Overweight

The overweight writer is often the “stay at home” dad, an economically emasculated man whose wife’s once romantic/idealistic patience declines in direct proportion to the angle of his erection. He wakes up at 10:17am, makes himself two eggs and some sausages, and sips OJ while rummaging through last Sunday’s New York Times for culturally significant “ideas”; this lasts for 50 minutes until he’s on the PS2 again, ignoring the litter- and in-box hosting fresh poop and manuscript rejections, respectively. 3.5 years and 35 lbs. later, he’s looking for that perfect parking spot right next to Barnes & Noble because he can’t stand to walk the 40 yards for that once read DeLillo novel he swears will re-influence him. The XL shirt he got at Nordstrom rack does well to hide the love handles/beer belly, but no made in Singapore linen’s gonna hide that vacancy sign on his receding hairline.

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Nerd

The nerd takes his nerdiness — bleak memories jerking off to the high school yearbook to Ms. “it” — and turns it into sensitive, emotionally searing, near profound literature which excitable blurbers herald as the “voice of a generation,” thinking that one day, maybe after a Chicago reading or NPR interview, that this will get him laid. Problem is the idea of genius, while subconsciously attached to a penis, isn’t really; and so, the ladies who love you for your quirky pensiveness and irrevocable romanticism only love you on blogs and bookshelves, but not in bed. Lasik surgery all you want, maybe buy a fixed-gear bike, tight pants, spend $1000 on a Bill Evans rarity, and learn Japanese, s’all good bro — it’s just aesthetics, not sweet putang. Have a beer with Moby, act out a performance piece in IKEA, I don’t care, I’m not inviting you over to my condo. This sausage fest is what they call “autonomous.” Good luck on the rest of your life. I’ll see you at the laundromat, jerk off sock boy.

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Paid

The paid writer, or “litbag” is a networking cronyist unabashedly proud about landing gigs at GQ, Esquire, and Maxim; he writes predictable -500 word pieces about popular culture, cool bars, bad bands, energy drinks, and  gender stereotypes. Beware that the paid writer slightly resembles the overweight one; ridden with flab, the former’s unearned hubris will distinguish him from the latter’s spiritual castration. The litbag’s favorite books are American Psycho, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and [insert Bukowski novel], smitten with his own “man cred.” While is it safe (even advantageous, sadly) to facebook friend the paid litbag, do not actually go out to drinks with him, as he will talk for hours about (1) his “unconventional” morally rigorous career as a writer, (2) his experience with an underage girl in Paris, and (3) how Grey Goose is superior to other vodkas, citing his cranberry ginger infused whatever. You’ll want to say “dood, that’s a girly drink,” but you don’t want to give him any material for his next $2000 article.

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New York

New York lives in New Jersey, or New York; or, he lives in St. Louis, St. Paul, St. Whatever and has “strong plans” to move to New York. He is addicted to drugs and is not on speaking terms with his father and older brother. This man has masturbated to Henry Miller and The Cardigans simultaneously. He is bicurious, and bi the way, totes gay. Between 2003 – 2005 New York looked like the guitarist from The Strokes, which led to a book deal with a Midwestern small press suffering an east coast fetish. When New York finally moves to New York, he will write a +9,000 word Iowa workshop-ish short story about taking the 6-line in search of the underground railroad and submit it to The New Yorker, whose interns will kindly tell him in a cafe somewhere in soho that they aren’t really interested in black people, despite the occasional/inexplicable KOOL cigarette ads on the back. This goes on for Five Years until New York realizes he’s a walking Bowie song, and gets a job on 57th st. making pizza, two syncopated floured fist pumps in the air, eyeing Kinko’s across the street with “strong plans” for his next chapbook release.