I recently stumbled upon this little gem, apparently written at some point between August 2006-January 2007, AKA “The Dark Time,” AKA “The time when my beloved roommate Dave and I decided to rent out our third bedroom to “Colby The Homicidal Maniac.” Colby was arrested three days after he moved in for inexplicably wielding a machete at passers-by on Franklin Street, Chapel Hill’s main thoroughfare. For some unknown reason, that did not inspire us to kick him out. I like to think it was because we were somewhat fascinated with him in a sort of “What WILL he do next?” sort of way. He had a two-year-old son who lived with his mother, a beautiful twenty-year-old named Jessica. Colby and Jessica despised each other and proved it by regularly engaging in The Sex, an act which allowed them to pass chlamydia back and forth to one another ad infinitum.
Colby had a long-haired, irritating-as-FUCK friend named Sam, who, without Dave’s or my permission, moved into our living room one day and just sort of. . .stayed there. He thought it acceptable to replace our coffee table with his massage table, thereby blocking our path through the living room to anywhere else in the house. His massage oils permeated our home with the cloying sweetness of Eau de Nursing Home. We would often come home to find Sam fast asleep on our couch, naked save for a pair of graying tightie-whities and a Dungeon Master Guidebook covering his face. At four in the afternoon.
So I guess I was sitting there one night, minding my own business, cataloging a series of events as it unfolded before my very eyes. Here it is, and this is for you and you only because you and I are smarter than everyone else in the world, and I know you’ll really appreciate this.
Homicidal Colby and Sam are drunk on sake and Italian sausage. A bourgeois crowd, they are. Homicidal Colby is sitting next to me, talking about muskrats with one hand on his crotch and he’s drinking straight out of the cranberry juice bottle. Sam is holding a melting popsicle and yelling “FROLIC” at my dog. I am currently collecting every piece of paper in sight and ensconcing each one in plastic with the laminating machine my dad got from the elementary school surplus drive. My dad wants me to instate the laminator as a family heirloom.
So I laminated a business card just now but I did it wrong. The card doubled back on itself and got stuck in the laminator. It smelled like burning. Tool is playing in the background.
Homicidal Colby was like, “What is that smell.” He said it like a statement, not a question.
I was like, “The laminator?” I said it like a question, not a statement.
Sam is all, “Fancy! I didn’t know we had a laminator.” I replied, “Who the fuck is ‘WE’? You do not live here.”
It sparked a fifteen minute discussion about all the fancy gadgets I have brought into the house, like colanders and dry erase boards and extension cords, objects which apparently qualify as “fancy” to some people. Suddenly, Sam was calling Homicidal Colby a “horse nazi.” I always miss stuff in their conversations, I get lost.
The boys are going to sleep now. The door shuts and Tool cuts off. My dog is licking my mattress with a fervor, and I have to slap her gently to stop because she just licked a bunch of shrubberies, ate a pile of cat shit, and puked white stuff. Twice. In a row.
I just had a frozen beef and cheddar chimichanga. I covered it with a shit-ton of shredded cheese and ovened in my broken, 700-degree-only oven and then tried to remove it without a potholder. I dropped it cause it was burning me but, instinctively, stupidly, I caught it in midair against my thigh. So I’m standing there with a seven hundred degree cheese-covered chimichanga smashed against my skirt, burning a burrito-shaped hole in my leg, and, like, I don’t know what to do next. So I just, like, run around frantically for a minute. There’s cheese and beef flying all over the place and my dog is catching the flying bits in the air like it’s some sort of game.
I am falling asleep on my keyboard.
It’s tomorrow. The day is gorgeous. Sam and I are out on the porch, and he’s frolicking in the dog-shit-laden grass, shoeless. I just had my first shower in four days because I have no one to impress.
Colby is yelling to me that the oven is aflame and the bathroom is flooded, and Sam just ran into the street and almost got hit by an unmanned grocery cart that came flying from out of nowhere, and now he is sitting in the grass, giggling and rocking back and forth and playing with twigs.
Okay, so that’s it. I know it didn’t really go anywhere, and nothing truly happened, but I figured you’d enjoy a play-by-play of stupid.