Area Dude’s Decision to ‘Bro It Alone’ Nearly Ends in Disaster or Enlightenment
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA – Area dude and local to Los Angeles, Bryce Coleburn’s, decision to not stay in over the weekend, despite having no concrete plans in an effort to “bro it alone” was a spectacular failure that plunged the young man into an existential crisis from which he can barely recover.
It was, like, a normal week, you know,” the shaken young man asked no one in particular. “It was shaping up to be another badass weekend, and then, boom, Smitty tells me he can’t make it out because he’s got gay shit to do with his boyfriend. That’s a joke, Smitty’s straight as fuck,” he explained.
“Say he’s straight. Say it,” the 28 year old assistant at a production company insisted, “say it or I’ll fuck you up with MMA.”
Coleburn continued, “then G-Bag, calls me up, and he’s like, ‘oh, hey, I’m a fucking butthole, and I forgot I have to go home for the weekend to go to a wedding, so you’re on your own, sorry ‘boutcha. PS – I’m a fag.’ More or less.”
When asked why he didn’t approach his coworkers for a weekend bonding experience, Coleburn became withdrawn and put on his sunglasses that he pointed out cost upwards of 300 dollars. “There was an incident,” was all he offered.
His coworker, Samantha Schwartz, explained in detail, “he took a picture of his dick and made it the background of everything in the office. Laptops, computers with security, even cell phones if you left them out.”
“It wasn’t even a good looking dick. Jesus hates an ugly dick.”
Left alone to his own devices, Coleburn rejected any suggestion that he should stay in and maybe clean up his apartment or run errands.
“Fuck that, I’ve got my shit wired pretty tight so the apartment’s clean and I got food and laundry and shit. Plus, that stuff is boring as fuck. I mean, I got cash, a car, and a cock, what else do I need in Hollywood? Plus I know people. What’s a ‘cuh’ word that means that?”
“Yeah, car, cash, cock, connections.”
At this point in his story, Coleburn becomes quiet. He chews his words and mentally revisits the traumatic night.
“So I hit the strip and I have no trouble getting in, you know, B-Man’s a reg[ular]. But the entire night all the bouncers and bartenders kept asking me, “yo, Bry-Bry, where’s your boys?’ Or, ‘all alone tonight?’ Or ‘never seen you alone before.’ These people, who I realized I see every weekend, but know almost nothing about, have defined me as a part of a whole. Now without that whole, I no longer fit into their definition of me, and they struggle to once again to define me, and box me in, without truly knowing me.”
“First I’m at the club, and I order three drinks. And the waitress asks, if my party’s coming, and I first realize that I am alone in the universe. Bar. I’m alone in the bar. So I’m like, ‘just joshin,’ one drink.’”
Tears build in Coleburn’s eyes, “and the waitress just stands there, and I’m like, ‘if you want to ride the bologna pony, tickets cost only a ‘beej’ and she says, ‘you never told me what you want to drink,’ and I’m all, ‘whatever this donut puncher’s having,’ and I point to my left…and no one’s there.”
“Later at this dive bar we like to go to because they keep serving drinks after last call and they have a juke box. The bartender gives me five bucks free on it, and I’m frozen. I don’t know what to play. Smitty is a music queer, he knows what to pick. Me and G-Bag, we give him quarters and singles and he picks the good shit that everyone likes. Fuck, I think he might have programmed my iPod and put all the songs on it.”
When asked what he thought this meant, Coleburn began to sob. “It means I have no understanding of art. It makes me feel nothing. I can put no meaning, not even my own, to it. I lack passion! No one knows who I am outside of my social circle, if you can call it that. I don’t even know Smitty’s first name. I’m an incomplete person.”
“Something needs to be done about this. I need to…to…” Coleburn was caught off by his phone ringing.
“Yeah? Hello? Smitty! What’s up you dirty Irish cocksucker? Yeah, I’ll go get fucked up! Where? Suh-weet. Bounce.”
“Hey, you need to fuck off.”
And thus, Bryce Coleburn tripped three feet from self-actualization.
Buh, buh, bounce.