Still Need a Title
I haven't updated in eons, and the truth is that I've a lot to update about. Hmm, perhaps later. Anyway, remember that story I wrote about the idiotic businessman? Still no? Eh. Well, here's part six.
Link to Part Five.
“You’re sure about this? It could go horribly wrong.”
I shrugged. “It can’t be worse than that time I went to Yorkshire and accidentally hired the Russian mafia to kill me.”
José blinked those exquisite dark lashes of his. Was he wearing mascara? Anyway, he conceded with a hesitant yet tremendously grateful “all right.”
My friend was having some financial troubles, so we decided that he should move in with me. The truth is that I was feeling extremely lonely after Dominique and I broke up. Usually it’s people that make me want to kill myself, but for some bizarre reason, I couldn’t stand being around myself anymore.
And that’s rather unfortunate since I am around myself all the time.
Because José planned on moving in two days from now, I decided to call up my darling mother and tell her the good news. I also had to ask her to return my Segway. She and dad were using it for something, but I’m not quite sure what specific activity it was.
“You know why that model broke up with you, right?” my mother said to me from the other end of the line.
“She was a supermodel, mom. Can’t you get anything correct?”
“You know why that supermodel broke up with you, right?”
“Because I’m a figurative bastard who isn’t going anywhere in life?”
“Because of your Segway!”
“What?!” I screeched shrilly like a little girl on a rollercoaster. ... Or like me on a rollercoaster.
“I’m taking that blasted contraption away from you!” I could feel her glaring at me with an intense amount of fury, and my knees were rendered so weak that they began to knock against each other in trepidation. My voice quivered and suddenly I was brought back to the fourth grade, standing vulnerably in front of the classroom with my olive trousers missing and my striped bowtie askew. I couldn’t fight back. I felt like Poland.
The lack of cool transport added to my depression, but I still didn’t want to see my therapist. Instead, the next day, I went to work early so I could see my coworkers and inconvenience them.
“What’s getting you down?” inquired Phil as I shuffled in.
“Gravity. But that’s just a theory.”
Phil rolled his eyes, probably because my joke wasn’t even clever. Before he could tell me to not quit my day job, Christopher strode over to us with an assortment of files in one hand, and a tower of golden toast in the other.
“You’ll have to approve an idea by noon,” he told me as he handed me the files.
“Thanks, Basil.”
“Chris.”
I took the toast from the ivory plate in his other hand and bit it ferociously like a hyena. “Hmm, yes, this toast is quite-” (I paused to be extra annoying,) “-crisp.”
Christopher glared while Phil buried himself in secondhand embarrassment.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Basil, I was just telling these lovely people about the misery that is my life.”
“And why are you so miserable?” Christopher questioned in such a way that implied that he did not really want to know what was getting my knickers in a melancholy bundle.
“Because my mother took away my ‘blasted contraception!’” I shouted, using jazz hands instead of air-quotes, since I hate air-quotes.
“Contraception?” Phil raised an eyebrow. “Does she want to be a grandmother?”
“Well, I suppose so, but I don’t see how the two correlate,” I said, not seeing how the two correlated.
“And I don’t see how you’re my superior,” Christopher mumbled under his breath before he turned around on his heel and briskly walked into the conference room.
I raised an eyebrow and shuffled into my office after waving goodbye to my beloved friends. My hair flopped in my eyes in an absolutely vexing way since I hadn’t bothered to curl it. I was so excited to be around my friends that it had completely slipped my mind. I wanted to kick myself for choosing my friends over beauty. Happily, I still looked dashing.
I was reclining my swivel chair when José ambled in with one hand in his pocket, and another grasping a cup of tea.
“Where do you want to go for lunch today?” he asked.
A soft sound of indifference managed to escape my lips before Sir Chasm spontaneously burst into the room without knocking.
“Do you mind?” I drawled whilst attempting to balance a giant souvenir pencil between my pink upper lip and slender nose. “I’m quite busy.”
Sir Chasm’s jaw dropped to the floor faster than a Catholic girl’s dress on prom night.
“Is this what you’ve been doing for the past two weeks?” he shouted without even attempting to be sarcastic.
“Not entirely,” I yawned. “Sometimes I go to the water cooler and spread ridiculous rumors. Or I dance provocatively in front of the window. I tried doing a mix of both once, but Cindy was utterly disgusted and threatened to-.”
“Look,” interrupted Sir Chasm, “they started filming one of our commercials in Dallas, and I’m afraid it’s going terribly wrong. We need you to go there and fix it.”
José nearly spit out his herbal tea all over my amazing carpet.
“You’re completely correct,” Sir Chasm said to José, who hadn’t said a word. “Christopher will have to go with him to make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.”
I gawked at José, who gawked at Sir Chasm, who looked out the window philosophically.
This week would be existentially traumatic.
“Okay, so you’ll get yourself settled in, and then I’ll be back in a few days,” I explained to José, who was wearing a casual pink polo that matched the sunrise.
“Don’t worry about me,” he flashed a smile. “Phil is here to help, and Amir will be here later to help.”
“I suspect they’ll also be here to ransack my home and drink all of my Canada Dry like a pair of Vikings.”
“I don’t quite think that’s what Vikings did,” José laughed.
I smirked and turned to get into my Phantom, but then I realized that I had misplaced my car keys. Thinking quickly, I dashed back into the house, hopped on my swivel chair, and Googled the location of my car keys. Usually Google is quite helpful, but today, when I needed it the most, it was a useless piece of garbage. Before I could explode out of frustration, Amir, with my keys jingling in his hand, came into the computer room. He claimed that the keys were on the coffee table the entire time. Thanks, Google, for being more useless than my coworkers.
I skipped outside and jumped into my Phantom. Amir sat down in the passenger seat, delighted, and we sped off after waving goodbye to José and Phil. Usually people would be protective of their cars, but this box of metal was hideous, so I didn’t mind Amir driving it back from the airport. Besides, I couldn’t stop fretting about my Segway.
The airport was terribly crowded, and I sincerely abhor when people breathe my air. Hundreds of people in uncomfortable business suits were dashing across the white floor, hurrying to catch their flights. Families dressed in typical tourist outfits were dragging their luggage to their gates. The father would hold the cumbersome bags whilst the mother struggled with the youngest offspring, and of course the prepubescent child would be too busy to help because they would be Twating on the FaceSpace using their iPhonograph. What has the world come to?
Airport security was such a hassle. Contrastingly, they would argue that I was such a hassle, but I was extremely bored and felt the need to spice up the tedious security procedures.
“Sir, please remove your belt,” said a middle-aged woman with her dirty blonde hair up in a bun.
I winked and smiled coyly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She frowned and spark of rage in her eyes indicated that she wasn’t in the mood for my hilarity.
As I removed my leather belt in a sultry manner, (whilst wiggling my posterior,) the old couple behind me started complaining. The middle-aged woman detected the beginnings of a riot, so she started to ask me questions in an attempt to speedily get me through security and away from civilized society.
“Has anyone you don’t know handed you a package to carry on board with you?”
I glanced down. “Well, God did bestow upon me this wondrous gift, but I feel that talking about it is jus-.”
Two men roughly grabbed me by the arms and led me to a blank wall on the opposite side of where all of the other civilians were. This was perfectly fine, since I rather liked it rough. I found myself being slammed against the cold wall, and one of the security guards was searching me for weapons.
“Mmm, a little lower,” I begged.
The hands stopped abruptly, much to my dismay. What a tease.
“Nick?” asked the guard in a very familiar voice.
I tried to crane my neck in order to see who was addressing (and not undressing) me, but the other guard had my shoulders pinned.
“Calm down, Darrell. I actually have the displeasure of knowing this idiot.”
Darrell thankfully loosed his grip, but I still could not move away from the wall. Luckily I knew who the owner of the familiar voice was.
“Vince, is that you? I haven’t seen you since that time in Vancouver when we accidentally went to that club thinking it was for straight men and then we-.”
Vince slammed my face against the wall and squished my cheek (er, the one on my face) to prevent me from divulging any more information. I heard Darrell cough uncomfortably.
“Look, I know you’re a moron,” Vince’s low voice stated quietly, “so I’m going to search you and threaten you with a fine, since all you’ve done is act like a twelve-year-old idiot. Now swear to me that you’ll never reproduce, or tell anyone about that night in Vancouver.”
I knew I loved that man for a reason.
“And what took you so long?” Christopher asked without looking up from his thrilling novel. By that I mean he was reading a thrilling novel that someone else had written, not one that he had written himself.
“Nothing. Your perception of time is incredibly warped.”
Christopher’s annoyed eyes slowly met mine and they glared. “You know I don’t particularly fancy going on this trip either, but the fact is that we’re stuck together, so we might as well attempt to be civil towards each other.”
Thankfully, just as Christopher finished his dreary monologue, they started boarding passengers. I allowed Christopher to sit next to the window since sitting by the aisle gave me a false sense of power. Christopher protested, at first, because he figured I’d enjoy looking at the pretty shapes of the clouds, but I am smarter than that.
“And what’s outside now?” I asked Chris, three seconds after we were seated.
“The airport.”
“And now?” I nagged a minute later.
“Still the airport,” he grumbled, exasperated.
“And now?” I repeated thirty seconds later.
“We haven’t even moved yet!” snapped Chris. “People are still getting on board.”
I crossed my arms and pouted. “And whose fault is that?”
A flight attendant dressed in navy blue demonstrated what to do in case of a catastrophe. Everyone on the plane looked like they were hooked up to IV bags filled with boredom, and I couldn’t blame them.
“And in case of Communist aliens attacking, please be sure to duck and cover,” I exhaled sardonically.
“I thought you were a Communist,” Christopher said with a raised eyebrow.
“No, Basil, I’m a Federalist,” I said matter-of-factly.
“No, you’re not. They’re all extinct.”
“That’s what they said about the dodo, yet you’re still here.”
Christopher pursed those thin lips of his and turned away from me.
“I wonder if they’ll play a movie,” I wondered aloud.
“I wonder if they’ll suffocate me,” Chris responded.
I glared. I wanted a movie. I demanded entertainment, just like how a small child demands a juice box. Unfortunately, the only remotely good movie available for my viewing pleasure was some indie film about a blond idiot who loved to play baseball even though he was no good at it. Therefore, instead of watching a movie, I browsed the extremely elitist SkyMall catalogue. Who would ever buy anything from there? Well, I was guilty of owning the electronic trouser pants presser that was displayed in the catalogue, but I stopped using it after I lost my favorite pair of charcoal trousers. Who loses trousers in their own home?
“Hey, Basil, look at the Batman Begins cane they have here. I kind of want it, but I don’t know where I’d put it.”
“I can think of a delightful place,” Christopher snarled as he stared out the window, determined to not meet my steel gaze.
The plane was well up into the air now, and I saw Christopher’s book resting in his lap, closed, with an expired coupon for baby oil shoved between the pages as a makeshift bookmark. Since I was feeling so helpful, I rummaged through my Salvatore Ferragamo briefcase and found a number of proper bookmarks with “inspirational” sayings on them.
“Here, Basil,” I began. “I found for you a number of proper bookmarks with inspirational sayings on them.”
Christopher brushed the floppy blond hair out of his eyes and took the bookmarks from my cold hand. His dark eyes darted across the sayings.
“A day without you is like a rainforest without snow.”
“Nothing is impossible ... aside from achieving your dreams.”
“Reading literature won’t make you more interesting.”
Christopher made a face. “These are quite the opposite of inspirational.”
“Well, they help me get through the day,” I shrugged.
“I thought sleeping periodically during daylight hours got you through the day.”
“That too,” I conceded. “Which reminds me, I feel sleepy. Be my pillow for me.”
“Can’t you just use one of the pillows provided by the airline?”
“Preposterous! Me rest my chestnut curls on that vile, filthy haven for microbial germs? I think not!” I made an artistic gesture with my hand.
“You rest your fake curls on me and I’ll flick you in the nose,” he glowered.
I crossed my arms like a six-year-old and demanded a small bottle of vodka.
We got off the plane and went to claim our luggage. The suitcases spun around hypnotically and enchanted me. Oh, Louis Vuitton, you and your ability to put me in a deep trance. Alas, my fragile arms couldn’t lift my suitcases in a timely manner, so I appointed Christopher to the task. He was thoroughly displeased and scowled the entire time. To relieve him, I decided to begrudgingly drag my bulky suitcases across the airport floor, even though the suitcase did not have wheels. We exited the large building and the western wind greeted us noisily. There was a sleek, black limo waiting for us in the parking lot. Christopher and I clambered in.
Moments later, we clambered out because the limo wasn’t actually waiting for us and we hailed a cab. Christopher and I sat down in a yellow taxi which smelled of pine and embarrassing one night stands. The driver sped off towards the Dallas skyline, and I was amazed by the architecture. It was so postmodern, and I recognized I. M. Pei’s amazing works of art. The man never ceased to astound me. Fountain Place stood dazzling in the heat of the afternoon sun, and the Bank of America Plaza towered over the other buildings fiercely. The highways were magnificent and splendidly clean.
Some advocates of modern architecture frown on postmodern architecture because of how ornate it sometimes tends to be. I can see where they’re coming from, since we’re now living in a time where everyone can better themselves, and the aristocracy isn’t better than the lower class. Nevertheless, it is imperative that buildings still have some amount flair and personality. Others argue that pizzazz is a waste of money, but if designed properly, a great postmodern building can attract a massive amount of tourism and generate revenue for the city, state, and country. Perhaps to some, the plain, modern buildings are more aesthetically pleasing, but I find them boring and enjoy having something to look at. A number of people are very visual, so the more positive attention a building attracts, the better. Modern buildings are just canvases for graffiti.
Within minutes we were at the studio, and Christopher was physically pushing me into the building.
“But there are pigeons just across the street!” I protested, whilst knowing my efforts were futile. “Aww, look at how fluffy they are! I want to name one of them Ingerborg.”
The advertisement being filmed completely went awry from our agency’s earlier vision. Their star, a young man from Taiwan, was yawning out of boredom. This commercial was supposed to be exciting and absurd like spring break in Amsterdam!
“What’s going on here?” I demanded an answer from the director.
“We’re changing a few things,” started the man in an Australian accent. “We fear people won’t purchase our product with the original commercial idea.”
I donned my pretentious beret, false mustache, and horrible German accent. Then I stormed onto the set and yelled ferociously. People were trembling in fear (or perhaps they were just cold.) After hours upon hours of yelling German words like “witzelsucht” and “ersatz,” everyone finally started listening to me and my intimidating facial hair. (Maybe this was because I named my mustache Lucifer and gave it its own homicidal personality.)
When the filming for the day was finally over, Christopher and I headed over to our hotel. It was a looming building that enticed us with its conservative demeanor and promises of relaxing fun. The lobby reeked of desperation as men and women dashed about in Armani suits, trying to impress their bosses while hoping for a promotion. A tall, sea green vase stood in the middle of the lobby with curves that would make Venus de Milo seethe. Multicolored flowers jutted out in every direction and inquisitively peered over the shoulders of business people who were examining confidential documents
The man behind the desk took a sip from his berry smoothie. “And you two are?”
“Human, if you ask Nietzsche, or my biology professor from university, although I personally believe that I am merely a brain suspended in a goop, imagining my reality despite never having experienced it, therefore I may just be imagining some sort of fabrication, which is essentially what an imagined scenario is, but why would any sane person imagine such a horror? It is arguable that the sane imagine imperfect lives to create a feeling of reality, but if reality has never been experienced, there can be no universal concept of sanity. Sometimes I wonder if we can even call this mundane thread of tedious tasks ‘life.’”
The man continued to sip with a bored look on his face and a bushy caterpillar under his nose. I told him to shave. Christopher, being the delightful piece of white chocolate that he is, stepped on my silver Salvatore Ferragamo lace-ups. Then he smiled and somehow managed to get the keys to our room.
Wait. Room?
“Room.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’m not exactly pleased either!”
“But why?!” I demanded an answer.
“Because you’re not the most tolerable person to-”
“No, I meant why is it only one room?!”
“Because you demanded an entire suite and Ms. Thrope wasn’t going to give you that without a compromise.”
“Just like Henry Clay.”
“Who?”
I shrugged. “Some guitarist from the ‘50s.”
Before Christopher and I went upstairs, we decided to eat dinner downstairs. There was a casual restaurant located on floor ‘B,’ and since neither of us was in the mood for French foods that tasted more awful than they sounded, we felt that this was a superb place to dine.
To our dismay, ‘casual’ for this hotel meant half a step below Versailles.
“What’re you ordering?” Christopher asked me.
“Glass of cyanide with a hint of scotch. You?”
“I’m an arsenic man myself,” he smirked.
The glittering red tiles blinded me from time to time, so I stared at the people dining in the restaurant. There were two old people reminiscing about the time when they first met, which was probably during high school because people back then married early and had kids early and wanted to be grandparents early. Near them was a couple not too much older than me. The woman stared at the man vacantly as she shoveled her salad past those large, red lips and into her mouth. I supposed that she had spent hours trying to get her hair to sit perfectly atop her head and was very much disappointed when her significant other didn’t notice. She, however, did notice her significant other watch the waitress bend down to pick up a fork, and this caused her to erupt dangerously like Mount Vesuvius. During her ear-shattering shrieking fit, her boyfriend looked like he was caught in a wind tunnel.
Christopher let out a bark of laughter once the scene ended and managed to obtain an ounce of respect from me.
After dinner I had a White Russian while Christopher had a Rusty Nail. When I say that, I mean that Christopher had an alcoholic drink, and I tried to hit on a Russian woman but had no luck. She didn’t find my joke about invading her Southern region hilarious. Once that embarrassing incident was over, I ordered myself a drink as well. Tonight would be excruciatingly long and Christopher and I couldn’t stand each other enough to spend it completely sober.
Our suite was magnificent and had a slight historic flair. There was a telescope artistically located in the living room, although the city lights dismantled all hopes of seeing a star in the hazy night sky. What a waste. I realized that most of the historic pieces in this hotel and suite were actually art pieces, and this pleased me. Many hotels now are realizing the power of art, and as long as they stay away from hideous modern art, they can thrive in this economy. The art of creating an entire relaxing world within a building is already a difficult task, and pieces from history that add a regional flair can only increase the number of rooms booked.
Unless of course it is a hotel in South Carolina, and they choose to hang a giant Confederate flag from the ceiling. Racism is vile.
Despite the many rooms in the suite, there was only one room designed for sleeping. Luckily there were two separate beds, each draped with soft emerald sheets.
“Which bed do you want?”
I shrugged. “I suppose the one near the door. No, the window. No, the door. No, the window. No, the door. No, the window! Bah, I can’t decide!” I threw my arms up in frustration. “Which do you want?”
Christopher blinked and wondered how I made it past the age of three. “Door.”
“But I wanted the door!”
“Then I’ll take the window.”
“You’ll take naught!” With that shouted, I threw myself onto the bed and pretended I was in a sea of luxury. Christopher merely rolled his mocha eyes and went into another room to change.
About five minutes later, we both realized that we had purchased the same pair of plaid Ralph Lauren pajamas. This was like my senior prom when this lesbian and I showed up wearing the same leather kilt.
Except this time I didn’t have a crowd of emotional high school girls laughing at me and my sexy knees.
Luckily we didn’t have the same toothpaste. He preferred mint, whilst I was a huge fan of bubblegum.
Christopher immediately crawled into the bed, in dire need for sleep, since today had been tiring. I, however, wanted to finish reading this intriguing IKEA catalogue.
“Can’t you read some other time?” Christopher implored as he rolled over. “I’m extremely sensitive to light.”
“I’m extremely sensitive to huge sales on Swedish furniture.”
“You’re about as sensitive as Calvin Coolidge.”
“What’s that? An ice cream flavor?”
He mumbled something rude and buried his head under the pillow. I decided that an extra hour of sleep would only make me look more gorgeous than normal, so I turned off the lights and slithered under the warm green covers.
Forty-five minutes later, I was still wide awake. Perhaps if I was curled up in my Snuggie, I would’ve been fast asleep. Alas, I had let Vince the Shamwow guy borrow it, and he never bothered to return it. Bitch.
“Baaaaaaaasil,” I whispered like how I imagined Rasputin would if he were in this situation.
My creepiness didn’t cause Christopher to stir so I leapt like a lemur over the abyss between our beds and landed on him. Christopher, naturally, let out a howl so powerful that it had the potential to alert all of the werewolves and mother-in-laws within a twenty mile radius of the hotel. As he was thrashing about like a catfish, I crawled under his covers and popped his personal space bubble.
“Tell me a story.”
“WHAT?!”
“I can’t sleep! Tell me a story!”
“I’m not telling you a story!”
“A tale, then? A fable? Novella? I’m not picky,” I lied.
“If you don’t get out of this bed within five seconds, you won’t be alive either.”
I started singing loudly in a pitch that could make Justin Timberlake tremble. “Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, you’re STAYIN’ ALIVE. STAYIN’ ALIVE!” I had no idea if they were the right lyrics, but they seemed to be doing the trick.
“SHUT. UP,” Christopher begged as he went deeper under the covers, perhaps hoping to find a wormhole that would take him to an open bar.
“Tell me a story!” I demanded as I jumped up and down on the bed.
“FINE!” vociferated Christopher as he burst from under the covers, peeved. “I’ll tell you one story. Only one. And then you have to promise to go to bed and leave me the hell alone.”
I sat on the bed and bounced in excitement.
“Once upon a time there was-”
My eyelids got heavy and I collapsed on top of Christopher.
On our last day in Texas, I arose during blue hour and took a moment to stare at the breathtaking cityscape before me. A sheet of tranquility seemed to envelop the city, which usually seemed boisterous and uncontrollable. The green lights of the buildings twinkled sadly, knowing that in a few moments, the sun would rise from the east. Quite a number of people prefer to take photographs during the first hour of sunrise, but I believe that Dallas is the most glorious right before.
“Did you take too much allergy medication again?” Christopher asked, genuinely concerned about my dazed expression.
I shrugged. “Most likely.”
Christopher rolled his eyes and went to take a shower.
As I had already showered, I devoted two hours to deciding what suit I would wear. A black suit would make me look exquisitely powerful, but I desperately wanted to wear my brown leather belt, and that would call for a brown suit. In the end I went with my favorite type of suit: bathing.
I was sure to make a grand exit out of the hotel. After tipping the maid with old arcade tokens, I headed downstairs and into the main hall. A romantic wedding was scheduled, but I kidnapped the heron ice sculpture and used it to turn the aisle into a personal Slip n’ Slide. Boy was everybody sore. The hotel manager yelled at me and said something about not wanting to see me again. I told him I was looking forward to seeing his mother tonight, and his heel practically escorted my rear out the revolving door.
No one on the plane cared for my fabulous sense of style; they were all too busy browsing the SkyMall catalogue. I haughtily snapped open my copy of the latest IKEA catalogue and perused it with a twinkle of interest in my eyes. Christopher actually slept the entire way back home. I guess he didn’t get much sleep because of me and my irritable late night antics. Graciously, I let the poor man sleep and started a conversation with the younger gentleman sitting across the aisle.
“Yeah, I’m from New York,” he said to me.
“Ah. I’m from Jersey.”
He snorted. “Jersey. Hey, at least I can pump my own gas.”
“Yeah, I imagine you’d know quite a lot about self-service,” I smirked.
The rest of the plane ride was awkward for him and his extremely religious girlfriend. This little kid sitting in front of me was so unbelievably annoying. He kept turning around and making rude faces. That was all right, but once he criticized my shoes, I was enraged. To get back at him, I told him he was adopted. To my surprise, he actually was adopted. I had completely missed the obvious difference in skin tone between him and his mother.
Amir came to pick us up at the airport, and I had no trouble finding my suitcases since they were an insufferable shade of chartreuse. He told me that José had moved in, but he had done some redecorating. I was actually fine with that, since my place was bare and dismal anyway.
“Welcome back!” shouted José when I entered the house.
Or at least that’s what I wish he had done.
Instead he said, “Really, Nick? You still get your milk delivered in glass bottles?”
“Well, yeah. It’s better than milk in a bag.”
“Milk in a bag?”
“Milk in a bag!”
José seemed very confused about the idea of getting milk in a bag as opposed to a more rigid container, but I assured him that this was entirely possible.
“I assure you that this is entirely possible,” I assured him.
“I still don’t believe you,” he chuckled, not believing me.
Sighing, I hopped on my Hoveround (since I had no Segway) and headed over to the nearest market.
“Well, well, well. Look who it is,” I taunted the cashier who once thought his jokes about Russia were funnier than mine.
He gave me a bemused look, as if he had absolutely no idea who I was.
“I have absolutely no idea who you are,” he monotonously replied.
“I bet you don’t!” I retorted.
He blinked and turned, clearly unable to match my witticisms.
Anyway, I spent the next half hour looking for milk in a bag, but instead I got the phone numbers of a few ladies who found my Hoveround arousing. They were all old enough to be my grandma, so I was hoping I could call them up and have them bake me a cake or score me some Cortisone. I eventually found some milk in a Tetra Pak, and figured that it was good enough, especially because it was Swedish.
When I returned home to show José my findings, I found Christopher on my couch, looking ill, tired and desperate for sleep. That’s when I realized how loathsome and obnoxious I am. ... All right, that’s when Amir made it clear to me that I’m loathsome and obnoxious. Christopher had consistently tolerated my stupidity for around ninety hours straight. To show my gratitude, I actually let Christopher sleep in my bed, and I even tried to tell him a story.
“Once upon a time, there was a secret society in Russia-.”
“Please be quiet,” Christopher beseeched, practically sobbing.
I frowned and got off the bed. “I guess I’ll just talk to you tomorrow, Chris.”
The “Chris” was just a slip of the tongue, but I swear that for a fraction of a second, I saw a smile flicker across his face and fade as he drifted off into a deep slumber.
Of course the next morning he yelled at me for drawing a monocle and curly mustache on him with permanent marker, but I’m sure that deep down, he still delighted in the fact that I had now gained a massive amount of respect for him.