The other night I was in a haze of melancholy, and gastrointestinal fumes that can only be created by the combination of Thai and Mexican food on an empty stomach. As I sat on my couch, frantically gasping for breath, I realized that my melancholy could be used as a tool. You see what did the late 19th and early 20th century authors have in common? Melancholy and an addiction to either absinthe, blow, heroin or young boys.
Immediately I sprang to life as fast as a man with a stomach full of brewing toxins can. I determined that trying blow and heroin were way too "fucking real" for me to try, and that boning little boys was way beyond anything I ever want to think about. So that just left me with absinthe, which was a bummer because it was too late to buy any.
I decided to improvise on the cheap. Instead of using any of my wine, or other liquors I decided to bust open this old looking bottle of tequila. I figured that "vintage shit [had] to be vintage shit, dude". I took a few good swigs of the stuff and began to write an epic novel.
Somewhere around the first sentence of the epic novel I started to get a little side-tracked. I started stumbling around the Internet for a while looking for something to do. As all my pointless searches on the Internet go I ended up on Facebook. It's now that I realize what a blessing it is that our great writers of years gone by never had the Internet to contend with, or else I fear some of the greatest works that I've never read would never have been written.
Anyhow I was perusing various people's profiles, making fun of their pictures, hobbies and boyfriends when I realized I could harass these people on a more personal level. I took a few more swigs of tequila until I had the sufficient level of cajones to start calling people at 3 AM.
A lot of people didn't answer, but a few did. Here's a sampling of a few of the few conversations:
Some Girl: [Very sleepy] H-hello?
Me: Hey p-pretty lady? You got your vitamin Dan this morning?
SG: What? Who is this?
Me: Baby, the 90's called they wanna introduce you to caller ID.
SG: I don't have your number. This is really creepy.
Me: I just told you my name. My name is... my name is Dan and you got a pretty face...
SG: I'm hanging up.
Me: Your face is on fire. [she hangs up] Whore.
Another Girl: What Dan?
Me: Hey my white sexual chocolate, what say you and me rent a gondola and tour the world together, together.
AG: It's a weeknight why are you drunk?
Me: I'm writing the great American novel, bitch. What are you doing up, li'l miss judgementally challenged?
AG: I'm at work, you asshole. I can't talk...
Me: You work at fuckin' this late? Don't pick up the phone if you can't talk.
AG: Kay bye
Me: You didn't answer my question...
A Dude: Sup bro?
Me: Not much, dude. Kinda bummed 'cuz all these skanks, yo.
AD: Wanna come over and drink some beer?
Me: Yeah, I definitely need something to get the taste of tequila out of my mouth...
Well the next morning I wake up in this bright white room. I figured I died and went to heaven so I just nestled my head deeper into a soft white mound and waited for Jesus to come around and give me a tour of the joint.
That's when I realized I had a pounding headache and my nose was filled like I had been puking a few hours before. At that point I decided to say "fuck it" to the rest of the day, and finding out where the hell I was, and save all that shit for whenever the hell I woke up again.
I vaguely recall people coming in and out of the room, each of whom I somehow made eye contact with. Some were talkative, some not.
It must have been several hours later when I realized how out of place I really was. I decided to get up and noticed I had nestled myself in someone's laundry. I was in a laundry room in a building that did not look familiar.
"Hey dude, can you call me? I don't know where I am" was my frantic mass text I sent to nearly everyone in my phone book. Shame started to make sense to me and I became too afraid to stay in the laundry room, and far too afraid to ask any of the tenants where I was.
I was a mess, a disorientated mess stumbling down vacant, dimly light hallways frantically searching for the exit. I looked at my phone, and noticed all I could see was a blurry mess.
Somehow getting up from my laundry pile had discombobulated my eyeballs. Eventually I found my way outside, and it was dark, and it was not Madison... it was Middleton, the place God sends Whitewater business school graduates.
I vowed from that day forward to stay as far away from novels as possible.