If Vladimir Nabakov were alive today, would he tweet? Would he praise the 140 characters for their homage to concision; would he share with us his brunch? Or would he rise above, and in so rising, be banished to a realm that is both academic and obscure.
Would Humbert Humbert Tinder? Would Lolita get a spin off? Would her theme song be catchy and sweet? Would we run, when we heard it, to the living room? Would we stay up all night to stream?
Yes, I think, and I would watch: would favorite and retweet.
On nights such as this, I am prone to wonder about what might happen were I to die in my sleep. Morbid, de jure, oui, but in effect, the precaution serves as a reminder to say “I love you” to the one I love, should she happen to be lying beside me, before turning inward for the night. In the absence of a paramour, an absence in which I find myself tonight—no pair of concave bends at the knee for me to fill with the flex of my own femurs and calves—I am forced to confront the honest truth that two taquitos and a glass of Pinot Grigio/Chardonnay blend is far from a lackluster adiu to this world. A worthwhile farewell does not stand upon a single motivation, but many. I may not be the luckiest, but I am among the lucky.
Perhaps at the end of chasing is the reality of what has already come true.
There comes a time in one’s life when one is just as happy to drink at home alone as with friends in a bar. And at that moment, one might wonder of these tendencies are a sign of alcoholism, or of growing up. One thing is for sure, though, if you are wondering this, you are white.