Who am I? Can any one answer ever be definitive enough to define oneself?
Monologue is a single, 120 page sentence attempt at answering this question. Culled from letters to Dan Savage’s queer advice column Savage Love, it creates a fraught song of myself, and a probing hyper-identity that contains multitudes.
(A shorter version of Monologue appeared in Hannes Bajohr, Timidities, Berlin: Readux, 2015.)
I’m a 24-year-old straight male and I’m unattractive, and I’m pregnant, and I’m a big fat liar, so I’m at a loss, Dan, but I’m innocent, and I’m not sure how that works exactly, yet I’m effing scared, and I’m rare, I know, but I exist, yet I’m fine with this, because I’m an only child, male, born to a single mom, what’s more, I’m a virgin at 30, which means that I’m a down-to-earth, normal fag like all the rest, on the other hand, I’m not, hence I’m a prime example, and I’m an adorable 270 pounds, so I’m going out of my mind, in addition to that, I’m a homo, hence I’m about to give up and become a nun or something…