Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead

by Emily R. Austin

The fact that I’m able to carry myself through life without being crushed beneath the psychological weight of being alive proves that I’m a con artist. Aren’t we all con artists?

Don’t worry, Jeff, life is meaningless; it’s strange and inexplicable that we exist to begin with. We are all basically dead already in the grand scheme of things, and our feelings of sadness are pointless—they are just how our meat sacks react to the chemicals in our bodies.

I have chosen happiness. Out of all the emotions set out on the table, I have selected it. It is by far the superior option. It’s insane to think I would have ever picked one of those shittier emotions before—when all the while, I could have chosen shiny, shimmering, iridescent happiness.

In what universe is being gay all we hear about? Who is Barney hanging out with? “Some things are better kept to yourself,” he says. “Other people’s bedrooms are none of my business.” I squint. When a straight person mentions their partner to me, I don’t feel like they’re telling me about their bedroom. I think about how they live with them, pay the same bills, and maybe have kids together. I think about how they probably vote the same way. I think about how, when they die, they will be buried in the same plot. I don’t think about how they have sex. “I just don’t want to hear about that kind of thing,” Barney says.