I Love It
I love it when, while I’m ignoring the shitty music on an overcrowded patio as I use my under-carbonated beer to wash down a poor attempt at greasy pub fare, I see a [obviously quite intoxicated] 30-something couple – who, as I would find out in a moment, were on their first date – nod in agreement at the woman’s words: “It really, really does feel like fate brought us together.” I love it because it’s obvious she is desperately trying to convince herself (“really, really” might as well be “really, REALLY”???”) some omnipotent cosmic force saw fit to call upon the winds of destiny to join her with the drunken asshole drooling Pabst all over his soggy corn dog. I love it because the corn dog drooler’s ‘play along’ head nodding reaffirms the deep-seated delusions dancing anxiously in her eyes, leading her to believe that he must be inherently different from all the “others” who chose to refrain from nodding because they wanted to fuck her without first becoming involved with emotional psychosis. I love it because the end result will indeed be “fateful,” in that he, too, will fuck her, causing her to think the deal has been sealed; that fate has, at long last, dealt her the elusive hand of happiness. And then he’ll run. I love that too.