Don’t you forget about me, I’ll be alone, dancing, you know it baby…

I want to live in a John Hughes movie.  I always have.  I just don’t think kids growing up today have any worlds as expertly crafted for them as the suburban Chicago of John Hughes–nothing to inspire them to want to leave their own douchey high school existence in favor of another.  I think Virgin Suicides and Donnie Darko were expert in some details, but no one was having any damn fun!

I want to live in there, somewhere within those mossy neighborhoods, with parents that love me–gushingly so–but seem to always be out of town.   They will be trusting and completely blind to my degeneracy.  They will be wealthy, and I….I shall be lazy…in a beautiful white home surrounded by large shade trees, a pool, and a bedroom with wall to wall Replacement posters, Union Jacks, a mannequin, and a Commodore 64.  I will call in sick to ‘whatever’ everyday, and get away with it.  I will wear blue/green flannel robes and go thru like 20 costume changes before I leave the house.  I will have a girlfriend that is snotty and hot—-way too good for me–and another girl who is eternally waiting for me to say the right thing after a bout of tears and too much trashcan punch at a party.  WE may end up being perfect for each other and surprise!  She’ll end up being smokin’ hot after removing those pesky eyeglasses.  Or I might just make a chick on my computer with my friend with the asshole brother.  Booya!

If I leave the house, it’s to  go to the mall for pizza on my parent’s dime.  I want to live in an arcade.  Maybe I’ll go fuck with some of the dude’s at the food court, or drop a couple chocolate shakes on some dorks on the escalator…whatever.  Maybe I’ll buy some more sweaters.  I might just take a spin around the block in my Alpha Romero.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure some heavy stuff out, and make a punk rock decision or two.

Yep.  And a quote from David Bowie just might sum up my existential plight. Man, shit is fun in here.   Suck on that,  Apatow.