I have no idea what to write about this week, you guys. I’m sorry. But rather than give you nothing, I’m going to produce a little shitty something for you. Perhaps by the end of it, you’ll have discovered that sometimes nothing is better than something. By the end, you may wish to unsubscribe (full disclosure: my mother doesn’t even subscribe, citing that I’ll send too many emails). You may wish to unfriend me on all social media. You may even wish to unfriend me in real life because I’m that bad of a writer. Or maybe you’ll be inspired to raise money to send me to accountanting school because, clearly, I should deal with numbers and not words. 

Perhaps I will create the world’s worst piece of writing. Maybe this post will go viral for how incredibly, mind-numbingly, excruciatingly bad it is. Wouldn’t that be kind of wild? What if this post got some traction for being the most garbagy garbage that was ever put down in words or symbols? This post will spread like wildfire in the blogosphere for being so horrific. Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy Fallon, and Jimmy Buffett (all the Jimmies) would talk about this post on their platforms. The late-night pundits would make jokes like, “Have you seen the blog post? I don’t even need to mention which one because this thing is famous. This guy, what’s his name, Fat? Fat Does Words? So, Fat wrote this post that’s gone viral. People are calling it the worst 1,550 words to come from a human. Can you imagine? Clearly, they’ve never heard my drunk Uncle Carl say 1,550 words at Thanksgiving!” The audience would roll with laughter. 

There would be so much talk about this terrible post that Buzzfeed would compile all the hilarious memes about it. There’d be a cat meme (there’s always a cat meme) with a cat sitting at a computer and suddenly falling head-first toward the floor. The caption would say, “When Fluffy finishes reading The Post.” There’d be another meme with a large gentleman without a shirt running into oncoming traffic and underneath it would say, “When someone asks you to read The Post.” 

Eventually, 60 Minutes would do a full exposé on this post. Lesley Stahl would present the history of Pat Does Words. She’d delve deep into my upbringing, interviewing my mom and childhood friends. She’d drum up old pieces of writing and try to trace the exact lineage of my inability to write. It wouldn’t be a total downer, though. I’d sit with Lesley and try to explain what happened. What, exactly, went so wrong? I started off as a promising young (ish) blogger whose previous posts were full of complex and thought-provoking sentences with syntax that occasionally made sense. At one point, Lesley would look me in the eye and ask, “So what’s next for you? How do you rebuild your life after this post?” Professional empathy would radiate out of her and I would break down. Tears would pour out of me. Rendered speechless, I would simply weep and say, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” 

Books would come out about how terrible this post is and none of them would be written by me. New York publishers would wine and dine me to get my official stamp of approval for these damning books. Everyone from journalists to novelists to essayists to comic book writers would clamber to get my story. Stephen King would use my story as inspiration for his next novel. It would be entitled The Worst Post. It would follow the mysterious tale of a blog post that was so bad it brought tragedy to all who read it, similar to The Ring. He’d follow several innocent people, people who wanted nothing to do with the blog in the first place, and describe their gruesome, mysterious deaths upon reading it. With undertones of a government cover-up, King would dive into the psychology of reading a terrible piece of writing. What, exactly, happens to the mind and soul of a reader who has such awful words in front of them? By the end of the novel, we’d understand that the evil isn’t in the post but in our own hearts. King points a finger at us, to say that as a people WE are the evil that created The Post. Many would laude this as King’s finest work to date. 

Hollywood would, of course, be fighting over the rights to my story. Ron Howard, Scorsese, and even Spike Lee, would battle it out viciously to be able to make the movie version. Howard would fly me out to L.A. and take me to Maestro’s in Beverly Hills. We’d laugh over Wagyu New York Strip steaks and a full-bodied Rioja with soft tannins. I’d pick his brain about movies and he’d realize I don’t know anything about movies. He’d slowly grasp that my lack of worldly knowledge explains my terrible writing. The next weekend Lee would fly me up to New York to impress me on his new film set. It would take place in Brooklyn. He’d take a more casual approach to wooing me. We’d sit in his trailer that is bigger than my apartment and he’d ask about what growing up in St. Louis in the 90’s was like. I’d feel really intimidated around him because he’s maybe the coolest human ever, but his relaxed vibe and curiosity would set me at ease. The flashiest would be Scorsese who’d fly me to Capri for a few days. He’d be producing a new Leonardo DiCaprio movie about the post-WWI mafia in Italy. I’d get to hang with him and Leo and the crew. We wouldn’t even talk about this post until my last few hours in town. His approach would be super slick and very Scorsese-esque. 

In a totally baller move, I’d give my blessing over some unheard-of underground indie filmmaker who’s been making unseen movies for years but has been hustling on the film fest circuit. Because everyone knows the post, we’d be able to get enough funding and Zac Efron would sign on to play me (don’t laugh). The movie would go on to be nominated for every major award. It would win the Independent Spirit Award and would sweep all the film festivals. However, because Hollywood works the way it does, it would lose out on the Oscar (except for sound editing) to a movie about a quadruple amputee (played by Sterling K. Brown) who starts his own school for girls in Calcutta. 

My life would be relatively unchanged once the movie buzz settled down. I’d be rich though. My money would come from the film, speaking gigs, and public appearances. My travel schedule would be brutal, but I’d do my best not to complain because, hello, I have a brand-new career all because I wrote a terrible blog post! I would pay off the little bit of debt I have (oops) and get a new car. I’d be tempted to go for a Mercedes but opt for a Tesla even though technology scares me. It seems like the more eco-friendly choice anyway.

The housing situation would be a difficult decision. My heart would want an older home in Inman Park that’s been renovated and has a big yard, but logic tells me that’s too much house for a single person (which I may be forever and ever amen). I’d be tempted by a penthouse in Midtown but determine it’s just too flashy. I’d be attracted to its proximity to Piedmont Park, but traffic would be a nightmare. I’d eventually opt for a loft in Castleberry Hill. It’s spacious and perfect for a single man (which I may be forever and ever amen) but definitely has a grown-up feel to it. I would also seriously consider getting a second home. Possibly a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights or an apartment in SoHo. It’d be nice to have a place New York, just as an option. My sister could stay there if she wanted. But I’d also consider getting buying a Victorian on Benton Place in Lafayette Square, St. Louis, in lieu of the Inman Park home. The options for a second home would be too overwhelming, so I’d shelve the idea for a while.  

One night I’d come home from a charity gala. It would be a benefit for at-risk queer youth. All of Atlanta’s gay wealthy would be in attendance. There’d be a band, eveningwear, some drag queens, and lots of champagne. My feet would ache from the dancing and I’d have to kick them off the second I walked in the loft. I’d get into some jammies and make a little nighttime tea, probably lemon-chamomile. With my tea, I’d curl up into my favorite reading chair by the window. My view would consist of an extraordinary downtown skyline lit up against a dark night. I’d gaze out that window and think about all the things in my life: the gala, the eveningwear, the Tesla, Scorsese, 60 Minutes, even the memes and I’d smile at the enormity of it all and their simple origins. One small blog post consisting of 1,550 of the worst words ever written led to such a remarkable adventure and astonishing life.