ter on the Cold War for the morning. I’d been holding off on the pizza and had downed only three beers to that point, but figured there was no sense in being responsible any longer.
I opened a new beer and turned on the oven. Fricking Magda, I shook my head, wondering why she hadn’t called.
Because you’re obviously nothing more than a last-option screw to her, Little Snidey snapped in reply. Chain-smoking bitch!
Then I thought about Barb, how I was avoiding her calls. That’s so juvenile of me, I sighed, draining my beer and grabbing another.
Is it now? Little Snidey asked contemptuously. Well boo hoo. She’s moving back in with her asshole ex so who cares?
Yes, Little Snidey was staging a classic CIA-style coup, seizing the reigns of state as I paced agitatedly about awaiting my pizza…
Fuck Barb, he continued as the last beer rapidly disappeared down my gullet. Fuck Magda. Fuck the Cold War. And you know what? Fuck being a business major. You’re switching to history. And if your parents have a problem with that, fuck them too!
Whoa, wait, I dared to ask, are you serious?
Of course I’m serious, he snarled, and if you don’t like it you can go fuck yourself!
Oh I like it, I replied, but are you sure?
Fuck yeah I’m sure! You’ve known it ever since you picked up that book, even if you were too much of a pussy to admit it!
I wanted to inquire further, but my brain was too muddled for analysis as I mixed Little Snidey a drink. I simply nodded along to his browbeating, for his logic was irrefutable. I was a shit-ass dicklick for buying only one measly six-pack. I did deserve to have my balls crushed in a vise for forgetting to buy Parmesan cheese for the pizza. And yes, only a dingleberry-chomping inbred like myself would eat in silence rather than blasting Danzig.
We abandoned the pizza to mix another drink and caper about like a metalhead. But I reasserted myself when the neighbors pounded on the ceiling. Considering it was after midnight, I couldn’t argue.
I was still keyed up though, figuring I’d have one more drink before hitting the bars. After spilling all over myself, however, I decided it wouldn’t be in my best interest to go out after all. I kicked back by the stereo instead.
Wanting to hear something nostalgic, I put on The Cure’s The Head on the Door album. But knowing I couldn’t turn the volume any higher, I heaped the bedding on the floor and reclined between the speakers. I reveled in the music, basking in memories of that one drink-and-drug-addled year at Illinois State. Oh, the inchoate ache of those halcyon days of yore!
How pathetic, carrying on like this, Little Snidey slurred.
Yet carry on I did, as if some melancholy pasha lounging upon the velvet cushions of my harem. That image distracted me—the harem part, specifically. It sent me crawling into the bathroom, where I sidled up to the toilet…
“Gonna ignore me in the future?” I taunted Magda as I banged away at her imaginary backside. “No, oh god no, faster!” she begged, urging me to slake the thirst of her skull tattoo. But considering how drunk I was, that was proving difficult. I had to rest, feeling like such a loser kneeling on the floor with my pants twisted around my ankles, Little Jimmy flaccid and sore in my hand.
A bent-over Barb replaced Magda as I returned to the fray. Yet as wildly enthusiastic as she was, I was beginning to despair when Magda reappeared, splayed open to Barb’s eager tongue. That lent a burst of vigor to the proceedings, but somehow it didn’t quite make sense. Maybe the other way around? Little Jimmy was not profiting from my indecision, and would’ve flagged entirely if the two hadn’t transmogrified into Jill. Didn’t expect that, I grimaced as I came, but figured, oh well, whatever was necessary to put an end to this farce…
Wow dude, Little Snidey snickered, your subconscious sold you out. And it wasn’t even worth it. You could’ve gotten more pleasure and satisfaction muscling a stubborn lid off a jar.
Fuck you, I muttered, kicking free of my pants as I crawled to the futon. I didn’t pull it out, just rolled onto it and crashed. “Goddamn,” I

grumbled out loud as I went lax, “what the hell has happened to my life?”

Bill Franz is a writer from Chicago. Before consigning himself to academia for several years, he authored a couple wacky local guidebooks and appeared in various publications like Illinois Entertainer and Barfly. Having recently been exiled to Boston, he now writes fiction and broods over his lot in life.