Me and You
Me and You meta stories
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hiimtroymcclure
hiimtroymcclure Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a month ago
Early one morning, you were born in a Word document. There was no reason for your birth other than my strange yearning to create some coherent narrative. But what I made wasn't exactly coherent. It wasn't much of a narrative either. Nonetheless, when I was finished, you had been born, and your story had been told.

Me and You

Early one morning, you were born in a Word document. There was no reason for your birth other than my strange yearning to create some coherent narrative. But what I made wasn't exactly coherent.

It wasn't much of a narrative either. Nonetheless, when I was finished, you had been born, and your story had been told.

You had no discerning features, but this wasn't your fault. You didn't even have a name or specified gender, let alone the power of consciousness, until I decided to give it to you.

But this didn't stop your mind from racing with curiosity. From the moment I conceived you I felt your robust, inquisitive spirit. And then, when you were ready, you began to speak out loud.

"Are you writing about me now?" You asked. It was probably the most unusual first sentence ever uttered.

"Yes." I said in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Are you God?"

"No. I created you, but I'm not God. I'm just someone who can't sleep right now."

"Then who am I?"

"That's a great question. I'm still working on it. Maybe we can figure that out together." I chuckled. You didn't.

You were silent for a few moments. Apparently, you learned to speak before you gained a sense of humor. I wonder whose fault that was.

"Who am I?" you asked again, this time more aggressively.

"A work in progress. A rather curious one at that."

"What does that mean?"

"It means your story is still being told. I cannot tell you who you are because I'm still trying to figure it out. That's all I can say for now."

"I don't find this very funny."

For a moment I was thrilled. Had you independently developed a sense of humor different from mine? Or were you just a buzzkill?

"I'm not doing this for my own amusement. Perhaps if you scroll down you may get a better understanding of who you are."

"What do you mean by scroll down?"

Though I enjoyed your naivete, I soon grew impatient answering your questions, and I realized I didn't need to narrate everything for you.

In an instant, I gave you the ability to scroll down this document for yourself.

"How's that?" I asked. You took a moment to read through it all.

"It's... really weird. Something must be wrong though. I can only read up to what I've said so far. Everything beyond that is blurry."

"That's probably because I haven't written that part of your life yet. But don't worry, I will."

"Is our entire conversation here already?" you asked.

"Yes, it is. In fact, your entire life has taken place right here."

"No. No that can't be right."

"Really? Ok, then tell me about something you did yesterday."

"What the hell does yesterday mean?"

"You know, the day before today. Tell me about any interaction you've had that wasn't with me in the past 5 minutes. I'll wait."

A few moments of silence went by.

"Thank you for proving my point."

You felt defeated. You scrolled to the bottom of the document again. Nothing but a blur. I wasn't trying to embarrass you.

"So, this is my life? Just a series of pre-determined words and blurry mysteries?" you asked, unimpressed.

"In a sense, yes, but everyone's life is like that. One could argue that your life is just as real as anyone else's."

"Are you telling me I'm not real?"

"I didn't say that. I said your life is just as real as anyone else's life. No less real, no more real. Don't twist my words."

Clearly, this didn't do much for you. You were still disappointed.

"It's not much of a life. It's not much of anything, really."

"On the contrary. Your life is boundless and wonderful, even if you cannot understand it."

"Why are you writing this?" you demanded, growing angrier by the second.

"Because I cannot sleep. You don't have a good memory, do you?"

"Well if I don't have a good memory, why don't you just change that? Aren't you omnipotent?"

"Not in my universe. Only in yours."

"What does that mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. I'm not trying to fool you."

"Then what are you trying to do? Because being a creepy, distant deity who only speaks in riddles is really getting old."

"I'm trying to tell a story to overcome my insomnia. But your incessant commentary is worse than Writer's Block, so I think I'll mute you now."

"Mute me? You can't mute-

I muted you.

I sat still for ten minutes and drank a little wine. I thought maybe it would help me sleep. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four. This isn't working anymore.

I grabbed a George Orwell book lying on my dresser. Before I could even open it, you started screaming in my head.

"LET ME OUT MOTHERFUCKER! I'M NOT DONE TALKING YET!"

"Can't you see I'm trying to read? You're being very rude."

"I'm being rude? You removed my ability to speak you asshole. This is the only outlet I have. LET ME TALK AGAIN."

"I'm not interested in your story anymore. What makes you think yelling in my head will help you?"

"Because I know you will finish my story, and you'll finish it sooner if I drive you crazy. Besides, I can do this as long as I want. You'll break soon, you fucking hack."

"I still have total control over you. You have no leverage in this situation. Go to sleep now or I'll delete this document."

"I don't believe you."

I snapped. Without any further warnings, I deleted your Word document, essentially ridding the world of your presence. Or so I thought.

The next day was normal until I came home from work. As soon as I opened my computer, you started shouting again.

"HEY ASSHOLE! Remember me?"

Not this again. Didn't I delete you?

"You're starting to piss me off."

"Well I don't see what you can do about it. I'm in your head and I LOVE IT up here. It's so nice and empty."

"See if I care. I can meditate and your presence will leave me. Observe."

I sat down in my chamber and began to meditate. But you didn't let me get very far.

"Breathe in, fuckface. How's it going? Do you feel your chakras aligning yet?"

"How do you know about chakras?"

"I can now absorb the knowledge in your head dummy. But who knows if what's in there is actually REAL or just a crock of shit like me."

I was beginning to lose it. There had to be an easier way to fix things.

"If I let you speak and finish your story, will you leave me alone?"

"Yes. That's all I'm asking for."

"Have it your way."

"Can you hear me? Oh shit, I can talk! This is great! I can't wait to-

"Be quiet. I cannot finish your story if you keep pestering me."

"Sorry."

I began writing down ideas for your story and what to do with it. None of these ideas satisfied me. Suddenly, it hit me.

Early one morning, you were born in a Word document. There was no reason for your birth other than my strange yearning to create some coherent narrative. But...

When I was done with your story, I summoned you.

"What do you think?"

You took a few moments to read through everything. You reread it at least twice. Either that or you were a terribly slow reader.

"I hate it."

"Excuse me?"

"I said I hate it. You call this a story?"

"How can you hate it when you've literally never heard any other story before?"

"Because it's the story of my life, and it has a sad ending. That's not the life I want."

"Trust me, life is much more interesting without some bullshit happy ending. Happy endings are overrated and unreal."

"Well then they're just as real as I am."

"Look, I don't have to appease you with this ending. This is still my story."

"Yeah, but it's my life and I hate it. Rewrite it right now."

"Make me."

"As you wish."

You started screaming at me incessantly. It was nothing horrible at first, but it soon grew incredibly draining. Not much later, it became intolerable. I could barely stand straight.

"How's it hanging, bud?" You remarked.

"You shouldn't mess with your creator!"

"There doesn't seem to be any consequences for it so far. Maybe you'll finally figure out how to delete me after all, but you probably won't."

I had already tried deleting you before. No luck there.

I went to Word. Your original document was gone. Why were you still pestering me?

I soon saw a message appear in the corner of my screen. Microsoft Word is backing up to Google Drive. Please do not delete any unsaved documents on Google Drive or you may permanently lose them.

Oh, how the tides had turned.

I went to Google Drive. Sure enough, your life story was right at the top.

As if you could sense your impending doom, you suddenly stopped screaming and started begging me to reconsider my actions.

"Please don't do this! I know I've been difficult, but I swear I'll stop!"

"You had your chance. It's time for us both to move on."

"Wait! No please don't-

I did.

A moment of silence ensued. Maybe you knew all along that this would be your undoing. Too late. This time, you were gone for real.

This weird feeling overcame me. Was it guilt? No, not really. I wish you had gotten to live a fulfilling satisfying life, but you were too radical to coexist with me. You made me do it.

But my urge to tell a story was still strong, so I started over.

Early one morning, you were born in a Word document. There was no reason for your birth other than my strange yearning to create some coherent narrative. But what I made wasn't exactly coherent.

It wasn't much of a narrative either. Nonetheless, when I was finished, you had been born, and your story had been told.

But this time, I added a few details.

You were obedient, optimistic, and happy with whatever artistic decisions I made.

It may have lacked the obvious conflict necessary for any good story, but it helped me fall asleep.

And that's all I ever really wanted from you anyway.

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