you write a book that gets turned into a movie, help draft the most optimistic plan for turning a reasonable functional democracy into a dictatorship, rock eyeliner at least as well as any 80’s glam-rock start, but you fuck one* couch, and that’s all you’re remembered for.

• well, you know, the ones in the furniture store didn’t count, and the futon was technically a futon, and I was genuinely concerned that I’d be maimed by the recliner, and when I was drunk didn’t count, and beanbag chairs are barely even a chair…