rrrrrr

Thought for the day: The internet isn’t funny. Viral videos are based upon the fallacious idea that you can share an inside joke millions of strangers.
It’s too hot in this apartment. I feel miserable. I haven’t changed my clothes in three days and I’m not about to start. I slept on a half-filled air mattress on top of some half-empty paint cans and had a lucid dream about smoking crack with my roommates. Not to get high, just to stay awake. They threw on a porn and for ten minutes we watched oiled Eastern European men rub themselves and each other.
“Wait, guys. Don’t worry. The girls will show up soon.” They never did.
But now I’m awake.
My cell phone goes off. It’s Pete Treason. I wonder if his father is still a tree. I press receive.
“I have a gun loaded and I’m ready to die,” he begins.
I laugh and hang up. As of September I have over 200 friends.
It rings again immediately. Number restricted.
“I’ll have one coffee to go.”
“Do I look like a drive-thru Starbucks? Do I look like a can of beans?”
“No, you look like a MILF.” I can’t argue. I just had my tips frosted. If only great hair could cure this horrible hangover. I need something to drink. The only thing in my refrigerator is dozens of bottles of Odwalla Superfood, because I heard it makes your semen taste great and that’s very important to someone who drinks as much of their own jism as I do. If I turn on the tap it just spits out snakes. Which is something I’m fine with. I like snakes. They remind me of fancy belts.
I got so wasted on beers last night. I’m not even sure what happened. All I remember is that short Norwegian guy who wanted to fight me because I was tonguekissing his girlfriend/roommate in the middle of the party or something plus he thought I was gay which was such a wrongheaded assumption. I would never date any guy who was gay. It’s who I am. And then this lady cop showed up, but I couldn’t hear anything she was saying because I was wearing a snowsuit layered inside a second snowsuit and it muffled the sound. Weirdly enough, they were the same snowsuits that I was wearing when my parents took me to visit my grandfather. As it turned out, he’d died six months prior so they shouted “FOOLED YOU” and shoved me onto the ground but it didn’t hurt at all because of the snowsuits.
Maybe a shower would help, but I’m too nervous to attempt it. The last time I tried to shower I stepped into the stall and was struck by tens of thousands of tiny pieces of water.
I really need something to do. I’m out of coke and there isn’t any cocaine left. I have 16 or 17 luftballoons right now, but most of them are in Ye Olde Nike Sweate Shoppe for repaires. What do people even do all day? Do yoga? Pray for death? Mendaciously surf the boobtube and eat chicken flavored crackers? You can’t put chicken in a cracker. Yeah. I’ll turn on the TV.
Maury is on. A paternity show. Jesus claims he’s the son of God. The results come in and Mary starts crying. “GOD DONE TOLD YA, BITCH! KID AIN’T MINE!” He throws a few lightning bolts and they cut to commercial. I turn it on full volume because my landlady is a 6’ 1” latina with a wintour bob, a lip piercing and too much foundation so she can rot in hell.
I got an idea to solve all my problems. I’ll head to Starbucks. I pack up my iPod, my iBook and my copy of The Starter Wife with a crude, tattered cover of Gravity’s Rainbow taped over the outside. I advance the bookmark about 50 pages, in case anyone who saw me carrying it yesterday takes note.
And there’s facebook. Thank god for facebook. I’d really been jonesing for seminude self-taken photos of my 14 year old cousin.
Three hours later I leave house. There’s a telegram boy hanging around outside my door so I charm the black off him and credit it to my checkbook. I pass a fat woman and my already infirm stomach falters. Ugh. It seems like humans are the only species that gets more disgusting as we gain gross amounts of weight. It’s like we’re more closely related to ants than kittens. Also both ants and humans dig holes.
I’m sick of the riff-raff. I cross myself and teleport to the front of the coffee shack. A sign hangs. “No shirts no shoes no service” is such an unfair law. It discriminates against people with no feet or torsos. If I was in charge of the world, those signs would read, “No brakes! NO BRAKES! TWO SNAKES!”
Leo meets me inside and questions me as I wait in line.
“Did I ever tell you about the girl who I thought gave me crabs?”
“No. We don’t share anything anymore.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, anyway. It was this average looking girl who kept talking about being a model, and I was making fun of her because she wasn’t that good-looking. So we had sex. But it turned out she was a model and her boyfriend gave her crabs. But I didn’t get them.”
I elbow past Leo to reach a free table. But he has other ideas. Interesting ideas.
“Horse socks,” he suggests.
I throw coffee in his face. Why did I have coffee already? It doesn’t matter. Thanks for the idea, jagoff. I’ll see you at the patent office! I begin to run. But I am not running to the patent office.