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Volume 10

From Pulp To Postmodern: A Tribute - July 2012


Written by
Fyza Parviz

Bohemian bibliophile who writes software by day and by night reads grotesque deranged modernist prose with intellectual and spiritual depth. She likes to lead a question driven life.


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Last Year of Facebooking


A tribute to Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America.



It wasn’t love but complete utter madness.

You were a man of confounded words, long hair, endless cigarettes, skillful charms, and illogical dreams.

When did I first hear about you? It must have been on the anti-creationist Facebook page where you were bashing every dogmatic belief. The heartache you caused me helped me lose ten pounds. The skinny pants I bought a while back fit me well now.

I lay down on the grass thinking about what I had been through and how it all didn’t make any sense. Experiencing pain is an important part of life, but what about nonsensical pain? Is it worth the investigation? How can I shrug it off?

Being sad is understandable. I too am sad, but you know, I don’t cry anymore. Not sure, if it’s a good or bad thing.

Lately, my love for you had not been coming from the heart. I forced myself to see you in that way. That’s why you felt awkward when I talked to you. It’s just not the same anymore. You know that very well. Forcing oneself to feel for another person in a certain manner only makes things complicated and undesirable.

In the end you said it was hardly a matter of heart anymore, clearly the brain had taken over.

You wanted to do a screen share to make sure all your pictures were erased from my computer. I didn’t understand why everything had to be so dramatic with you. Then you told me you liked my hands and feet. I made a strange face and you asked me why I didn’t like people falling for my feet and hands? And I said I would rather have them fall for my heart. You said I had lovely hands nonetheless.

I became tired from repairing you. Your Facebook page became a stranger to me. And then you told me that you slept with another woman, because you loved her crack whore spirit.


I fell in love with your Facebook profile. I listened to Beethoven the whole night after discovering you online. Your profile spoke to me in a way no physical interaction ever did. You had a fake name, a fake picture, and a fake address. Which is what I considered perfection. This is exactly how I wanted things to be.

That one night in late December you sent me a message that sucked the air around me and I was immediately yours. You asked me the counting formula.  You needed it to count all the starts in the sky. On the same night, you told me about your eight hundred books. I knew I was in love, but I hid my feelings from you for precisely nine days. Mainly because nine is my favorite number.

Later, I got to know that your name was Facebook and your profession was analyzing profiles day in and day out. You said you loved your job as it matched your name. You liked to match things. It gave you immense pleasure. You also had grand skills in judging people. You had no friends; no one was ever good enough. You actually did not even believe in the concept of friendship. But in a strange way you understood me. You said you knew who I was and who I wanted to be. But even though you liked me, you said we couldn’t be together yet. You were still in love with your imaginary girlfriend. I asked you to send me a photograph of yourself and you sent me a picture of your hand holding a book. I fell in love with your hand.

Your image in my head, forever, is of that hand.


We picked Hotel Facebook to meet for the first time. The hotel is located at the edge of a cliff off of the information highway. I took Hesperian Boulevard to 92 East. From there, I took the 280 South exit. I noticed the ramp was closed. Then I took Hesperian Boulevard to 92 East. I got onto the 280 South exit. The ramp was closed again. I tried to take a detour but it took me to the same exit. My mental GPS went insane.

I threw the receiver out of my head and finally found some peace.


I wrote you my first love note. I think it was more about me than you. I do not remember what I wrote. I wrapped the note in Facebook and flew it like a kite. You noticed the kite and wrote back immediately. You said you liked papyrus.


I decided to go down the local diner and have some Facebook for breakfast. My hunger led me to consume a lot more profiles than I preferred.

I felt like making cookies again. I grabbed a bunch of those Italian chocolate bars they have at Cafe Twitter and sliced them up to make chocolate chips. I tossed a few saffron threads in the mix for fragrance.


Reality turned out to be very different from the world in my head. You did not chew your food slowly, own a night robe, or play polo. These things were very important to me, so I could not accept you as you were. I started drinking a lot of champagne.


A bitter tiny cup of espresso that smells like pea berry. The aroma is intoxicating. I am forced to enjoy this cup as it is supposed to be the best. Water through the primordial ooze of seven acidic continents. Ocean liners drawing leaf patterns in the foam of international waters. My eyes are struggling to focus.

A million little jealous atoms are grown inside me in the shade of grey. And so I decide to weep instead. I will weep my guts, brains, tear ducts, and organs. Some of my guts fall into my espresso. These beans are from Costa Rica. The best beans grow in volcanic conditions. Can the beans grow inside me? Am I volcanic? How are these beans affecting me? GIVE ME MORE ESPRESSO. Everything happens for the better.


“So nothing surprises you,” they ask. “No,” I say. “Everything that will happen to you has already happened to you?” “Yes.”

We cannot be careless here.

“You knew your future from the time you were born,” they ask. “I just enjoy having long complicated conversations,” I reply. “We see you walking around the hallway. Do you think to yourself when you walk?” “No, I already told you I have conversations.”

It is a serious venue where people work hard and get paid. You need to be focused and get your work done.

“With whom?”

“With you”

“About what?”

“About everything”

Facebook is not a place to come to fall in love.

“Has this conversation already happened in your head?” they ask. “Yes,” I say.

“This aint no party, this aint no disco…”


I have been hiding from misery, but it somehow always finds me. The other day I kept on driving and hitting a dead end. It was the same dead end over and over. Then unconsciously I found my way out. I was so proud of myself. It does sound silly, but it felt cathartic.

My darkest fears started coming true. I have always tried to love truly and do the right thing; still I am always the one who gets hurt. Maybe I am too self-centered to see other people’s pain.


Every time I see a notification alert, I think it is you and my heart sinks.

Time does not pass so I post random status messages about my mental health to get your attention.

I think you do not want to talk to me anymore. I keep a key in my jacket’s pocket and press it hard between my fingers. This calms my heart.

I looked up at the sky that night and all I could see were hearts breaking.

Reading Wuthering Heights seemed appropriate for the situation.

Then you told me you found someone new. Someone you did not love which according to you makes the relationship a lot easier. You said there was too much love between us, which tore us apart. I couldn’t figure out your obscure reasoning so I told you to get shock therapy. You didn’t talk to me for a week.

You tried to kill yourself. I knew you were doing that just to get attention and procrastinate from the tasks you had to finish.

I woke up that morning with a strange feeling in my heart. Knew something bad was about to happen.

I dread break up emails from you.

You told me to fix you and I told you I did not have the time or the energy. Then you told me to go find someone new which hurt even more.

I am scared of loss. Scared to lose someone I have become attached to.

Please talk to me. Please…!



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