This was a writing exercise of sorts. I wanted to write a piece that existed, completely and totally and humorously, in the absurd.
A Man of Insurmountable Genius Humbly Decides to Interview Himself
I’m anxious—I’m going to be walking in here all dressed up and spiffy and exuding greatness. I’ve never met a man as wonderful as myself: it’s a nerve-wracking occasion. A man of such great stature as me rarely makes appearances and allows for conversation between humble writers like me. I’m prepared to learn much from this great intellect.
The door opens and I stride in looking lavish and full of genius. I sit down and regard myself with a curt nod. I stare agape at myself—I’m one smartly-dressed genius. It takes a great amount of restraint and humility to sit down and interview myself, I tell myself.
Me: “Thank you for coming out today.”
Myself: “No problem. I’ve always wanted to meet me.”
I’m giddy. I’ve always wanted to meet me—I can’t believe I just said that. I wasn’t expecting that.
To my next question:
“What led you to produce your work? Your novels are rich, powerful—full of pathos. How do you do it?’
Myself: “I just write, man.”
Wow. Such beauty in the brevity of it. The rest of the interview continues without a hitch. Brilliance ebbs and flows like the tides.
What an interesting genius I am. A true meeting of great intellects just rocked the universe.
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