March 21, 2005


A friend and I are making a 5 copies only zine that is nothing but explicit detailing of fantasy that ping pongs in your head all day long, and so we have often been discussing them and trading stories of where fantasy is taking us these days. Not like... fantasy as in like, Gael Garcia Bernal hanging out in my driveway in a baby pool of butterscotch pudding telling me knock knock jokes in Spanish, but as in what my friend and I discussed this evening:

I was in the car today, and something happened, I forget, and I started fantasizing about if I died in a car accident, who would eulogize at my funeral --

In mine, the ex-boyfriends I hate are always beside themselves with remorse and beyond being consoled, and people are apologizing to my parents for being such dicks, and I watch, vindicated, in heaven.

Yeah, in mine, quiet mousy people I know get up on the pulpit and eulogize me and say things like "this is an outrage!" and every friend, as well as casual acquaintances, break down and admit that they had always loved me and regret not trying to be with me when they had the chance. Then shortly after my death, you and XXXXX and all my professors band together and get my blog turned into a book --

-- And you are posthumously accepted as a literary genius? Oh, Me too, that's my favorite part.

And like, every email I have ever written is mined and about to be turned into a book, and then suddenly, there is some outrage -- someone objecting saying you don't have the rights -- and all my professors rally together and fight for it because the world needs and deserves my genius.

I have that one, too, except I become a Bukowski like figure, and new books of my unpublished work come out, like, 28 of them, due entirely to public demand. Then, I am named poet laureate, even though I am dead.

Oh, Of course!

Posted by Jessica at March 21, 2005 12:34 AM | TrackBack