Through extensive research he discovered that the only way to be completely and perfectly unique was to be everything at once. To be as normal as possible in all aspects of his demeanor and experience, his presentable “self” becoming an absurd amalgam of style and culture, a “Mega-American” archetype, a living, breathing, and speaking mash of everything so prevalent in the United States which had been rendered hollow and meaningless through media overexposure.
His ultimate vision manifested on the most American of street corners: Vine and Redman, precisely between a well-maintained white picket fence and the ranch style home it shepherded, and the always-jangling aluminum chain link of a little-league baseball field’s dugout. He wanted to climb in and out of both fences and wear them like Flavor Flav wears giant clocks, dragging the chainish symbolism behind him, a snake molting his society with the dead skin hanging on for far too long, news reporters trailing with frazzled hair and whipping microphones like ninja stars, blown away by the perfect absurdity that he represented.
It was all too much to rationalize though, and he ended up stark naked on the corner of Woodward and Voss, digging crack rock out from under his toenails and wondering if he even had a sense of smell any longer. Fuck this, he thought, I finally understand what a Katamari is.
So he began rolling, naked through the city streets, collecting all types of ghetto remnants on his skin: Burger wrappers, pennies, broken syringes, half-used matchbooks, whatever else rested in his path. His monkeyball travels continued until three days later, when he accidentally rumbled off the Ambassador Bridge, by that point an unrecognizable ball of trash and treasures, fully and instantly aware that he had fulfilled his vision unintentionally.
No one had ever smiled so boisterously the moment before their death.