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Mitchell Waldman Figment

I am a stereotype fighting against myself. Am I real or just a figment of some writer’s imagination? I’m an artist, with all the characteristics of the two-dimensional typecasting of an artist you might imagine – I like to drink, do a few drugs, don’t like responsibility or money. I don’t wear a beret, I’ll give you that. But who does that anymore? Like a child I walk through life, my needs seeming greater than anyone else’s, walking around saying, “It’s all for my art.” (Taking my daddy’s trust fund money all along, but pretending I’m broke). When you’re an artist you think you can get away with things just because you are an artist. And what does that mean? That you’re fitting yourself into the stereotype of your own making? It’s like I don’t want to do the work, just want to live the lifestyle. So, am I real, or am I not? Am I

some two-dimensional caricature of myself? Or what I pretend to be? Or am I just some made up character portrayed in words by the fat fingers of some sloppy anonymous writer? If I don’t exist, tell the writer – I need some unique characteristics, background: INSERT HERE. Dirt under my fingernails. Maybe an accident, like in third grade when I fell off the slide, broke my leg in two places. Sitting around in bed in a cast in the middle of the summer, flies buzzing around the room and my leg, my little sister, Dani, driving me crazy, “Play this with me, play that.” Or the time I fell out of the tree house (that would be a good one). The time my “Uncle” Bill wanted me to show him my “thing.” (Better yet. Pain builds character. That’s what a character needs). The trust fund angle, though. That

Crack the Spine - Issue 154  

Literary Magazine

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