My Existential Breakdown

10 Mar

I am sitting with my feet up on my desk. It’s Monday and I’m bored as all get out. I’m supposed to be writing a new blog, but I’ve had a hard time getting it together recently. Editor is getting increasingly agitated. Editor is only doing this for the money, so he’s constantly getting on my case about being more friendly for advertisers.

“Okay, okay. I will.”

“Seriously, please try to.”

“Yea, all right.”

“Kyle, I can’t stress how badly we need those advertisers.”

“Advertisers can suck on this,” I say, grabbing my ear.

Editor cocks his head back questioningly. “Did you mean to grab your crotch?”

I shrug as if to say it doesn’t really matter.

“Call some advertisers or write something,” Editor says then walks away.

Later that day, I agree to meet with some companies about advertising on my site. The first company is Motel 6.

Their representative is a tall, wiry male. He’s wearing dark, tight-fitting jeans, a leather jacket, and a beret. He enters the conference room with Editor following closely behind. I sit at the table with my head down. Entourage is playing on the conference room’s monitor. Editor quickly steps to the screen and turns it off. I lift my head for a moment, reach for the remote and turn it back on.

“I need to know if Turtle bangs that college chick that would never ever have sex with him in real-life.”

Editor smiles nervously and gestures toward the rep. “Kyle, this is the ad representative for Motel 6, Gary Stint. He’d like to talk to you about advertising on your site.”

I look up again. There’s a large red blotch along my forehead. A line of sweat has formed on the crest of my hairline and on my upper lip. I sat in the sun and then got too lazy to move. I’m extremely uncomfortable. “Do you watch Entourage?” I ask the ad rep.

“Um, no. I happen to think it’s a little silly.”

Silly?” I ask him. “This show is brilliant. It’s like Fantasy Island for douche bags.” I look deep into the rep’s eyes. He looks back at me.

“I don’t really see the redeeming quality in that,” he says.

“I don’t really see the redeeming quality in advertising a slightly above average motel on a comedy web site. I also don’t see the redeeming quality in that stupid hat you’re wearing.” I let my head fall back to the table’s cool surface.

Editor’s face turns tomato-red and every muscle in his back seems to tense. “He’s kidding. He’s eccentric. He’s a loose-cannon. It’s that artistic spirit.” Editor is trying desperately to perform damage control, but it’s too late. The ad rep turns and shoves Editor out of his way, muttering something under his breath about a “two-bit internet idiot.”

“At least I can buy pants that fit,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. I then take a giant swig from the flask that, until this point, had been resting in my crotch. Editor looks at me for a second or two, then runs out after the ad rep. His footsteps, loud at first, fall away until I once again hear only the television.

Turtle turns that girl down.

Look at this. This is Turtle:

Then look at this:

This is the girl Turtle turned down.

Fantasy Island.

Editor storms back into the conference room, throwing the door open and turning off the TV. I reach out for the remote again, but he knocks it away with such force that it flies from the table and onto the floor.

“Man,” I begin, exasperated. “You know there’s just tape covering that battery pl–”

“Shut up!” Editor yells. “Shut up! You’ve been really off recently and I want to know why. You’re putting your career at risk as well as mine! Now, tell me. What’s wrong?”

My head is now rested on my outstretched arm. “I just feel…” I pause, sliding the flask back and forth across the table. “I just feel like we’re not doing anything.”

“Not doing anything?”

“I mean, do I work in an office building or am I a tutor at a high school? Which one? I seem to have both jobs at the same time. Which one is the real me? You know how hard it is to go through my day with those kids without saying words like ‘doodie mouth’ or ‘ass-monster’? Do you have any idea how often I’m tempted by outright violence?” Editor pauses to think about this. “And I’ve done so many things. I’ve died, even–but really, I’m exactly the same in here.” I point to my wiener. Editor leans across the table and lifts my hand to the level of my heart. I nod in appreciation. Sometimes I get mixed up.

“When did you start feeling this way?” Editor asks, concerned.

“After the space adventure. I mean–I went to space. I saw parts of the universe that only a handful of humans in all of Earth’s history have seen. I want–I want things like that to affect me, you know? To make me better. I think that this whole time, I’m just viewing the world from this preset, immovable view. I think I’m connected, but I’m not, and that’s what makes it so damn dangerous. Since I think I’m already in it, I never try to go any further.”

Tears have begun to well up in Editor’s eyes. “So what do you want to do, Kyle?”

Like Editor, small pools have crept into the base of my vision. “Editor, I’ll tell you what I want to do.”

“Yes?”

I take a deep breath. “Two chicks. Two chicks–simultaneously. And I don’t want to know their names.”

Editor stands up straight. His face falls flat. “What?”

“Two women. Two mysterious, faceless women.” I begin to weep in a small, celebratory way–weeping like a man who has found that the oncoming destroyer of his country has fled. “Just like–right here.” I spread my arms out over two invisible women and begin to thrust wildly in a way that would most likely bring about no kind of sexual pleasure whatsoever.

Editor turns and leaves. I wave to him and turn the TV back on.

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