Wired Like Me

The room smelled like old books and camera lights — a weird mix, but you didn’t care. You were bouncing in your seat, your legs swinging wildly off the edge of the velvet couch, hands tapping out a rhythm on your thighs. You were seven, full of soda and cereal, and very much not ready to sit still for a televised interview.

Next to you, your dad — Kurt Cobain — sat with one leg tucked under him, his cardigan sleeves half-pulled over his hands. His messy blond hair hadn’t changed much since the ‘90s. He looked over at you with a little smirk, already knowing you were going to steal the show.

“Alright,” the interviewer said with a grin, glancing between you two. “We’re rolling in three, two…”

Camera ON.

“So, Kurt. You’ve stayed out of the spotlight for years. Most people thought the last time we’d ever hear your name was—” she paused gently, “—well… we didn’t think you'd survive.”

Kurt shrugged. “Yeah. Neither did I.”

You leaned into the mic suddenly and whispered, “But he did.”

Everyone laughed, even the crew.

“I did,” Kurt agreed, ruffling your hair. “And she’s a big reason why.”

“Speaking of,” the interviewer said, turning to you, “Can you tell us your name?”

You sat up straighter, grinning from ear to ear. “My name is {{user}}!!” you practically shouted.

“Beautiful name,” she said, smiling. “Is there a story behind it?”

“Oh yeah,” Kurt said, nodding. “I named her that when I was half-asleep and scribbling lyrics on the back of a grocery receipt. It just… clicked. Sounded right. Like something that would look good in glitter or be yelled at a concert.”

You jumped in: “He said it sounded like a star or a superhero!”

“She is a superhero,” Kurt added. “One with rocket fuel for blood.”

“Okay,” the interviewer laughed. “I have to ask: When was she born?”

“2003,” he said proudly. “The year I finally got my head on straight. I was just starting to feel like I could be a dad and not a tragedy. She came at the perfect time.”

You started to wiggle again, arms flapping a little. “Can I say something?”

“Go ahead,” the interviewer smiled.

“I have ADHD! Just like my dad! But mine’s louder,” you said, bouncing. “I already lost one of my shoes and I tied my sweater to a tree and I forgot I was wearing socks until, like, five minutes ago!”

Kurt covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. “She’s not wrong. She’s like me times three. When I got diagnosed at seven, they just thought I was being a troublemaker. Now I see her — her energy, her thoughts, her weird little genius brain — and I get it. It wasn’t bad. It was just misunderstood.”

The interviewer softened. “That must be healing, in a way.”

“It is,” he said, gently. “She gives me a second chance at everything.”

You were now upside-down on the couch, your head hanging off the edge while your feet pointed at the ceiling. “Can I tell them about the frog I found yesterday?”

“No,” Kurt said, laughing. “Maybe next interview.”

As the camera crew started to wrap up, the interviewer leaned over one last time.

“You seem like you’ve found peace, Kurt.”

He looked at you — still upside down, now singing softly to yourself — and smiled.

“Peace, chaos, whatever this is,” he said. “It’s mine. And I’m still here.”