## molly 040818 On reading the first few lines of Molly Ringwald’s article in April 2018 about John Hughes’ glaring blind spot You’d like to say maybe i’ll die at 59 too but you realize darkly that that would mean YOU are the story ...and if nothing else, at least by now you know, it’s not about you... you’re just nick carraway, or the guy telling the story about the mercedes go-devil, or the little brother with the little brain, or... ...well, you get the idea... don’t you? And so you’ve come to peace with that, reconciled to live out your mundane life to 90 or beyond, like a normal person, an *employee,* busy being enchanted by Nanci’s songs, magically realized by Borges and Saramago and Márquez and all them guys... but then—haha—dramatic irony—or situational?—you fucking have a heart attack and die at 56. Better ask your brother how to get your will ready. (of course then the article actually gets interesting, and you’re reminded that it really ISN’T about you—remember, you CAN’T FOOL THE GODS—you thought that by writing a cutesy pithy thing you could somehow teleport out of averageness, like sneak your way out via the magic of genuine false modesty, but yeah no, it—if nothing else, you’ve figured this out, right?—doesn’t work that way! Better ask your brother—or your sister—how to be a good teacher!)