Drink your juice.

Over the summer I made the mistake of getting drunk and telling stories around my friend’s friend who has a podcast. Somewhere along the line I mentioned the fact that I was a really prolific teen poet and still have all of my notebooks full of teen angst poetry, and he asked me to come on the podcast sometime to read it. I’d said, “Sure,” and I think he thought I was kidding, but the next week when he’d followed up and e-mailed, I was still totally excited by the idea. And so some sweaty July night in a bar shaped like a train car in Brooklyn, I got on a stage and read a really mortifying poem I’d written when I found out that Elliott Smith had died. And just last night he uploaded this cellphone picture he’d taken without my knowing, and I think it catches me as a human being pretty well. As an organism, I feel represented by the look on my face in this image.

I bring this up because when I die and the archive of this blog just turns into a 404 message, I need someone to make a gif out of this where a speech bubble pops up next to my mouth and reads, “Sorry, dead.” You guys are executing my will now. This blog post is binding.