I.R.L.

In real life

you are aging at the rate of a short-lived sitcom

and the only kind of loneliness worth laughing about

is throwing out half a frozen meal for two

because leftovers

are never funnier the next day.

In real life

there is no such thing as a gritty reboot — it’s just

fucking gritty all the time, mate,

because your best-laid plans are always someone else’s

chance to crash a car into the crowd at a

men’s rights charity concert.

In real life

the nice guys pull out of the race

when their tires are slashed or they turn back

because they think they left the iron on

and no one adheres to sports film clichés anyway — 

we’re all selfish and we want that trophy.

In real life

you’ll never make it out of your homophobic small town

alive, so your left hand begs for water

while your right hand swings an ax

your left foot drags a church bell

while your right foot taps — S.O.S., S.O.S., S.O.S.