So what would a week at I, Asshole be without sex or dogs, or sex with dogs? Or what would it be without a boring story about one of my horrible piercing experiences or puking or puking on a new piercing? Yeah, I thought so. It would be milquetoast.

Well…when I was seventeen and hopelessly stuck in Butt-fucking Egypt, Illinois, my mom took pity on me and my drooping gothic depression and let me visit a friend who lived in Phoenix, Arizona. Hooray! The big city and freedom from parental tyranny for Christmas break!

My friend was Very Cool and I really wanted to inpress him with how much cooler I’d gotten in the four months since he’d moved away. So I put on my best punk rock gear (“when I was your age, you could wear spikes on an airplane”) and listlesslessly ringed my eyes with as much waxy black liner as my eyelids would hold. Whoa, I was cool. Don’t fuck with me, man, I’m on a trip.

OF COURSE I ordered drinks on the plane; what seventeen-year-old flying alone doesn’t try this? I was flying ATA (“Your vacation airline”) and they had tropical drinks galore. I think I had three Malibus and passed out. When I woke up, I was in Phoenix, and it was dark.

My friend met me at the airport (“are you okay, Asshole?”) and my response to him was less than enthusiastic. He had explained his living situation to me before, but it hadn’t really sunk in til I got there. He had a roommate who paid more rent for the use of the apartment’s only bedroom. My friend slept in the living room, and to use the only bathroom we had to walk through the roommate’s bedroom.

It was an uneventful evening; we chatted and he made me a pot of mac ‘n’ cheese since I was ravenous from my airplane binge drinking. I scarfed the whole pot.

Ooooog….bad idea. I was queasy and the roommate had already gone to bed, which limited access to the bathroom. I had just gotten there and didn’t want to barge in. Did the kitchen sink have a garbage disposal? No? Unnnnhh…

I ran outside the apartment and exploded over the railing, into the courtyard. I wonder what the people downstairs must’ve thought when it started raining macaroni? My friend patted my back and looked over the rail at the steaming pile of noodles on the ground. “Wow. Did you even chew, Asshole?”

Next scene: 7 a.m. the next morning.

The roommate had left for work and my friend and I were still dozing, he on his futon and me on my blow-up mattress. We stirred and looked at each other.

“How do you feel?”

“Bleah.”

We heard the jingle of rabies and ID tags against a collar; the familiar sound of someone taking their dog for a morning walk. My friend rose and opened the door for a little air. The sun was coming up and I could see palm trees- Phoenix in the winter is beautiful.

Suddenly the dogwalker broke the peaceful morning silence in the coutyard:

“NO, SPARKY! Don’t eat that!”