I often imagine what it would be like to interview a famous, and undoubtedly fucked up celebrity. Like Michael Jackson, for instance. I imagine this is how the interview would go:
Me: So Mr. Jackson, where will you be relocating to now that Neverland Ranch is closed?
MJ: I like gumdrops. Children are the joy of earth, like lollipops and unicorns.
Me: …Ok, so, now that this got weird, what is your reasoning for closing your ranch? Is it because of lack of money, or simply because now that the ranch is 15 years old, you’re just not attracted to it anymore?
MJ: Clouds are pasty and wonderful, like grape flavored bacon in the rain.
Me: …So, any plans for a new album? Maybe a new tour?
MJ: I want to save all the monkeys of the world, for Bubbles. He talks to me, and sometimes I listen, and other times I talk back to him. We talk about wishes and ponies and ice cream.
Me: Do you know that you are insane?
MJ: I like Bubbles.
Me: Fuck this, I quit. Why couldn’t I have been assigned to Portland or Chicago? Fuck this and fuck my editor, I hate this job.
MJ: How old are you? I’m just askin’.
This is when I would walk out the door and go back to my home and discover that I really don’t want to interview someone famous, because deep down their just fucked up and emotionally tormented wacko’s with too much god damn money.
You were my best friend, and I never ever thought those days would end, but now it seems like they are gone.