This is a conversation about Ben.
“Jesus, what motivates somebody to shoot himself in the head?”
“I suppose some people’s lives just suffer a deficit of meaning.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly.”
“I’m about to shoot myself in the head if you keep that shit up.”
“Maybe you’re asking the wrong question. The real question is, ‘What would motivate somebody to shoot himself in the head on a Tuesday afternoon?’”
“Okay then, what’s the answer?”
“You’ll have to ask Ben.”
“I don’t think he’ll have anything to say about that anytime soon.”
“You kidding? He’s already said plenty.”
“No shit. What a waste of human life, huh?”
“People kill themselves all the time for the stupidest and the pettiest of reasons, but the justifications for living don’t seem more compelling or any less preposterous.”
“Have I ever told you that you’re the happiest person I’ve ever met?”
“I’m just saying. Existence and propagation are ingrained in our DNA without any true purpose. We’re wired to exist for the sake of existence, and that’s pretty much all there is to it. Life is an endless obligation. Ben realized that sooner than most people, and so he shot himself in the head like an asshole.”
“Suddenly, I feel like shooting myself in the head again.”
“Then I’m happy that I’ve been able to push you toward the brink of enlightenment. I think you’re reaching the same point that Ben did before the end. It’s the goddamned Zen of Ben.”
“You suppose Ben is happier where he is now?”
“I think he’s rotten flesh. He’s an empty vessel of forgotten consciousness. But yeah, probably.”
“Well then, here’s to Ben’s happiness.”
“Hell, why not? I’ll drink to that.”
“Hah, I knew it. You’re just a big ol’ softy underneath all that cynicism.”
“Finish your beer, and promptly go fuck yourself.”
“Here’s to Ben.”
“To Ben.”