I so badly aspire to write (and voiceover) my own narrative while Stevie Wonder sings in the background, making allusions to the brevity of youth, and my experiences of gang violence and childish naivety of “acting grown-up” are montaged by the once-perky pinup boys of the 80’s…

Or do I actually just want to wear Emilio Estevez’s Mickey t-shirt while drinking a beer at 10 AM on a Monday and think about making out with 1980’s Rob Lowe and Matt Dillon, exiting a dusty warehouse in Chelsea Harbour to accept a courier’s insistent buzzing to my bell (not a euphemism, but it ought to be), while slowly inner-monologuing my non-writing-into-composition-books… “When… I… Stepped… Out… Into… The.. Bright…. Sunlight…”

Does this instant emulation of fine moments in film (in the least convincing or appropriate capacity) happen to everyone else, or is it just me who has a strop in the middle of a backyard barbeque and spouted the “Sorry I’ve spoiled your Black Panthers’ party…” from Forrest Gump before spinning on my heels and holding my head far more highly then necessary (narrowly avoiding a run-in with the patio screen door in my dramatic exit) Gucci glasses holding back prideful tears as DVF scarf billows behind (just like in the movie)?

Do you not sometimes think “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the DIRT” when scouring your housemate’s pubes out of the bathtub (again)? Or when your best girlfriend is bitching about how she’s always putting on weight and ought to have liposuction but stops mid sentence to whine “I’m hungry, though… know where the closest drive-through is?” your mental response is this:



No? No one? Er, this is a rather awkward bit of insight into my mental processing of pop culture. Cue the projections…






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