A lot of people, including myself, have asked me why exactly it is that I decided to fly the coop and skedaddle off to France for a year. The father’s voice from “Shoes” is constantly ringing through my mind in that haunting monotone drawl of his: “What are you gonna do with your LIFE?!?” and sometimes I’m not quiiiiite sure of my response. I don’t have a 5-year-plan; I laugh in the face of routine schmoutine; and as for settling down – SETTLE DOWN FO WHAT?!
But, fo real, in all seriousness, the more I consider my eccentric, haphazard life decisions (aka France, Russia, NYC, trying my hand as a Burger King employee in the glory days, etc.), the more strongly I come to the realization that, when I’m all old and bundled in wrinkles hundreds of years from now (naturally, they’ll have discovered some kind of sorcerer’s stone or fountain of youth to grant me immortality), I will not regret a single one of these experiences. At the moment (and I have a feeling that this moment will last awhile), serious faces, stiff suits and stressful Susans (relatives of Chatty Kathy and Debby Downer) are simply not my cup of tea. I’m just not feelin’ it.
Why work yourself to the bone, deprive yourself of all creativity and adventure, forget about love and thereby rip your demented soul into seven (OR EIGHT) pieces like Lord Voldy?
Personally, I’d rather be in France siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiingin’ in the rain with dis boi: