I’ve been thinking about hell a lot recently for two different reasons.
Reason 1: I think this one is a side effect of being gay. You know, when enough people tell you you’re gonna burn in hell, you gotta start to wonder what it’s like. You gotta start to get a little curious. Maybe even a little enticed? Like you’re telling me there’s a place full of gay people? Sick.
Reason 2: The main reason: my all-encompassing fear of death. Basically, every moment of my life is filled with crushing existential dread and a complete over-awareness of my own mortality. Not scared yet? Think about it this way: every move you make and breath you take brings you one unquantifiable step closer to the fathomless abyss of death. Feel that empty, cold feeling in your chest? Hold onto that. It’s important that I make people suffer with me.
So I’ve kind of constructed this idea of what I think hell’s like, which I would like to share with you (Yes, you, the reader. Hello.) if that’s okay. Not that you can really refuse. It would go against societal norms of politeness, causing all of us to feel extreme discomfort. And you know how much I hate socially caused discomfort (a lot; that’s the answer).
You enter hell. First thing you see is an acquaintance. Specifically, that dude Brad you sat next to everyday in bio. Brad, you ask? Oh, don’t worry, you know him. He’s that guy you lightly knocked your elbow against once and you were all like “oh my bad” and he was like “no problem” and now because of that one very vague interaction you have to say hi to him every time you see him. Yeah, that guy.
Anyway, the point is that Brad’s there and you say hi and he says hi back. And then, right as he’s passing you, he asks how your weekend’s going. But by the time you start to reply he’s too far to really hear your answer, or for you to ask him how his weekend is going. And then he’s gone. Like so gone. Never coming back. And you’re just standing there, stuck in this social purgatory in which it’d be rude to not reply, but you’ll never be able to.
You recover from the Brad thing and walk into a room, except it’s Applebee’s, except it’s that one specific Applebee’s where you peed your pants when you were twelve. Which was the worst because you had the painfully keen self-awareness of a tween and also, again, you had peed your pants. Which is just awful in general.
So you’re sitting in the sticky booths of Applebee’s, being forced to order one 2 for $20 after another. And for some reason all of the meat is that gross, tepid room temperature. And there’s a fan blowing really loudly. And your 10th grade nemesis Tina is there saying generalized positive statements like “focus on the solution, not the problem” and “make things happen” and “sometimes your circle decreases in size, but increases in value”.
Oh, also, Miley Cyrus is there and she’s trying to beatbox and freestyle at the same time about your childhood trauma.
This goes on for a few years. At least, like two hundred. And, after that point, it all culminates in a lot of sucking Steve Buscemi’s toes in an exclusively sexual way. The worst part about that being that you think you like it.