Picture this: thirty kids in a two-story house
in the Poconos. They’re little bandits.
Their parents think they’re somewhere
else. It’s the popular crew: but half the
baseball stars are homosexuals, half the
cheerleaders want to be housewives,
and the football guys are putting on five
pounds a day. They have to carry little
Megan outside for some fresh air; she’s
drunk, got ditched by a wide receiver.
She looks at the mountain stars, thinks
(her friend imagines) nothing thoughts
about nothing. Eighteen years later: one
of the homosexual baseball stars is now
at a mountain retreat in the Poconos. He
gets carried out by his lover to look at the
stars, drunk on Mimosas. Nothing gets
thought about nothing again. What do I
think? I’m writing a letter to Nietzsche. Ask him.
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