So damn bright these days in the morning. My life is a calm and tepid puddle somewhere in the unused parking lot of a superannuated mental hospital.
If I could be excited about anything right now, I would be excited about being a part of Conceited Crusade. I was sure I’d slipped from one bizarre dream into the next when I was awoken by one of the world’s last great bloggers, the inimitable and elusive Fred Colton. I wasn’t even angry that he drank the last of the bottle of Don Papa I had been clutching in my sleep.
He wiped his mouth and tossed the bottle into the pile in the corner. “Babe says you’re OK.”
“Yeah? Haven’t heard from her in a while.” I tried to reconcile Fred’s tuxedoed aura against the funereal closet I apparently treated as a bedroom. “Is it Friday night already?”
“Clean up this mess,” he suggested, pointing at me. “Give me a call.” He handed me a card.
It smelled like fermented cologne. I looked up at him.
“Nevermind that,” he said. “Chicks dig it.”