DAVIS - Doing my best (I won’t mention his name on such a public forum) impression, I killed my cell phone last night. Apparently, urinating on your cell phone is not a good idea. Who would have thought?
I told the guy at the store that it fell in the pool. Though I never like to lie, I felt it was necessary. He was a nice guy but, regardless of his charms, I feel he deserved it.
I don’t know if I was still drunk or if he was a hell of a salesman but I bought, heaven forbid, an iPhone.
I can barely afford to buy a bucket to defecate in and yet I bought the yuppie’s accessory.
It might be my need to settle sports arguments, my penchant for wikipedia, or my need for constant access to pornography that led me to purchase such a needless device, but it most likely is living beyond my means that incites me so.
As my father says, “He’s drinking champagne on a beer budget.”
Izza warned me not to, and she was right, but there was something that told me I had to have it.
The ability, I guess, to see Jenna Jameson with her feet behind her head anytime I desire was too good a deal to pass up.
It looks like PB-and-J sandos till the next paycheck for me. It looks like the doghouse will be my house for the rest of this pay period.
Looking back, majoring in English probably wasn’t a very good idea. Maybe entertaining some delusion that I can write wasn’t the best delusion one could have.
Poverty is never nice, but poverty with a college degree has a particular sting to it. The felling of entitlement is lost in the day-to-day shoveling of manure of it all.
Education doesn’t mean a thing when you have nothing to eat. And you can’t eat an iPhone.
Last night was bad. Anytime I find myself in a bar in Sacramento is bad. And anytime I find myself in a cash-only bar in Sacramento is especially bad.
The music was good, I think. I remember very little of it all but I think it was good. I woke up with Cyndi Lauper in my head and I have no idea where that would have come from other than the bar.
The blur of it all seems eerily reminiscent of Saturdays past with more strangers, less nudity and a healthy dose of desperation.
I had a vague memory of wanting to get a tattoo. According to Izza, I was set on the idea until she stopped me, with constant reminding, that there was no way possible they were going to tattoo a man in my state.
“I’m a sailor,” I thought. “Without the sodomy, of course,” I figured. “They have to tat me up.”
Luckily, I relented. If I had woke up this morning with an anchor on my arm I would have . . . well, joined the Navy, I guess.
Instead, I am alone, writing, with no money, a headache, and an order for an iPhone. They gave me a loaner phone, but I have no idea how to use it and I lost all my numbers. So holler at your boy. Luckily, I can’t go on one of my patented drunk-dial sprees of which I am known for. At least for now.
Have you succumbed? Visit Gulp Fiction and let us know your iPhone adventures.