I am a super fun guy. Everyone says it. I go to a lot of parties and at every one there’s always, like, a girl or two who’s like, “Hey, I love your viking hat. You must be a super fun guy.” They’re totes right, by the way. Even without the viking hat though, I am the guy who brings the party and leaves with your girlfriend. I’m that fucking fun, man.
But lately, shit’s been getting weird for me. Some neighbours have been calling the cops when I start pumping out my best jams. Like, I get that people work jobs or whatever, but when I’m slamming down the late-night beats with my bros and dealer, it’s like, dude. Was it you? What the fuck?
Why can’t you just be more fun, man? I’m just living my best life. It’s such a drag when the fuzz interrupt us when it’s only, like, 4:30am and they’re all, “Excuse me, Mr. Jeffries it’s 4:30 AM on a Tuesday and this is your final warning,” Seriously, bro? Is that how you’re going to play me? The party was JUST getting started.
And it’s not like I didn’t invite you. I even knocked on your window that night while you and your wife were watching Netflix to invite you up for a late night jam sesh (PS: your wife is super hot, by the way). Your wife doesn’t think that I’m creepy and that I should stop leaving my mixtapes on the hood of her car with those notes that make her ‘super uncomfortable’, I think that you would have thought those beats were sick, if she’d just give them a chance. All you gotta do is let go, bro. Get into the music.
Trust me, I get that life can’t always be a party. I’ve got stresses too. I have to make, like, three child support payments per month and my mom’s dying words were that I was like, her “biggest regret in life.” It’s hard to keep it going, man, but I just do me. I grab a brew, pop a pill, crank my tunes and I have the time of my FUCKING LIFE.
The best part is this could be you. I mean, fuck car payments and mortgages or whatever you bankers are into nowadays. There is no way that being ‘stable’ is better than drinking Nyquil because you don’t have enough cash to get a real six pack of PBR. It gets you fucked up all the same, bro. And I can tell you right now that after two bottles of that shit and a heavy dose of Dub, you are LOVING life.
So next time, just cut me some slack, okay, man? Take off that tight-ass suit and slip on your party pants. I got glow sticks and rainbow tie-dye ’til the fucking sun comes up. We can hit a late night taco stand and then road trip to Burning Man, if you’re feeling it. The world’s our oyster.
And also if I could borrow, like $400 bucks tops for rent this month, that would be super rad. Thanks, man.