“I’m going to throw up. Isn’t the name of your website Ass Monkey? C-m Junkie?”
- The lump of a person complaining about these karaoke videos from beneath the dirty blankets in the other strangely stained bed in this small Motel 6 suite of Monroe, Louisiana.
I am not going to throw up, even though I just ate some leftover catfish and a fruit bar and a bunch of chocolate. I could watch these videos for a long time, or at least play them all as background music. Nancy Grace is on the little square television talking about the search for Stacy Peterson’s corpse. The fire alarm is ripped out of the wall and a brownish, dried up tampon sticks to the ceiling in the bathroom. I washed my hair using a bar of Motel 6 brand soap and expect it to be especially coarse tomorrow, when I make my way through the impoverished countryside of Mississippi and toward the snowy wasteland that the news keeps telling me New York City has become.
He stumbles out of the bathroom and back to his bed, pleading.
“Dude. Come on, dude. What the f*ck is wrong with you? And change Nancy Grace. I’m gonna kill myself. I hate Nancy Grace.”
I’m playing “You’re the Boss.” I can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying. But now I can tell that he’s snoring over the cover of Rihanna’s “S&M.”