The other night, using my cell phone’s handy calculator function, I determined I had 676 months left to live, presuming lung cancer or a man willing to kill me for the unregistered Panera card I have in my pocket don’t drag me to the grave earlier than the average American lifespan would dictate.
My band would get an 8.7 Best New Music on Pitchfork and be invited to play The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Before the show my bassist would say “I sure am excited to play The Tonight Show with Jay Leno,” and I would say “what did you say?” and he would say, “I said–” and then I’d simultaneously punch him in the jaw and develop a debilitating painkiller addiction…
On my first night, after freshman orientation, I’d start a cassette-only record label with the American Apparel model down the hall. We’d release dubstep remixes of witch house songs and make out in front of popular party photographers. We’d break up after she cheats on me with Ezra Koenig, and then I’d write a 20,000 word blog post calling Vampire Weekend our generation’s Boston.