Aaron M. Fortkamp

It’s been brought to my attention twice in the past week or so that instead of talking to people to find out about them I make up their stories for myself. I prejudge. I’m prejudiced. Which is fine, I’ve accepted that about myself, I’d rather stare at the floor in other people’s company than risk however brief a conversation. But in lieu of feeling guilty about my snap judgments I prefer to believe that everyone who looks at me does the same thing. They write my story for themselves, as I do for them. I consider it their right, perhaps even their duty.

But in case you are not doing this about me, or if your powers of perception are not up to the task, or if, god help you, you’ve been waiting for me to spell it all out for you through casual chit-chat, let me at least lay out here a few of what I consider the basic facts of who I am. If you’ve ever spent ten seconds in the same room as me and/or made direct eye contact with me for any duration, you really ought to know by now. But, again. Just for the record:

I consider rabbits to be god’s perfect design. They are ideally equipped to detect and respond to danger, and so when they are happy, it is a secure happiness. Their joy is a perfect joy.

I have long believed I will lose a leg in my life, below the knee, although left or right I am uncertain. Probably not diabetes or anything, though I am American. More likely car accident, or frost bite.

Once again, I do not like to talk. Language that cannot be erased or edited is next to meaningless, to me. That’s like saying the game should be decided on the first shot.

I walk in long deliberate steps with my hands in my coat pockets, which ought to tell you that when I was about six years old, on the sidewalk outside of Kmart, my sister told me I walked like a girl and my other sister confirmed the accusation. Swinging my arms and such.

Horses to me are the scariest animals on the planet. Yes, their size, yes the fact that they are known to mistake thumbs for carrots and snip them off at the knuckle, but more because when I look them in the eye I see outright subjugation, a lack of a will to live for themselves. Breathing machinery. Soulless beasts. I can’t read them. I get more from elephants, from crocodilians, from some specific trees I’ve gotten to know over time.

I have a numb spot on my right thigh, skin deep, about the diameter of a grapefruit.

Even more than wishing I could freestyle rap, I would die happy if I had nothing but the ability to reproduce any face on a sheet of blank paper with a number 2 graphite.

I’m a Libra. Really, do I even have to say that one? But that’s the point, I guess. Let it be known. I’m a Libra.

I used to excuse not being a vegetarian by saying I would eat human, too, if they served it anywhere. Why should I give pass to a bovine if I’d eat a Brian? But really I’ve never gone vegetarian because long ago I accepted the murder and consumption of weaker-minded animals as an unfortunate but necessary part of my humanity. Or not accepted. Acknowledged. Blood doesn’t bother me, in that I acknowledge that blood bothers me. If I were trapped in a chicken coop and hungry I would have no problem snapping necks. And if our plane wrecked in the Andes and we were drawing straws as to who would have to kill off the weakest so the rest of us frigid starving may live, I would volunteer my services to start slashing throats. It was one of the earliest of my recognitions of the failings of humanity. We are killers. We are overconsumers of energy. It is how we are built, how we have come to thrive, and how we will perish.

I would be more than willing to get a ridiculous tattoo, something outright stupid or vulgar, but I have yet to come up with one funny enough to merit its permanence.

I’m pretty convinced I’d be a wicked piano player right now if I’d started when I was about four. That was the peak of my developmental prowess. I was a right stem cell, at four. Could’ve done anything.

My favorite Ninja Turtle was Donatello, even though he had the dumbest weapon, because I’ve always valued intelligence above most any other character trait. Plus his color was purple.

I do believe pineapple, ham, and pepperoni to be the ultimate combination of pizza toppings, but sometimes, most times, I can’t convince myself to order such a rich feast, as though I don’t deserve it, haven’t earned it, and so I stick with the one-topping black olive pizza I was raised on.

I am ashamed to be an American and have been since 2003 when we went to war for oil, and the peak of this shame just occurred this November. Though I try to surround myself with good people, I now believe that a good person in America is more the aberration than the rule. I do not believe in the inherent stupidity of the Trump voter. I do not think their biased Facebook feeds did as much to cloud the man’s true character from being known to their eyes as it did give them the words to defend their shitty decision. And it was a shitty, self-destructive, damning decision. I believe that on balance they decided themselves crafty enough to come out ahead, to benefit, to dodge the inevitable pitfalls and profit under this man’s inept, criminal, abusive leadership. And by profit I mean literally profit, whether it be a tax break or an easement of a regulation or more beneficial trade regulations with China resulting in cheaper iPhones or a slightly higher-paying job. The expectations were so low in this election, I bet fifty dollars would’ve been enough, I’m thinking that’s about the figure that the average voter expected to be able to siphon from the system more than their current situation, convincing themselves that Hillary would’ve raised taxes by the thousands and god knows how she would’ve gone on to wreck the health care system and spike my premiums, but aside from the Fox News excuses, I would bet my soul that if the average Trump voter comes out fifty dollars ahead come end of the year 2017, they would vote for him again and be proud of themselves for it. And here’s the kicker: on the surface, it may appear for a while that things will actually be better than they have been. We might hear statistics come mid-year next year that suggest as much. In fact I predict we will. There will be numbers released that specifically contradict all the justifiable and mortal fears that I have about this four-year term. I predict that the nationwide numbers of rapes and sexual assaults will go down, that the number of police-involved shootings will go down, that the mass shootings will go down. Everything except the scientific community, who will be screaming bloody murder, will appear to have seen significant improvements over the sour-milk enema that 2016 has been in most respects. Because white cops will not be as afraid in 2017, they won’t be as quick on the trigger. Because women will not expect to be believed, they will not report. Because the crazed right-wing media will be shit-grinning on the daily that all is well, everything’s peaches, the emotionally unstable potential shooters will be less prone to snap. In fact, all of the main-stream media, tired of getting scooped by the internet, will work even harder to push the most outrageous, controversial, unbelievable, unsettling stories to the fringe, and they will gleefully accept the properly prepared press releases from the Trump administration, just so they don’t have to ask their anchors to again come up with an acceptable euphemism for pussy. Everyone needs a break, and we will find it no matter what we have to swallow. The power dynamics will swing back away from the median, the dominant will dominate harder and the subjugated will be even more subjected and everyone will just deal with it for a while. Equality can suck it. I don’t need you to be happy for me to be happy. I’ve got my fifty bones, I’ve got mine, and it ain’t my fault if you can’t get yours. And when the full scope of this decision we’ve collectively made is gradually revealed over the next ten twenty thirty years, we will still say it quietly, proudly but quietly: I got mine. That’s all you can expect of anyone. I got mine and I don’t regret it.

Bananas are going extinct and I’m fine with it.