Mutual friend Nick Fowler and I have just purchased an apartment.
We're driving back from a round of grocery shopping in Fowler's cherry red pickup truck, which looks straight out of a Toby Keith Ford truck commerical.
While I'm lecturing Fowler on the social implications of rap music ("It really taps into the radical fuck-you counterculture of the 1960s," I tell him), I feel the urge to throw up on his sunroof.
"Oh my God, can I throw up on your sunroof?" I ask him.
"Sure. Go for it," he says.
With a simple flip of the switch, I'm up on the roof, hurling violently. My entire body quivers in spasms and vomit puddles down the windshield.
"That looked awesome," Nick goes.
"There are two kinds of people who live in our apartment building," Nick goes, "you have the professionals: the doctors and lawyers."
He pauses with the slightest hint of resignation, "and then, you have us."
Back at the hacienda, I notice that my apartment has green mold growing everywhere.
Hunks of mold form on the floor in intricate patterns, randomly culminating in thick-skinned moldy husks.
To soothe the pain in a workaday world, I come up and start picking at the mold. I jab the mold with my fingers because I must get rid of it. I must.
"You moldy sonofabitch," I say to the mold while finger-banging it.