SONIC EXCESS IN ITS PUREST FORM

An identity in crisis

THE TYPES OF GUY I’VE FAILED AT BEING

thank you h0wlingmutant

The Uniform Dresser
Two days into the Global Pandemic™️, I became deliriously curious about fashion—or at least anything that could pass as decently fashionable. I was reading interviews with Karl Lagerfeld and Fran Lebowitz, both known, somewhat, for their uniform style of dress— a bow tie, vintage 501s, a specific leather boot. Pieces chosen with precision, worn with purpose. There was something deeply compelling about their almost ceremonial approach to clothes, it wasn’t about showing off; it was about creating an identity. Or just being comfortable.

It was oddly captivating for someone like me—easily influenced and stuck in a house not to be seen. The phase only lasted about six weeks, but I was completely locked in during that time. So much so that I even wrote a small article about it that is now lost to the sands of time (the domain for the online mag it was published on expired).

The Nonchalant Guy That Doesn’t Care
As someone who likes to imagine themselves, at their core, as passionate, genuine, thoughtful, opinionated, and deeply caring, maybe this was always destined to fall apart. Not because I didn’t try, but because everything I feel is felt so intensely. I’d like to believe that behind closed doors, I’m calm, indifferent, and unaffected by the noise around me. But the truth is—that’s never really been me. I care. I care a lot. I care about people, about moments, about words spoken and especially the words left unsaid. I carry it all with me.

Everything resginates with me in some way—whether it’s a glance, a silence, or a fleeting moment most people might overlook. It all leaves a mark. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s a blessing or a burden to feel so much. There are days it feels like a gift as if i’m connected to the world in a raw way, unlike anyone else. And other times, it feels like a weight, something I can’t put down no matter how hard I try.

But until I find the answer—until I understand if this depth of feeling is my strength or my weakness—I’ll continue to wear my heart on my sleeve. Not as a sign of fragility, but as armor. Because for me, being open, being vulnerable, being real—that’s where my strength has always lived.

Studious Fella
Desperate for pussy voice:

“Yeah, I love Joan DIdion and Eve Babitz.”

”Of course, I actually read My Year of Rest and Relaxation before TikTok made it gay.”

”Gloria Steinem makes salient points, and I’ve read The Feminine Mystique twice.”

”I’m halfway through Capital Volume 1 right now, and Marx is at his absolute best here.”

In the beginning, I read to impress. Name dropping to peacock to those around me that I wasn’t a moron, hoping they’d think I was worth listening to. I chased the echoes of voices I thought others wanted to hear—curated and always with a hint of performance. But somewhere along the way, in between the pages of borrowed books, I found a deep and unshakable love for Didion’s sharp solitude and for Ottessa’s strange and repugnant honesty.

What once felt like a performance has become a private ritual that’s still made public. The polished surface of second-wave feminism, once fetishized and idealized, was later cracked open by Paglia’s unapologetic critique. She wrestled with Sontag, and somehow, their friction lit up something in me. That tension, that fire, that resistance—it became the map of my own curiosities. Because deep down, I did like to read.

My views are still shifting, soft around the edges but always sincere. I no longer read to fit into rooms I don’t belong in. I no longer look around for the gaze of others—male, female, or otherwise. Now, I read for the questions it stirs, for the way a single sentence can make me feel seen. I read for me, lowkey.

The Streamer
This was a dark time for me. From 2016 to 2022, I was living in a fantasy I couldn’t let go of—a pipedream that I could build an entire career from the four walls of my bedroom. Just me, my charm, and this desperate hope that something would catch fire. I convinced myself that if I just kept showing up and kept trying to connect, I’d eventually find my people—my audience, my purpose. A community that rocked with my swag.

But that future never arrived. I kept pouring myself into a screen, waiting for something to click. I liked to think it was something that would be worth all the time, the energy. That it’d be something I’d enjoy. And the worst part? I wasn’t even chasing a dream of leaving my 9-5. I was just avoiding all the responsibility of tending to those around me and taking care of myself because I couldn’t handle the pressure of being a good partner, friend, son, or brother.

The more I tried, the more I watched my relationships fall apart—slowly, then all at once. That computer became the symbol of everything I avoided. The hours I spent staring at it, refreshing, posting, praying—those hours came at the cost of real connection.

Thank God that computer is gone. Sometimes, the only way to move forward is through.

The Artist
I’m still figuring this one out. Still shaping it with stubborn hope and sheer force of will. From early adolescence, maybe even earlier, I believed this was it. My calling. The thing I was meant to do. I always had a paintbrush somewhere nearby, even if I wasn’t holding it. Sometimes physically, sometimes just in my mind. I thought in color. I dreamed in texture. I watched the world like a museum, always trying to make sense of it through form and feeling, then trying to articulate that feeling, the art, through the written word. A dialectic, if you will. The Tyler Has A Gun Dialectic.

Art was how I understood myself before I even had the language to explain what I was feeling. But then came 7th grade, and an English teacher who, maybe on a whim—or maybe because she saw something real—told me I had a natural feel for writing, for understanding “the art of dialogue.” That I had a “scathing tongue,” sharp and unapologetic. I didn’t know what to do with this information at first. I wasn’t trying to be a writer. I wasn’t even sure I had anything worth saying. But those words stuck. They festered under my skin and stayed there until my English 101 professor shared a similar sentiment. Bringing all these questions to the forefront of my mind once again.

That moment cracked something open. I didn’t abandon visual art, but writing began to pull at me in a way I couldn’t ignore. Not gracefully, not all at once. It came in pieces—lucid notes app entries, angry essays about shitty hardcore music, zine listicles. It didn’t feel like a path as much as it felt like a hurricane I had to drive into. Some days, I still don’t know what I’m doing. Some days, it feels like I’m faking it, chasing after a version of myself that only half-exists. But I keep trying. Because I get to know myself better the more I do it.

This dream is still unfolding. And I’m still somewhere in the middle of it, trying to find the words, the textures, the strokes that make it all make sense. But I feel as if I’m about to arrive.

TOP FIVE NAMES FOR A GUY YOU DON’T RESPECT

• Big Guy

• Chief

• Buddy

• Champ

• Pal

An example of my favorite (that’s not listed) is when you ask someone to either carry or hold something that could be heavy but isn’t, “Oh, look at muscles over here.”

ONE THOUSAND WAYS TO SAY I SEE YOU

To which surface of the eye do lips compare? If two gazes meet, can one then say they are touching? Are they coming into contact—one with the other? A hidden, sealed, concealed, signed, squeezed, compressed, and repressed interruption? Or is it the continued interruption of an interruption—the death of the between?

If two gazes come into contact, one with the other, the question will always be whether they are caressing or striking each other—and where the difference lies. A benediction bordering on the very worst. Would a benediction be truly beneficent without the threatening possibility of its perversion?

Now, in the first place, this assumes that these eyes truly see each other. And ours always do.

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