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Bobby Finkel

Andrew Solomon‘s speech didn’t need any sequel, but I made one anyway.

Maybe someday, at the twilight of your life or even earlier on, you should give a ring to that Bobby Finkel you’d been loathing for years, to thank him for being the jerk who eventually forged you into who you came to be.

Maybe you should show up at his wedding with a basket of fruits or a box of chocolates, displaying your gratitude for his incidental existence that collided with yours and made it veer towards the pathway that lead to the person you are today and to the wonderful people you met along the way.

Maybe that asshole of Bobby Finkel is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, despite the tears he milked incessantly from your stupid eyes that have been, for years on end, exclusively set on his vapid personality.

Maybe it doesn’t make any sense right now, but it will someday – when Bobby Finkel will have become a pubescent (yes, my brains are impregnated with Lolita terminology and I’m not ashamed to show it) skeleton or when you’ll share batshit crazy youth stories in a nursing home with that old fellow suffering from Parkinson’s disease who’d also been put through hell and back sometime by a certain Melissa Brave (now equally putrid in her funest pubescence).

So, let us all take the time to mention Bobby Finkel in our daily prayers and refrain ourselves from injecting a tad of potassium cyanide inside the apples in that basket we show up with at his wedding.

Because we’re not Bobby Finkel.

Because we’re better than this.

Because we have risen above.

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