Imaginary F**king with Megan Lent – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Imaginary Fucking with Megan Lent – Part 2 of 4

See part 1 of this series.

I think everyone has at least one fictional or deceased person who they’d absolutely love to bang. I have many. I know that this is weird concept. I also know that I like it. It’s like vaginas; they look like little aliens, but I still like having one. Of course, for breakfast this morning, I dipped powdered sugar donuts in a Go Girl. Just because I like something, doesn’t make it normal.

fitzgeraldI was going to include Jay Gatsby on this list, but that just felt wrong. Because I don’t love Jay Gatsby; I love Scott Fitzy’s impossibly amazing brain. Yeah, he was an alcoholic and was married to a legitimately insane woman and, if Ernest Hemingway is to be believed, he didn’t have the biggest Eiffel Tower in the Parisian expat community, if you know what I mean (penis. I mean penis). But he wrote The Great fucking Gatsby. I honestly do not give a fuck he is responsible for the creation of Brad Pitt Ages Backwards Like A Less Dumb Forrest Gump. Saying that The Great Gatsby is not enough would be like saying that The Godfather is not enough: Francis Ford Coppola is an incredible director, and always will be considered an incredible director, even if his next film is Drive Angry 2: Yes, Nic Cage is My Nephew.  

A possible date with a reanimated S-Fitz would, I think, go something like this:

I descend the staircase of my shitty North Campus dorm and see him standing at the bottom, so Irish and golden that I want to touch myself harder than the Divinyls putting on suntan lotion with an oven mitt. “Why, Scott,” I say, “you caught me off-guard. I still have so much laundry to do.” He smiles and nods as my mistress (who coquettishly insists that she’s only my roommate, but if I don’t stop writing parenthetical romantic situations with Jazz Age authors, she’ll move out) walks by. We laugh about how funny it would be if she got in a car accident outside of her husband’s gas station underneath some sort of blatantly metaphoric billboard.

We then go to my room with a pint of Häagen Dazs – I’d wanted Ben & Jerry’s, but Scott said something about preferring brands that espoused racial purity – and I turn on Real Housewives of New Jersey (because he went to Princeton, get it?) As we watch Theresa and Jacqueline debate the proper size of silicone “bubbies” to purchase, I can’t help but feel like my existence could be nothing short of a symbol – no, the essence, the purest form – of the American dream, the blue future of jazz and impermanence and beauty. As I watch his flagpole rise to attention at my awe-inspiring display of the spirit of liberty, I tell him that I never really liked The Sun Also Rises, and he proposes on the spot.

About the Ranter:



Megan Lent

Megan Lent is a wonderfully unsuccessful blogger who likes to whine about literature at, and occasionally contributes to the steamy world of small-press fiction at Metazen and Housefire. She was the 62nd best speller in California in eighth grade, and used to run a brothel out of her parents’ house in Chicago. She lives in LA.