It’s like forgetting your will in a tanning booth.
It’s like finding a bullseye on your wife, inexplicably.
It’s like buying the Consumer Reports on grave plots.
It’s like a chicken that places its own self on the rotisserie.
It’s like waking up to a world without melancholy.
But it’s more like introducing melancholy back into that world, with a view towards creating your own cottage industry of melancholy — and then, upon being confronted by the only other person to have previously been aware of melancholy, acknowledging that you’ve made a decision that’s harmful in aggregate, but which you regard as the only reasonable solution to addressing the debilitating anxiety you’ve endured while attempting to support a wife and children.
It’s like cutting coupons for the DMV.
It’s like breaking and entering into a memory.
It’s like tailgating at your dad’s yearly physical.
It’s like silly-stringing some Crips good-naturedly.