to come home drunk and make a rambling, 36 minute video to your internet fans then Skoop with a Glaswegian until 5am and then start watching Crazy Stupid Love at 6am.
It is not necessary, but it is glorious.
I want to live in the elastic putty of Emma Stone’s face. I want Ryan Gosling’s stubble to come by and abrade me in my new home. Then I want to move into the baby they make together, to be born anew as a glowing angel of pure beauty and humor.
With my fiery sword I will strike down upon the earth vengeance both great and terrible, but it will come with flowers and cologne and really nice clothes, so nobody will mind.
When Utopia has been forged, out of Emma Stone’s hair and Ryan Gosling’s deltoids and the joyous tears of the populace (which will form new oceans), we will all gather in Newer York (the city we all live in, surrounded by unimaginable forests and cascading waterfalls) to listen to our black, lesbian president tell us her plans for what we should do when we are tired of making rainbows spring from our fingertips.
This hangover is fucking huge, man.
I am inside it like it’s a cocoon and I am stubbly larva.
When I emerge I will unfurl new wings. Wings made of headache, and I will fly to work.
Wave at me as I pass over you. Whisper to me that I will survive.