does the existence of existentialism precede the essence of existential essentials?

I should warn you that the following post constitutes a written record of a dirty and far-too-extended joke, and is thus of no interest to anyone except me and the young lady with whom I share it. But I report it, nonetheless, out of a sense of obligation to my loyal readers, whose boundless enthusiasm for my life and work deserves no less.

We declared yesterday Existentialist Day. Channeling Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, we dressed in dark colorless clothes and tried not to smile all day. Among the day's activities, we traveled like po-mo pilgrims to the Montparnasse Cemetery, where we visited the graves of Sartre, Ionesco, Simone de Beauvoir, Beckett, Baudelaire, and other anti-luminaries.

Here we are, testifying to the absurdity of life by silently screaming into one another's ears in front of Samuel Beckett's gravestone. (Incidentally, this man stole several months of my life as I wrote my thesis on him, so it's only fitting that I should lovingly make light of his slide into eternity.) 

Taking reprieve from the existentially terrifying rain, we stopped by Les Deux Magots, a cafe once frequented by Hemingway, Picasso, and other characters from Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris, in addition to the already too-much mentioned French existentialists. 

Finally, in further testament to the absurdity of our world, I give you a photo from the Paris metro. In order to maximize the existential impact, I give it to you without comment or explanation. Bonn nuit.