In my version of hell, I’m always going to the dentist. I’m feeling their rubber gloves against my slimy teeth, listening to Amy Grant on the office speakers, and getting sprayed with cotton candy flavored cleaner. And they’re drilling. By golly, are they ever drilling. The dentist lady is asking me about my job and I’m trying to respond but, hello, she’s drilling and I can’t talk.
In my version of hell, I am always starving and about to take a bite out of a giant hamburger. I never do though. I just hang there frozen with my mouth half open looking at what will never be mine.
In my version of hell, I’m always staring at my cell phone waiting for someone to text me back. “Hey There Delilah” by the Plain White T’s is also playing in the background on a constant loop.
In my version of hell, I am forced to be Lindsay Lohan’s Gay Best Friend. She texts me constantly, is always drunk and running after me in the streets screaming, ‘COME BACK OR I’M GOING TO KILL MYSELF!”
In my version of hell, I am always being rejected from a bouncer at a hip club. He’s saying to me, “We’re full” as he lets someone cuter in.
In my version of hell, I am always nursing a medium-grade hangover. I feel okay enough to function but I have a perpetual headache and am exhausted.
In my version of hell, I have to watch Freddy Gets Fingered every day all day.
In my version of hell, I am constantly losing my internet connection and clicking REFRESH REFRESH REFRESH.
In my version of hell, I am always eating vegan food.
In my version of hell, a cute boy is always telling me, “I really like you, but…” BUT WHAT? BUT WHAT, DAMMIT?
In my version of hell, I am the first to arrive at a bar and nervously texting my friends in the corner.
In my version of hell, I am Mischa Barton.
In my version of hell, I am always running in to that friend from high school on the street and being forced to make small talk.
Oh my god, I really hope I don’t go to hell.