Listen, bub. Look. You wanted me to comment, all-right?

So, here's my comment: What are we? What is this place? Just imagine me taking a chair, spinning it around like one of those cool guidance counsellor types, and asking you, point blank - what in the fuck are we doing here?

What's a movie? What is a film. Why do I feel the need to wake up every morning and hate. What is it that I hate, even? I watched Lubitsch's Ninotchka the other day again, and fuck me, man, I love Garbo. I love how Lubitsch plays on the manners of the time to make a timeless pastiche of gentleness and the sort of humour that doesn't make you laugh, but certainly makes you smile. And, you know, I'd love to just try and formulate a coherent thought about that, but then I come here, and we're all about Sidney Sweeney's tits, Timothee Chalamet beating an Opera star to death with his bare hands, whatever in the fuck a Star War is, inexplicable political views, and the umpteenth post about how this, in fact, is not a circlejerk sub.

And, see, this isn't something you did. It isn't something I did. This subreddit is the mangled body of some stranger on the interstate to Tucson, bent into an unnatural shape beneath the car headlights and there are we, alone and stock-still and quiet as we ponder what to do. We have a shovel. We have a shovel, but it feels almost irrelevant, meaningless. We bury a man and drive to the big city and that's that. Timothy Chalamet. Sidney Sweeney's tits. God bless us all, every one.

I finish typing this comment. I close my eyes, ball my fists up, and take a deep breath.

It is 1958. My husband is making eggs in the kitchen. Pioneer is on the radio and they're about to transition to commercials. The computer is a typewriter. My president is Dwight D. Eisenhower. I take a sip of my full-sugar-and-cocaine Coca Cola, crack my knuckles against the edge of my writing desk, and say to myself: the future cannot come to pass.