“I’m moderately young. Alive. And on the verge of Internet microfame.”

Mornings. In Verse.

Last Friday Night. 

(No Katie Perry).

Birthday party.

One of seemingly hundreds. Friend of a friend’s friend – mucho exclusivo.

Things turned odd.

There was a white limo involved.

And a Vizsla.

There’s a single section of velvet rope in my bed. 

And deep dish pizza on my pillow.

I make for the bathroom, craving Excedrin. 

I freeze. 

Something is in my bathtub.

It’s fine. 

It’s just my brother. 

He’s cradling a Fathead of David Ortiz.

Normal.

As I grab my toothbrush I remember something.

I check Instagram. 

There it is. 

A photo I posted [timestamp 4:11 a.m.] of a shirtless Justin Bieber, a large teddy bear and what appears to be me – but like a hopelessly lost version of myself, staring into the camera like it can save me.

Only 16 likes. 

Everyone’s still sleeping, I tell myself. 

[Sigh]

It’s Saturday.

I’m moderately young.

Alive. 

And on the verge of Internet microfame.