From here on out, my life is going to be one long performance art piece. Every word I speak, every movement, every bite of sausage at Fenway and path I choose to pedal my bike down, hour after hour, mile after mile, will be specifically calculated to make this the greatest work of art ever concocted, and humanity can pay me back for it by making contributions to my family after I die and the performance piece ceases to exist.
Except it hasn’t ceased to exist. Because down there, in my casket, or as ash and chunky bits of charred remains in an urn, I am still evolving as a dead person, and therefore my art piece lives on.
Don’t worry, humanity, you won’t have to pay for quite a long time, as, first of all, I plan to survive many decades into the crowded future, long enough in fact to frolic in newly-opened resorts in the far upper reaches of the Hudson Bay, once we get rid of all that cold air. This means you’re going to be able to foist the cost of this massive work of art onto some other generation of humans, who will curse you and spit on your graves.
I begin by claiming to be a celebrated fashion designer, credited with developing the “saggy hood” streetwear design. This gets me and members of my streetwear family invited to parties all night (sporting saggy hoods, of course).
Can I have a volunteer to tally up the monetary value of my art so humanity can be billed at a later date?