As we were driving from his parents' house to his cousin's place for brunch, Nick took a detour past a graveyard on a hillside that he loves.
He pointed to an old farmhouse.
"Wouldn't you love to live there?"
He knows full well I wouldn't.
"Wouldn't it be perfect to come home and sit on the porch, and watch the sun set behind the hill?"
Nick would love to live way the hell out in nowhere. And I'd rather spoon my eyes out than live in some bucolic area, beautiful as much of New Jersey may be.
"You can buy that house with your next wife. Your next wife will love that kind of thing."
"Yes. And your next wife will never get upset about your food choices."
"My next wife sounds fantastic."
"She'll never worry about your cholesterol. In fact, she'll eat bleu cheese-stuffed, bacon-topped burgers and fries with you. And instead of getting upset, she'll suggest seconds."
"I'm going to love her so much."
"And then you can come home after your artery-clogging meal, and sit on your porch together and unbutton your tight pants and fold your hands over your bellies. And then at some point she'll get you another beer, and then a bowl of ice cream."
"That sounds wonderful."
"And then you'll go upstairs and have all kinds of anal sex."
"Yeah. For like the fifth time that day. With you."
"Me? I'm not there. I'm in Italy."
"No, you're there. We'll have regular threesomes with you. Even though you're in a coma."
"I'm not in a coma."
"You absolutely are. You're upstairs in a coma. But I still love you anyway."
"Am not. I'm on the Amalfi coast with Giancarlo. Fondling his incredible abs."
"Not in my fantasy."
"This isn't your fantasy. Give me back my sarcastic story."
It probably goes without saying, but I just feel the need to add. . .There's something very wrong with us. I'm well aware of it.