Last night, in a severely drunken haze I had what I like to think a lingering epiphany (oxymoron, I know, bear with me) that caused me to realize just how much you really mean to me and what I plan to do about it.
Taking a page out of Hitler’s book (a certain Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche gets an assist here), I’d like to introduce now, Promiseland. Like its parent school of thought – Fatherland, Promiseland is a beautiful place, conceived by a polarizing orator with a dark complicit smirk that eddies around his lips. Adolf and I are quite alike, you see. But this, is about us. This is about Promiseland.
So what might these promises that I’m ranting about quintessentially be? Let’s move away from Nazi Germany for now. I promise we’ll get back to it later. See what I did? *darkcomplicitsmirks* Yes. Promiseland is a set of things we hope to have and live our lives in quest of those things. Because together, we can. Together, we have.
In Promiseland, we’ll have the kinks of Europe, the kisses of France and popsicles. In Promiseland, we’ll never fall short of popsicles. Or places to melt them against. When you’re with me, every movie theatre, abandoned mall, dark shady stairwell, shower is Promiseland. The ropes, the lotion, the bed and pillows, towels and tourniquets, maryjane and the pointlessness of it all, baring two, oh, those two. The points they raise!
And fittingly so. Good orators must raise good points. I try. Adolf tried. I want to be your Adolf. I want to have a Promiseland together. So, be my Germany maybe? I’ll be waiting in my bunker, with cyanide pills and condoms. My fate lies with you now, as it always has.
P.S: if the gatekeeper asks, the password is “Spank me, Führer”. Or just flash him, he’s a sucker for pretty tits.