I want to be so famous that drag queens will dress like me in

Host: The bar lights glowed pink and gold, casting a theatrical shimmer across the velvet walls. The hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low throb of 70s disco made the air pulse with decadent electricity. On the small stage, a drag performer lip-synced to a classic Streisand track while the audience cheered — the kind of applause that felt both playful and reverent.

At a back table under a neon sign that read “Fame Never Dies,” sat Jack and Jeeny — two figures both out of place and perfectly at home. Jack had a whiskey in his hand; Jeeny had a gin and tonic, the lime slice glowing faintly under the bar light. Between them on the table was a torn-out magazine page with a quote scrawled across it in lipstick-red ink:

“I want to be so famous that drag queens will dress like me in parades when I'm dead.”
— Laura Kightlinger

The quote sparkled like the sequins in the air — funny, biting, and terrifyingly honest.

Jeeny: [grinning] “You’ve got to admit — that’s the most honest version of immortality I’ve ever heard.”

Jack: [chuckling] “Yeah. Forget statues and scholarship funds — she’s aiming for wigs and contour.”

Jeeny: [smiling, raising her glass] “The truest test of cultural impact: if you become camp after death.”

Jack: [leaning forward] “It’s the perfect paradox. Wanting to be remembered not as a saint, but as a spectacle.”

Host: The music swelled, shimmering with irony and affection. A drag queen passed their table, feathers swaying, perfume lingering — an embodied ghost of everyone who ever wanted to be seen and adored.

Jeeny: [sipping her drink] “You know what I love about that quote? It doesn’t apologize for vanity. It embraces it. She’s saying, I want to be larger than life — even after life’s over.”

Jack: [nodding] “Yeah. It’s self-awareness with a smirk. She knows fame is absurd, but she wants it anyway. There’s honesty in that hunger.”

Jeeny: [softly] “Because wanting to be remembered is human. Wanting to be performed — that’s divine.”

Jack: [laughing] “Or delusional.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Same difference. The gods were just the first celebrities.”

Host: The bartender slid another round across the counter, the glass clinking like punctuation. Around them, the drag show crescendoed — a queen in a Marilyn wig belting out “I Will Survive” like a resurrection anthem.

Jack: [watching the performance] “You ever think about that? How drag keeps people alive? Like — Judy Garland, Whitney Houston, Cher. They never really die. They get reincarnated every weekend in wigs and heels.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “Exactly. Drag isn’t imitation. It’s resurrection by glitter. The afterlife in sequins.”

Jack: [quietly] “So Kightlinger’s not talking about fame. She’s talking about legacy — the kind that’s lived out loud.”

Jeeny: [smiling softly] “The kind that becomes myth. Not the stone kind — the sung kind.”

Host: The lights dimmed, leaving the room glowing like champagne at midnight. The drag performer bowed, kissed the air, and left the stage. The applause felt like something ancient — worship disguised as laughter.

Jeeny: [after a pause] “You know, I think she meant that line as a joke. But jokes always hide the truth we’re too embarrassed to say seriously.”

Jack: [leaning back] “Which is?”

Jeeny: [softly] “That we all want to be remembered. We all want to echo.”

Jack: [nodding] “Yeah. We just differ in how loudly we want that echo to sound.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Exactly. Some people want gravestones. Others want drag queens.”

Jack: [raising his glass] “And honestly? The drag queens will last longer.”

Jeeny: [grinning] “And look better doing it.”

Host: The crowd laughed, as if the whole room had overheard and agreed. The music shifted to Bowie — “Heroes.” The line “we could be heroes, just for one day” echoed through the space like a promise made to every soul who ever dreamed of applause.

Jeeny: [watching the crowd] “You know what makes this quote so perfect? It captures the paradox of fame — wanting to be loved by strangers after you’re gone. It’s like asking the universe to throw you a party you’ll never attend.”

Jack: [smiling faintly] “Yeah. And drag queens are the perfect hosts — they’ll make you fabulous even in absence.”

Jeeny: [softly] “They keep your spirit in circulation. Fame becomes folklore.”

Jack: [nodding] “It’s modern immortality — not divine, not pure, but flamboyantly alive.”

Host: A disco ball turned slowly above them, scattering fragments of light like memory itself — fragments that landed briefly on faces, tables, hands, and vanished again.

Jeeny: [thoughtful] “You know, there’s something sacred about it too. Drag is reverence through exaggeration. They take your essence and amplify it until it’s unforgettable.”

Jack: [smiling] “It’s camp theology. Saints in sequins.”

Jeeny: [laughing softly] “Exactly. Kightlinger doesn’t want heaven. She wants the Pride Parade.”

Jack: [grinning] “And who wouldn’t? Heaven’s quiet. Parades are honest.”

Host: The music shifted again, slow now — a remix of “Time After Time.” The performers rested at the bar, their wigs slightly crooked, their laughter unguarded. Real humans behind hyperbole.

Jeeny: [softly] “It’s funny. Beneath all the glitter, it’s still about connection. The same need that drives artists, actors, comedians — the desire to be remembered, reimagined, replayed.”

Jack: [nodding] “Yeah. Fame’s just the costume. Legacy’s the skin underneath.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “And when someone imitates you with love — even if it’s parody — that’s proof you mattered.”

Jack: [smiling] “So maybe drag isn’t mockery. It’s memory dressed up.”

Jeeny: [raising her glass] “To memory, then. And to being ridiculous enough to last.”

Jack: [clinking glasses] “To immortality — one lip-sync at a time.”

Host: The crowd cheered again, as another performer took the stage, this one in a glittering gown that caught the light like liquid gold.

At their table, Jack and Jeeny leaned back, the room around them glowing, pulsing, laughing — alive in every sense of the word.

The quote still rested between their glasses, lipstick smudge and all:

“I want to be so famous that drag queens will dress like me in parades when I'm dead.”

Host: Because true fame isn’t being remembered by history — it’s being remembered by joy.

It’s when your name turns into a performance,
when your spirit gets borrowed and bedazzled,
when strangers celebrate you not with reverence, but with laughter.

And maybe that’s what immortality really is —
not the preservation of image,
but the transformation of essence —
a glittering echo, dancing forever
in someone else’s high heels.