And Everybody is Laughing at You
‘What is so brazenly beautiful in the midst of all that is ugly?’—I cringed so hard when I wrote this, on a napkin, in the audience of the most trendy corner coffee shop I could find, dressed like the results of the Instagram search I did for ‘trendy fashion 2026 men style.’ I cringed so hard my asshole could press a diamond. This line would never make it on my feeds because it’s too unserious. Or ‘lofty,’ which isn’t what I’m going for lately. This morning, I put on my best Depop denim, and I sat at the window seat facing outward, because I love seeing people walk by. I notice when they notice me, but it’s not like I’m keeping tally. These days I bring one of those books by bell hooks that is not ‘The Will to Change’ because that one is overdone and with this one, the premise can be that I’ve already read that one and found it so fascinating and resonant that I am now reading another one. It’s funny though, this one. I can only remember the title when I pull it out of my tote. I’ve read Chapter 1 over and over and at this point, I feel self-conscious about it. Like, what if they see that I’m only in the very beginning of the book and just got it to be seen reading it? Who’s they? Anyone with a septum piercing or nose stud. Those eyes, I want. I actually like bangs. I actually like bangs. I read books, which a survey once said is the sexiest thing a man can do. I really want to do something with this napkin, and the shitty line I wrote on it. It should be some kind of art thing. It—or, my writing of and leaving of it. I think of who stumbles across it and considers for a moment what might be beautiful. I wish this wonder wasn’t so fleeting because it is the only thing I have wanted lately that feels earnest. Today, I didn’t last very long, sitting there to be seen. I needed to witness my work do something beautiful. It was important for me to feel this, today. I need and need and I sublimate and take a gaseous form. As vapor, I watched my napkin from afar. Not five minutes later a busser crumpled it where it was birthed and tossed it into my glass of melting americano. My love letter to the universe is an ambiguous mass of sopping ochre: pulp and ice and dusty brown liquid. That’s the way, I guess.
About the artist
Mitchell Ny is a Cambodian-Taiwanese writer based in Southern California. His work appears in trampset, Maudlin House, Same Faces Collective, Bending Genres, and Blood+Honey. He was a finalist for American Literary Review’s 2026 Nonfiction Contest and shortlisted for Fractured Lit’s 2026 Micro Prize.
He writes to wring from the mess: the scrappy, the ugly, and the brazenly beautiful.
More at MitchellNy.com
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