Derrida. Add John Lennon for effect. Tell her you are snorting smack and cocaine. Tell her John Lennon really gets you off. Something about the glasses. I.e. Sarcasm / stupid fucking questions.
At least Robert Downey, Jr. is a genius.
Come home late from a beer bonfire party. Find Aretha asleep in the bedroom. Derrida is on the couch, watching Saturday Night Live reruns. Kurt Cobain is singing about heart boxes. And you are relieved. Derrida is not mad. This could have gone much worse. Watch Derrida pat the couch. Lie on the couch and feel Derrida’s arm fold over you. Listen as he says, I love you. I love you. And there, in the dark, feel loved.
One day you will realize how funny your life is. It will be while you are watching Saturday Night Live reruns. A skit will come on with a rubber chicken and you will think about the chicken squawking and burning and grunting in rival effigy, years before at a bonfire beer party, and you will think about the guy with Kurt Cobain hair and how he let you cry on his chest. And you will think, at least I was never that chicken.
36 | Psychopomp Magazine