He has existed for as long as there have been gluttonous men dedicating ceremonies to their own existence. Anyone who objects is either a slut or a hater or a minority, and you need to GET ON HIS LEVEL, SON. The only things that change are the miscellaneous wristbands he wears, and the brand of energy drink on the promotional t-shirt they gave him. He is a chest-pounding, chandelier-swinging, Godzilla-id mutant who does not need friends, just a hierarchy of other men around him who will simply acknowledge the noises he is making, his indignance, his fury. He doesn’t want relationships, he wants witnesses. Don’t listen, just turn up the volume. Amplify this moment. He is memorializing his past immediately—minutes after something has happened it has become lore in the form of a mobile upload. He is grinning as he walks along club lines he thinks he can cut. And when the bouncer doesn’t care who he is, he shouts to neighboring galaxies that this place is fucking gay anyway, you bitches, and then he laughs and laughs, and him and Ryan and Tyler and Kyle shove each other until they reach a crosswalk, where he leans over to WAITWAITWAIT, look at this text, Rachael wants it, she so wants it, bro. She needs this dick to survive. Nothing has ever been as essential to one human’s survival as his dick is to Rachael’s at this moment. His shirt has come untucked, it never fit in the first place; he is thinking about Rachael, and cumming in Rachael’s mouth; and then ignoring Rachael for the rest of her life. But he is also thinking about where the fuck can I get something to eat?
