I Hate Myself And I Want To Die

On Saturday night I drove around on a mission for Pete's Fish N Chips-- the kind of place that serves squashed breaded shrimp on a styrofoam meat dish instead of a plate-- but found their locations closed. Dejected, I drove slowly through the winding streets of Apache near College. Suddenly my caravan of sorrow was stopped by a large man on a cruiser. He wore a beard and a horned viking hat and a red football jersey that read PHELPS on the back. He stopped his bike in front of my car, placed his pudgy palm up to my window and pronounced, 'HALT! I AM A CHAMPION! YOU ARE NOT!' After staring me in the eyes for three whole seconds he rode off into the dark night, toward the avenue of Spence, to probably do some meth.

It was the beginning of a very bad night.