- Pronouns
- 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 / 𝖘𝖍𝖊
alright y’all try this one on for size
so a while back I have this dream, right? and in it, I’m watching a sitcom. this is not something I do — I fucking hate sitcoms. but here I am, watching some cruel laugh track’s thesis in a daytime tanktop.
and there’s this fucking guy, right? except maybe he’s also a little bit me? but definitely not, also? like a completely unhinged sitcom dude, somehow almost in sync with my mania but completely not me in almost any way, and not about the same things.
so over the course of this episode, dude is having an increasingly messy breakdown about whether he wants soup or salad. keeps going in circles about it, starts plotting out just unhinged charts and graphs, writing on the walls, this massive bloody-looking decision tree of whether it’s soup or salad.
now, this is an easy choice for me, the viewer: fuck salad. I rest my case.
but this half-light stranger, this button-down clown won’t fucking have it — it has to be convoluted, it has to be impossible to choose, it has to be neck and neck with no way to come out on top.
finally someone he’s with — she listens to all the convolutions and twists in this branching impossibility of soup or salad, dutifully sifts through the sediment like a reasonable friend — and she says, get this, “what about the breadsticks?”
dude snaps. killing spree. thrashes the off-brand olive garden. laugh track spiraling. I start to hear screams in other apartments. somehow, both on the tv and in my dreamworld, this ass is making meatloaf of all flesh in the way. he busts down my door. he smashes a lamp over my head. near-rabid, he fucking runs off.
I’m on my side bleeding out on the parquet, but still conscious enough to catch the end credits. it’s the guy, now confined to some kind of black box theater or green screen nothing. walking around and looking every which way. twitchy, paranoid, but probably for good reason on account of the murder. and over it — I regret to say this out loud, especially because Win Butler is a piece of shit — but it’s Arcade Fire’s “Supersymmetry.”
but the words are “soup or salad tree”
this is how I die, I think. watching these credits.
and I keep thinking about how I could convince this guy that you could simply have both, or neither, and just have a much better time.
but — albeit hazily — I think maybe I had another instance of the dream again last night where it started at the end, and the dude busted down my door, and just stared at me, and I thought really hard about saying “both” or some shit to see if it would still all lead to bloodshed…
but he just stares in the doorframe and says “don’t you fuckin’ say it” so I don’t
and he leaves
while the weird credits of him in a room with “soup or salad tree” playing in the background just roll forever
the moral of this story?
…fuck if I know!
so a while back I have this dream, right? and in it, I’m watching a sitcom. this is not something I do — I fucking hate sitcoms. but here I am, watching some cruel laugh track’s thesis in a daytime tanktop.
and there’s this fucking guy, right? except maybe he’s also a little bit me? but definitely not, also? like a completely unhinged sitcom dude, somehow almost in sync with my mania but completely not me in almost any way, and not about the same things.
so over the course of this episode, dude is having an increasingly messy breakdown about whether he wants soup or salad. keeps going in circles about it, starts plotting out just unhinged charts and graphs, writing on the walls, this massive bloody-looking decision tree of whether it’s soup or salad.
now, this is an easy choice for me, the viewer: fuck salad. I rest my case.
but this half-light stranger, this button-down clown won’t fucking have it — it has to be convoluted, it has to be impossible to choose, it has to be neck and neck with no way to come out on top.
finally someone he’s with — she listens to all the convolutions and twists in this branching impossibility of soup or salad, dutifully sifts through the sediment like a reasonable friend — and she says, get this, “what about the breadsticks?”
dude snaps. killing spree. thrashes the off-brand olive garden. laugh track spiraling. I start to hear screams in other apartments. somehow, both on the tv and in my dreamworld, this ass is making meatloaf of all flesh in the way. he busts down my door. he smashes a lamp over my head. near-rabid, he fucking runs off.
I’m on my side bleeding out on the parquet, but still conscious enough to catch the end credits. it’s the guy, now confined to some kind of black box theater or green screen nothing. walking around and looking every which way. twitchy, paranoid, but probably for good reason on account of the murder. and over it — I regret to say this out loud, especially because Win Butler is a piece of shit — but it’s Arcade Fire’s “Supersymmetry.”
but the words are “soup or salad tree”
this is how I die, I think. watching these credits.
and I keep thinking about how I could convince this guy that you could simply have both, or neither, and just have a much better time.
but — albeit hazily — I think maybe I had another instance of the dream again last night where it started at the end, and the dude busted down my door, and just stared at me, and I thought really hard about saying “both” or some shit to see if it would still all lead to bloodshed…
but he just stares in the doorframe and says “don’t you fuckin’ say it” so I don’t
and he leaves
while the weird credits of him in a room with “soup or salad tree” playing in the background just roll forever
the moral of this story?
…fuck if I know!
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