I.R.L.

In real life you are aging at the rate of a short-lived sitcom and the only kind of loneliness worth laughing about is throwing out half a frozen meal for two because leftovers are never funnier the next day. In real life there is no such thing as a gritty reboot — it’s just fucking gritty all the time, mate, because your best-laid plans are always someone else’s chance to crash a car into the crowd at a men’s rights charity concert. In real life the nice guys pull out of the race when their tires are slashed or they turn back because they think they left the iron on and no one adheres to sports film clichés anyway — we’re all selfish and we want that trophy. In real life you’ll never make it out of your homophobic small town alive, so your left hand begs for water while your right hand swings an ax your left foot drags a church bell while your right foot taps — S.O.S., S.O.S., S.O.S.