May 27, 2017
It finally happened. I got evicted. Don’t get me wrong, I had a feeling my days in that sweet pad were numbered. For starters, the place that was once so spacious just seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. Plus, that crazy neighbor lady who called herself “Mommy” kept saying things like, “Mommy and Daddy can’t wait to meet you, Jake. Any day now.”
For a while, I thought she was talking to some guy on the other side. I mean, there was a dude there every now and then. Sometimes he pressed himself right up to my wall and shouted these ridiculous things about Stone Temple Pilots being the greatest rock band of the last 20 years. But most of the time he played songs on his guitar – badly. I figured the lady was having a fling with some wannabe musician.
Then one day it clicked, and I was like, “Dude, you’re Jake, that lady is your ‘Mommy,’ and you’re about to get KTFO!” Deep down, I guess I knew I couldn’t live here forever. I knew I’d have to do something with my life eventually.
I just never expected the moving process to be so damn uncivilized. When it all went down, I was ripped through a non-existent doorway and thrust out into a cold, loud, overly bright world with a bunch of giants scurrying about and grinning like simpletons.
I tried to explain that there must’ve been some type of mistake, that I couldn’t possibly belong in this place, but these morons couldn’t understand what I was trying to say. They just went about poking and prodding and snipping and tagging me until I blacked out for a while.
When I came to they had me flopped on top of this lady who looked the way I felt – like she had just gone through hell. It was Mommy. At least she had food. These two giant sippy cups were attached right to her body, and they seemed to have an endless supply of this magical elixir. I couldn’t get enough. That shitty musician was there, too. I recognized his annoying voice.
May 28, 2017
Day Two was another nightmare. There was an endless parade of giants popping in to “get a look at the little guy.” These strangers took turns making obnoxious faces, asking asinine questions (“Why so sad little fella?”), and holding me as awkwardly as they might hold an ancient artifact.
The louder I screamed for them to give me back to the lady with the sippy cups the harder they tried to console me. “Wait, now let me just try one thing real quick,” they would say before changing up the way they held, rocked, or talked at me. These people simply couldn’t believe their little tricks didn’t work. They reminded me of those clueless college boys who are genuinely shocked when the “Rock Star Sex Tip” they read in Maxim doesn’t work as advertised.
When the visiting hours were finally over, I was looking forward to some much-needed alone time with Mom and her sippy cups, but “Daddy” – aka the failed musician – had different ideas. “Let’s send him down to the nursery so we can a little bit of sleep. We can use the rest,” the deadbeat said to my reluctant mommy.
That’s when the real nightmare began. My tormentors wheeled me and my little bucket into a room filled with people who were exactly like me. There must’ve been at least 15 or 20 of us in there screaming our little lungs out – a cacophony of anguished cries for help.
During the rare moments when our captors were out of earshot, we exchanged information with one another. It was the same for each of us. One minute we were sitting comfortably in our beloved one-bedroom paradise, the next we were being dragged out into the hell where we currently reside. What does it mean? Why are we here? What do these people want from us? Are we destined to live out the rest of our days as medical test subjects? Slaves to the giants? Were we abducted by aliens? These were some of the many questions I pondered as I waited in terror with my comrades for the next phase of the nightmare to unfold.
Eventually, I was returned to my mommy and “daddy” (dude was still asleep when they wheeled me in!), but I’ll never be able to forget the horror I experienced in that room. There’s an epidemic of little people being taken right from their very homes, and as soon as I get a handle on my situation, you can bet your sweet ass I’m going to find out what the hell is going on with my people.
May 29, 2017
I was thrilled to finely be getting released from that torture chamber they call the hospital…until my ride arrived. When a dirty, dented, and gold 2005 Toyota Camry pulled up, I said a little prayer to Jesus, Buddha, and Muhammad that it was just an Uber. But somehow, I knew better.
As soon as the squeaky breaks finally brought that bomb of car to a halt, out hopped the shitty musician. “Hey buddy, your Dad’s here to take you home,” he said to me with his horrible coffee breath. I remember thinking, “Great I live with this loser, too. Looks like I hit life’s anti-lottery.”
We hadn’t even pulled out of the parking lot when the failed musician turned the car stereo up to 11. “Hope you like the Stone Temple Pilots, Jake, cause you’re going to be hearing a lot of it.”
At that moment, I started wailing – for the loss of my old life, the horror of my new one, and the unfairness of it all – and I haven’t stopped since.