There are the real stories
and then there are all the fake ones.
Fake ones buried under fake ones.
An unbelievable amount of fake stories.

Fake stories come from anywhere.
They come, because you want to feel you’re someone different.
Like you’re someone who’s stood up under harsh pain
And come out smiling, with that sad look in your eyes.

They come because people, adults, tell them to you
And they don’t tell you they’re made up –
They tell you they’re real
And, unlike fat men crawling down our ten-inch-diameter chimney,
These stories actually sound believable.

For example, American Girl reserved told me the story of my life:

“You will  have uncontrollable feelings,
Swirling around like a hurricane.
You won’t have any idea what to feel.
But that’s okay.
Just remember, it’s not your fault.”

Feelings are always like hurricanes.
That’s their favorite line.
It’s a juicy, fun, fake story
That I can tell everyone
So they can see the person I want them to see.
Real matters for nothing.

There are real stories though…
There are the real-er stories,
The real-est stories
Sometimes they come out,
And hit you
In the deepest places you can feel
And you never forget them
As long as you live.
These are the real stories,
And they suck.

They tell about how
Sometimes all your best friends in the world
Can leave you out in the cold.
About how sometimes people tell you you’re pretty
And you can’t force yourself to believe them.
About how you can feel yourself to be the lowest,
Weakest, most disgusting dog ever born.

No one wants to hear those stories.
No one wants to tell them.
So maybe that’s where the fake stories come from,
Come pouring out of this hole
That should have been filled with real—
But good real, not bad real.

My real stories are there, yes,
But there’s no passion left in them.
There’s not even any pain.
And what’s a story without passion or pain?

Here’s the real story, in brief, I guess:
I never had those feelings.
The only hurricane I’ve ever felt
Was Hurricane Floyd,
That knocked a tree across our driveway.
Whatever feelings I had, I controlled them pretty well.

I didn’t think it was my fault.

I never needed those swirly pre-teen help books
To tell me everything was going to be okay.
I don’t know what that says about me.
And I don’t care.

I don’t care about any of my real stories.
Hence the fake ones.

But sometimes you just get tired of thinking the fake stories
Real seems great – real is understandable –
Real seldom changes.
But then, when you want real the most,
This is the moment when you realize
How little real there is here
And how much fake.