By: Tom Dibblee
Turns out, you did it, right down to the crime part, and now guess what? You’re doing time too. Yes. You really are here. This isn’t a dream. Your toilet is right there by the gate. You live on a bunk bed again. You never thought you’d live on a bunk bed again. You thought you were over roommates. You thought you’d matured enough to live alone. Think again.
Around the Neighborhood
You wake up in the morning and you don’t really want to be in your house. So you go to the coffee shop, and after that, you come up with an errand to run, and then you read a magazine at the newsstand without paying for it. Then you get another cup of coffee because you know you’re going to get beer pretty soon so you don’t have to worry about sleep problems. Though you worry about sleep problems anyway, because where do you sleep? Back at your house. You can’t sleep at the bar though. You can’t sleep at the coffee shop either. And obviously women are out of the question. That’s right, you can’t hang out around the neighborhood for twenty-four hours a day. But you can get pretty close.
Loose Fitting Clothing
You can’t remember what that movie you saw last month about sweatpants was. But after you saw it you knew you were on board. So you sat down to write a movie about sweatpants. You couldn’t inhabit the part though. Your shirt was hurting your neck. You put on lotion. Your neck still hurt. Also, your belt buckle was hurting your stomach, even though you’re regular weight and your buckle’s regular size. You take off the belt buckle. Your pants fall down. There’s a grandma outside the window who sees your underwear. You need a new kind of pant. You go get one. Guess what kind it is.
You read the paper, but not very closely. You listen to the radio, but you don’t get good reception. You watch TV, but not the news, because they’re always talking about petty theft, which you don’t believe in. You don’t know what’s going on. There’s an election coming up. You’re nervous. You want to do your duty. You call your dad and ask him for advice about politics. You haven’t asked him for advice about politics for over a decade. You get on the phone. He tells you stuff. You remember why you stopped asking him.
You go jogging for fifteen minutes. Your lungs blow up. You get a voice box. Your friends complain they don’t know you anymore because you sound like a robot. You go on the Internet. You find out the Internet’s a safe place for people like you. You start to believe that you can live on the Internet. You start to actually live on the Internet. Your skin starts to turn sickly yellow, on top of everything else.