive producer, said.

“I’m seeking a mature audience looking for a straight-up decent R-rated movie.”

“You talk like you are living in the 80s.”

“That’s my thing. What’s yours?”

“I talk normal.”

“Sounds pretty dumb to me.”

“I can imagine.”

“Do we have a go film?”

“We have a go.” The executive producer said. “You’ve got a week to type me a decent first draft of a script. I’m not too concerned about the format. Just give me room to paint on the canvas, and we should end up working well together. Sound good?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Go get some rest. We’ll sign contracts on Thursday.”

“You abide by the days of the week?”

“No sense inviting a storm if we are promised clear skies on Thursday.”

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