The Loomings Identity Crisis

Shiftless Pseudo-Plagiarism by Victor Lembrey



Call me Tom.

Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought... uh... wait, hold up. You know what? Call me Poppi, okay? I like Poppi. So... I thought... I thought I would sail about a little, see the watery part of the world. Sounded cool. See, whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it's a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever-

Alright, call me Fritz. Forget what I said before. Call me Fritz. F-R-I-T-Z, Fritz. That's me. Now, me - Fritz - I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet. Especially-

Is Fritz stupid? Look, I know it's lame to start a story and then keep interrupting yourself, but... look, this is key. Opening sentences are key. People remember them. My name's Ishmael, but it's a stupid ass name and I'd like to punch my father in the face for it. "Ishmael." Thanks Dad! Good call! And everyone calls me "Ish." Hey Ish, what up? So I'm supposed to open my story, "Call me Ish?" What the fuck is that? Who's gonna read that?

I should add a psycho whale or something.

Alright, whatever. Just churn out the words...

To continue:

If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. And towards reading and writing and goofing around.