Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

by Bo Burnham

The Light When I die, I hope I don’t see a bright light. Those give me headaches. After a long life, I don’t want to stare into the sun. I want a calm blackness— the same shade that coats the back of my eyelids.

I worry that I’m using you. Classic me.

Nothing Are you terrified, as I am, of nothing? Nothing scares me more than nothing. “What’s going on?” I ask, trembling. Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare.

Cyclops The women ran screaming when the Cyclops blinked. If only they’d known he’d actually winked.