Hey man—BLARG, ugh sweet Jesus that’s tart—this isn’t what it looks like. Okay, maybe it’s a little bit what it looks like. Yes, I’m sucking gas out of your Ford Focus, yes, those two gas cans next to me are full of gas I’ve already siphoned from other cars in the parking lot, and yes, I’m drenched in gasoline; there was some spillage, but it’s not as bad as it looks.
You’re probably thinking to yourself, “When is this guy gonna stop talking so I can call the police?” Well, sir, I hope that if I tell you what’s really happening here you may rethink that phone call and let me go free. Give me five minutes of your time, and all my motives will become clear—wait, stop, take your fucking hand away from your pocket, just give me five minutes, dude, Jesus Christ…okay are you ready?
So, my troubles began when I was just a boy of five years-old and my father told me, “Son, you’re destined for something great.” Little did he know I would take that to heart, and for the next thirteen years of my life I did everything I could to impress him and—dude are you actually calling the cops right now? I literally just started my story, I haven’t even gotten to the good parts. Okay actually, please stop, or I’m going to run right now. If you listened to my tale, specifically the part where I became state champion in track and field, then captain of the football team, you would not be testing me like this.
As I was saying, I didn’t start puberty until the ripe age of sixteen—GLUGUH, oh shit, some of that came back up—do you think you could actually call me an ambulance? Stomach ulcers run in my family, and I just accidentally swallowed A TON of gasoline.
