V.A.P.I

                                    

                                          


                          
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-A message from Procter and Gamble
                          
So I'm sitting on the edge of my bed with the barrel of a gun moving back and forth against the ridges on the roof of my mouth (I guess the ridges on the roof of my mouth stick out more than most people's. That's what Vapi said, anyways.), my sweaty, shaky fingers sliding off the trigger, feeling half in the grave already, starting to think I might need to rewind things to get a nicer idea of life.  Because even though I can't say I've always been the happiest guy, I've never been two bottles of Jack Daniels deep and ready to explode my brain. Plus, I thought that if I ever did kill myself it would be at one of those cool ages like twenty seven. Not seventeen.   
                          
My sister used to watch this movie called Spice World over and over again on this old VHS player, and I fucking hated that movie, but I liked to watch her rewind it, mainly because everything looked trippy moving backwards. One thing I learned from the rewind button on that VHS player, is that if you watch things go backwards you notice that all of the stuff that gets smashed up and broken looks like it's getting fixed. 
                          
Look at my life like it's on rewind. It's getting fixed: I'm taking the gun out of my mouth.  Doctor Daneeka isn't cutting out people's brains, he's sticking their brains back in their heads. My mom isn't drinking straight out of the bottle, she's spitting all her booze back up and selling it to the liquor store. Vapi isn't dying, he's being born. Holy shit. I do wear that sweater a lot. 
                          
Now we're back at the beginning, and look again: I'm not in love with Vapi (his real name was V.A.P.I, but try saying that fast), I don't even know that he has an extra testicle yet. And Vapi hasn't figured out the  internet so he doesn't know the meaning of life. I don't know anything about the Agents of Paranoia.  I'm back in Oompaloompa's living room, passed out on her couch, a bit of puke dried on my lips, and it's the first time I've ever even been close to Vapi. 
                          
Look at the beginning:
                          
It was the sixteenth time that I'd gotten drunk, probably the fifteenth time Wyatt had gotten drunk, maybe the twelfth time for Oompa, and definitely the first time for Vapi. But it was the first time any of us had tried whisky.
                          
I remembered taking off my shirt and my pants and carrying around this stuffed moose head that Oompa had hanging on her wall. I also remembered Wyatt chucking a cucumber at my sack, and rolling around on the floor screaming 'call an ambulance!'. After that, nothing.
                          
When I woke up I didn't have a shirt on, but my pants were on, I had an open sleeping bag over me, and my crotch was right up against Oompa's ass.  At least I thought it was Oompa's ass. Oompa had all this shea butter stuff, like shea butter lotion, shea butter shampoo, shea butter lip gloss, shea butter tampons, whatever. So I smelled shea butter and thought, hmmm, guess I'm spooning Oompa. 
                          
I thought it would be funny to reach a hand around and honk one of her boobs. Just as a joke, I'm not a creep or anything. I wasn't gonna fondle it. I went for a handful, thinking she'd be all like 'Snake, you weirdo, get out!', and then we'd laugh about it and I could bum a smoke off her. 
                          
But instead of getting a handful of boob, I wound up rubbing some guy's ribcage. And I had a raging morning boner, which made things tense. Oh, and on top of that, I was wearing sweatpants, so my dick was sticking out like a pelican's beak, pretty much in the groove of this guy's ass.