Estimated reading time: 12 minutes
I’ve decided to reorganize my entire life around the philosophical framework presented in Queen’s 1975 masterpiece. Not because I’m having a midlife crisis (though my wife Karie has her theories) but because most self-help books are written by people who’ve never actually helped themselves, and at least Freddie Mercury had the honesty to structure his advice as opera.
The song offers a clear narrative arc: existential confusion, confession, possible homicide, baroque theological debate, rejection of social norms, and ultimate cosmic acceptance. It’s basically the Hero’s Journey if Joseph Campbell had been British and significantly more fabulous.
So for the past six weeks, I’ve been living according to these principles with the kind of commitment most people reserve for CrossFit or extramarital affairs. The results have been enlightening, which is a polite way of saying I’m no longer allowed in three local establishments, and my wife has started sleeping in the guest room.
“Is This the Real Life? Is This Just Fantasy?”
The opening questions whether reality exists or if we’re trapped in some elaborate fantasy with no escape from consciousness. I’ve been wrestling with this while working my day job remotely, which involves staring at spreadsheets that may or may not exist, depending on your philosophical framework.
“Are you joining the Zoom call?” Karie asks, poking her head into my office.
“Does the call exist if no one is truly present?” I’m staring at my laptop like it’s a portal to another dimension. Which it is, technically. Just a really boring dimension where people discuss quarterly projections for products that will be obsolete before the heat death of the universe renders all commerce meaningless.
“Your boss is asking why your camera is off, and you’re not responding.”
“I’m demonstrating the uncertainty principle. Observation changes the observed. If I turn on my camera, I collapse the wave function of possibility into a single, depressing reality where I’m wearing sweatpants and haven’t showered in three days.”
She closes the door. Hard. This happens frequently now, and I’m fairly certain the door’s repeated impacts are her own way of addressing existential dread. Or maybe she’s just hoping the frame will eventually give way and I’ll be trapped in my office forever. It’s ambiguous.
“Mama, I Just Killed a Man”
The song suggests immediate confession of your darkest deeds, preferably to a maternal figure. Since that’s no longer an option (thanks, Universe), I’ve been confessing to whatever’s available. Yesterday it was Trouble McFussbucket, our pig, whom I informed that I’d killed a man. Metaphorically. The person I used to be. The one who thought participating in capitalism wasn’t a form of slow spiritual suicide.
Trouble snorted and went back to rooting through mud, which is basically the porcine equivalent of “take your midlife crisis somewhere else, I’m busy.”
Pigs are remarkably grounded. They live in the moment. They don’t question reality. They just eat, sleep, and occasionally destroy fencing with the single-minded determination of a creature who’s decided property rights are a human construct.
I tried confessing to Karie during dinner, which I’d cooked badly, because existential crisis doesn’t excuse kitchen responsibilities, but it does impair your ability to properly season chicken.
“I’ve destroyed who I was,” I announced dramatically over undercooked pasta.
“Did you quit your job?”
“Philosophically.”
“So you still have income?”
“For now. But it’s tainted. Blood money. Except instead of blood, it’s the slow erosion of my soul through corporate video calls.”
She stabbed at her pasta with the kind of violence that suggested the noodles were standing in for me. Karie’s getting her PhD in Education, which means she’s professionally trained to ignore dramatic bullshit, having dealt with teenagers for years. I’m competing with hormonal adolescents for attention and losing badly to children who don’t even pay rent.
“Put a Gun Against His Head, Pulled My Trigger, Now He’s Dead”
Taking the narrative seriously means I’ve apparently committed some form of violence, pulled a trigger, watched life end. I found myself at 5:47 AM (I checked, because time is meaningless but also I needed to know exactly when I’d reached this particular rock bottom) pointing a finger-gun at our scarecrow, whispering “now he’s dead” with the gravity of someone performing King Lear for an audience of crows.
Herbert.
That’s the scarecrow, we named him three years ago because everything on a farm eventually gets a name and a backstory. He stood there judging me silently. And if you think scarecrows can’t judge, you’ve never pointed a finger-gun at one while explaining your commitment to musical authenticity. Their button eyes see into your soul. They know what you’ve become.
Karie found me like this. Just standing there. In my bathrobe. The one with coffee stains and a hole in the pocket. Executing farm decorations while the sun rose over the Virginia hills like God’s own spotlight on my personal tragedy.
“Herbert’s life had no meaning anyway,” I explained. “He’s literally stuffed with straw and bad decisions.”
“So’s your head, apparently. Also, you’re not wearing pants.”
I’d like one (just ONE) argument where I’m clearly right, and she’s clearly wrong, but seven years of marriage has taught me this is a fantasy more elaborate than any the song suggests.
“Galileo, Galileo, Galileo Figaro, Magnifico”
The middle section requires enthusiastic invocation of a 17th-century astronomer and an 18th-century barber at escalating volumes, which I interpret as a mandate for aggressive cultural literacy combined with complete disregard for social norms.
I attempted this at the post office while mailing copies of my essay collection to reviewers who’ll definitely ignore them. The line was seven people deep. Everyone was tired. It was 2 PM on a Wednesday, which is basically the DMV of time slots.
And then I started.
Quietly at first. “Galileo.” Just under my breath. Testing the waters.
The postal worker looked up. “Sir?”
“Galileo.” Louder now. “Galileo.” Building momentum. “FIGARO!”
The entire post office went silent. You could hear someone’s stomach growling. A child started crying. An old man clutched his package as if it were a life preserver.
“MAGNIFICO!” I belted it. Full operatic commitment. Freddie Mercury would’ve been proud.
Or horrified.
Probably both.
The postal worker stared at me with that specific blend of concern and resignation that government employees develop after year three of realizing their job is 30% mail sorting, 70% managing the general public’s slow descent into madness.
“Sir, are you having a medical emergency?”
“Only spiritually!”
Security was called. There’s apparently a fine line between “performance art” and “please leave the building and never return,” and I found it.
Repeatedly. With a passion that bordered on religious fervor.
I’m now banned from that post office. There are two others in the county. I’m rationing my musical outbursts carefully.
“Nothing Really Matters to Me”
I’ve embraced the song’s ultimate thesis (cosmic insignificance as lifestyle choice), which makes my day job somewhat challenging. When your manager asks why you missed a deadline, and you respond with “entropy will eventually render all documentation meaningless,” they get this look. Like they’re calculating whether HR paperwork is worth the effort.
“Entropy doesn’t excuse missed deliverables,” my boss said on our last video call.
“Doesn’t it, though?” I was genuinely asking. “In fourteen billion years, when the last star winks out, and the universe achieves maximum entropy, will anyone remember this PowerPoint deck about product specifications?”
There was a long pause. I think I heard her soul leave her body briefly, then return when she remembered she still had a mortgage.
“Just have it done by Friday.”
Friday. As if time itself isn’t a human construct designed to organize our march toward oblivion into convenient five-day chunks with casual dress codes.
I had it done by Thursday, because cosmic insignificance doesn’t pay the mortgage, and I’m not that committed to authenticity. Turns out the void accepts all credit cards but prefers VISA.
“Easy Come, Easy Go”
The song suggests a remarkably casual attitude toward existence: breezy indifference, a shrug at mortality. I’ve applied this to household responsibilities with predictable results.
Dishes? The universe is indifferent to their cleanliness. They could sit in the sink until the sun expands into a red giant, and cosmologically speaking, it wouldn’t matter.
Laundry? Why fight entropy? It wants those clothes wrinkled. Who am I to argue with the second law of thermodynamics?
Taking out the trash? Bold of you to assume trash isn’t a metaphor for existence itself. We’re all just garbage waiting for collection day, except collection day never comes, and we just pile up in landfills of our own making.
Karie has developed a twitch in her left eye that I’ve been documenting. It started small (barely noticeable), but six weeks into my experiment, it’s evolved into something that could power a small generator.
She’s started leaving Post-it notes around the house.
“THE COSMIC VOID DOESN’T EMPTY THE DISHWASHER.”
“HEAT DEATH IS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR LEAVING YOUR SOCKS ON THE FLOOR.”
“I DIDN’T GET A PHD TO LIVE WITH SOMEONE WHO USES ASTRONOMY AS A REASON TO AVOID CHORES.”
Last night’s note just said “Brian. I swear to God.”
She didn’t finish the threat. That’s how I know it’s serious. The incomplete threat is always scarier than the complete one.
“Beelzebub Has a Devil Put Aside for Me”
The song indicates demons have been specifically set aside for me, which finally explains those video meetings. Every time someone on my team says “let’s circle back on the synergies” or “what’s our bandwidth for ideation,” I know I’m witnessing demonic possession in real-time.
I’ve started making the sign of the cross whenever someone mentions “actionable insights.” They think I’m having seizures. I’m performing exorcisms. There’s a difference, though admittedly, both involve involuntary body movements and spiritual crisis.
“Are you okay?” my coworker asked during our last Zoom call, after I’d blessed myself for the third time in five minutes.
“Just protecting my soul from corporate jargon.”
“That’s… not a thing you need to do.”
“The devil is in the details. And the details are in this PowerPoint. Therefore, the devil is in this PowerPoint. QED.”
She muted herself. I could see her mouth moving. I’m 90% certain she was calling someone to discuss my mental state. Possibly HR. Possibly her therapist. Probably both.
“Any Way the Wind Blows”
I’ve surrendered all life decisions to wind direction, since apparently that’s the preferred navigation method for the cosmically enlightened. Yesterday, the wind suggested I walk directly into a fence post. Today, it’s recommending I stand in the driveway indefinitely, which is how Karie found me when she came home.
Just… standing there. Not moving. Facing southeast. Waiting for meteorological guidance.
She pulled up, got out of the car, and stared at me for a full minute.
“What are you doing?”
“Awaiting instruction from the natural world.”
“The natural world wants you to move so I can park.”
“The wind hasn’t mentioned parking.”
“I’m mentioning parking. Move.”
“Any way the wind blows…”
“MOVE OR I’M DRIVING THROUGH YOU.”
When you marry a satirical author who works remotely and lives on a farm with a pig, you’re expecting a certain level of eccentricity. “Quirky creative” is part of the package. But there’s “charmingly odd,” and there’s “taking lifestyle advice from 1970s British rock opera while standing in driveways,” and apparently I’ve crossed a line she didn’t know existed until I found it with the determination of a man who’s decided Frederick Mercury was actually a prophet.
She parked on the lawn. Drove right over the flower bed she’d planted in May. Karie’s a patient woman, but patience is finite, and I’ve been testing its boundaries with the scientific rigor of someone who’s forgotten that marriage is a partnership, not a longitudinal study on spousal tolerance.
“So You Think You Can Stone Me and Spit in My Eye?”
There’s a section about rejecting people’s stones and refusing to let them spit in my eye, which I’ve interpreted as preemptively dodging all criticism and perceived slights. This makes professional feedback sessions resemble a poorly choreographed martial arts demonstration.
“We have some notes on your latest work,” my boss started during our last review.
I literally ducked. Like, physically dropped below the camera frame onto the floor of my home office, where I discovered I really need to vacuum, and also there’s a Cheeto under my desk from 2019.
“What are you doing?”
“Rejecting your stones!” I shouted from below my desk, my voice echoing off the baseboards. “You will not spit in my eye! I am PROTECTED!”
There was a pause that lasted so long I thought my internet had cut out. But no. She was just processing the fact that she manages someone who’d apparently taken shelter under furniture rather than receive constructive criticism.
“It’s just… feedback? For improvement?”
“A stone by any other name still hurts when thrown! I’ve studied the ballistics! I’ve run the numbers!” I hadn’t run any numbers. I don’t know ballistics. But commitment to the bit is everything.
Karie had to take over the call and explain I was “going through something.” It’s her standard explanation now. She’s deployed it at:
- The grocery store, when I asked three strangers if they’d ever questioned the nature of reality
- The vet, when I insisted Trouble deserved cosmic significance equal to any human and possibly greater, given her honest relationship with mud
- The hardware store, when I stood in the fastener aisle for 45 minutes asking “do screws matter?” to anyone who passed
- Church (the one time we went), when I suggested during the sermon that maybe we’re all just biological machines creating the illusion of purpose
The pastor asked us not to come back. Karie agreed with him. We’re now spiritually homeless, which she says is my fault, though I maintain organized religion should be able to handle basic existential questioning.
“They were singing hymns, Brian.”
“Hymns are just ancient opera with worse production values.”
“Please stop talking.”
The Weight of Cosmic Indifference
The song ends with acceptance. Quiet resignation. The acknowledgment that the wind blows wherever it wants, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe we’re all just cosmic dust arranging itself into patterns that briefly believe they matter before dissolving back into chaos. Maybe the meaning isn’t in the destination but in the journey, even if that journey involves getting banned from the post office and sleeping on the couch.
Or maybe I’m completely full of shit and need to empty the dishwasher, take out the trash, and apologize to my wife for the sixth week in a row.
Karie says it’s definitely the second one.
The wind has no opinion, which is probably its wisest counsel yet.
Though it did just knock over the trash cans I still haven’t taken to the curb, so maybe even the wind is getting frustrated with me.
Key Takeaways
- The author reorganizes life around Queen’s 1975 song, humorously exploring existential themes.
- He applies song lyrics to daily life, leading to misunderstandings with his wife and comedic situations.
- Confessions to a pig and absurd Zoom calls highlight his struggle with reality and responsibilities.
- Despite embracing cosmic insignificance, he learns meaningful connections matter in marriage and daily life.
- Ultimately, the author reflects on acceptance, humor, and the chaos of existence while coping with household chores.
