The year was the Jazz Age. New York was the entire world, and Paris was at the center of it all. I was a wide-eyed and jaded Ivy League graduate’s uneducated drinking buddy, disillusioned with life, death, love, hate, us, them, and the concept of disillusionment itself—in other words, I was just like everybody else.

I first saw him in a dream, in which he looked nothing like he did in reality and a lot more like a dalmatian that was purple and also a bird. Years later, when we finally met at a random cocktail party, I knew his name before he even said it, since the person introducing us had already said it: The Good Gatsby. Though I was initially perplexed by his strange moniker, The Good Gatsby laid all my questions to rest by explaining that his name was highly unusual.

Many a night, we would talk for hours, often to different people, but occasionally with each other. For a time, I even loved The Good Gatsby, yet the things he would say to me, such as “I like you only as a friend” and “ayo bro stop kissing me,” sometimes made me wonder whether he felt the same way. Eventually, I gave up, and began loving trains, as all men do.

I often suspected that The Good Gatsby had a hidden past, though he would only ever tell me of his very well-known past that contained a great deal of romance, deception, intrigue, and betrayal. And there was no one who featured more prominently in that past than The Good Gatsby, since it was his past and all. But the person who featured the second-most prominently in that past was Laura.

It was said that the only things that could hurt The Good Gatsby were Laura and physical harm. She was as beautiful as Niagara Falls, but also a lot prettier than that since she was a lady and not a waterfall. I never really got to know Laura, on account of all the time I spent down at the railroad tracks watching trains and trying to touch them, but to The Good Gatsby, she was the sun, the moon, and the stars. I think he had a crush on her.

Alas, things took a turn for the worse when Laura killed herself via suicide. The town wept, but, curiously, The Good Gatsby did not shed a tear. Then I asked him whether he had heard that Laura died, and he broke down sobbing. It must have been the way I said it. I tried to console him by reminding him that suicide was illegal, so Laura was basically a filthy criminal who did not deserve to be mourned and who was probably currently burning in the pits of Hell, but even that could not make his grief subside.

I did not see The Good Gatsby much after that. He stopped throwing parties, but that was not much of a departure from the status quo, since he had only ever thrown, like, two parties, both poorly-attended. Ultimately, I moved out to Hollywood and became a famous dancer or politician. But the lessons I had learned—grit, truth, and good luck—would stay with me forever. And I know that, somewhere out there, The Good Gatsby feels the exact same way.

The Dreammaker: Give them a try, Timmy.

Timmy: Okay, Mr. Dreammaker. But, again, I’m paralyzed. You really promise these shoes are going to make things better?

The Dreammaker: Trust me. You have my word, you won’t be disappointed.

Timmy: Alright. Wow! I—I don’t feel anything.

The Dreammaker: Are you sure about that?

Timmy: I can try walking but…oof, no, I’m definitely still paralyzed. Can you help me back up into my wheelchair?

The Dreammaker: No, I mean don’t you feel excited to have some brand new Air Jordans?

Timmy: So these are just regular Jordans?

The Dreammaker: Well, they’re not just any Jordans. These are unreleased.

Timmy: Aren’t you going to help me walk?

The Dreammaker: Ha, come on now, Timmy. I’m not a doctor. Man, those Jordans look so rad!

Timmy: Oh my god. I’m actually going to be paralyzed forever.

The Dreammaker: Hey, bud, let’s get that frown out of town! Say cheese for the camera.

Timmy: I can’t believe it. This is all just some sick publicity stunt. I should’ve listened to that kid who had cancer.

The Dreammaker: You mean that kid who had cancer and some pretty awesome Jordans.

Timmy: I actually think he had the same type of Jordans as me. Are these even unreleased?

Cashier: Sir, I need to ring you up again for those used Jordans. Your credit card was declined.

The Dreammaker: Hm? Oh, darn, Timmy, I think I’ve got to get out of here and make someone else’s dreams come true now. But remember, never give up, and always follow your dreams!

Timmy: This is so messed up. I—I honestly don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to trust anyone again.

Cashier: Really, kid, someone needs to pay for those Jordans.

• Wait, wait. I thought I wished for a Ferrari.

• This is Ferrari, the most beautiful prostitute in the Ottoman Empire.

• That’s not what I meant. I want a Ferrari. Like, the car.

• I do not understand. Do you wish for me to behead Ferrari?

• No, no! She’s great! I love Ferrari! I just also want a real Ferrari.

• To love a prostitute is a dangerous game. It has been the downfall of many a sultan.

• Just give me a normal, red Ferrari supercar. The one with 600 horsepower.

• Here. This is Princess Alara. Her dowry comes with 6,000 horses.

• I don’t want to marry Princess Alara. And what am I going to do with all these horses?

• I know you lust for Ferrari, but wedding Alara will do much to secure peace with her father to the east. You may keep Ferrari in your harem, should you desire.

• Okay, listen, it doesn’t even need to be a Ferrari. Just give me something sturdy I can get around in, like a Nissan, or a bike. No princesses, no prostitutes.

• I can give you all the princesses and prostitutes in Arabia.

• Fine.

• Hey dad? Can we talk about the animals?

• The animals?

• You know. The two of each animal from every single species on Earth that live with us in the ark?

• Oh, the animals. What about them?

• Well, they’ve been having a lot of sex. Like, everywhere.

• I know. Good.

• I just thought they weren’t supposed to do that until after the flood.

• Flood? Oh. No. I just made that up so your mom wouldn’t complain. Why are we outside? Let’s go back inside. I want to see what those animals are up to.

Last Tuesday, my buddy Kyle was possessed by a demon. It happened when he grabbed a glowing red Bible off the sidewalk as we were heading back to the frat from Taco Bell. I called him a litter-picking-up bitch, but instead of laughing, Kyle keeled over and clutched his stomach, saying he didn’t feel so hot. No duh. Dude had just downed seven, eight chimichangas. Then his eyes turned black and his soul shot out of his mouth, along with some beans, all over my Bills jersey. I mean, seriously, bro, if you’re gonna hurl, turn the other way.

Anyways, since that day (or “rebirth,” as Kyle likes to call it) he’s been a total pain in the ass. Whenever I ask him what’s up, he just says a lot of weird shit about how my parents are gonna die after the blood moon, and he keeps insisting that I call him Gædelwilth, servant of the underworld, even though I’ve told him that junior year is not the time for a rebrand.

He’s also been way more of a cockblock than usual. At Delta on Friday, I was doing this sick party trick where I blow on a deck of cards and the cards go, like, everywhere—but then Kyle came in and recited some ancient runes which set half the people in the place’s eyeballs on fire, and of course the blonde whose phone number I was trying to get went home with him instead. 

But that’s not to say that Kyle turning evil has been all bad. Our new pledge class has two guys from the basketball team and six hundred and sixty-six from something called the Order of Lucifer, which is sick since we were starting to get pegged as a hockey frat. And his switch from vodka Gatorades to lamb’s blood has meant there’s way more alc for the rest of us, plus I’m also of course super happy and stuff that Kyle is getting sober.

He’s even made up for the cockblock stuff by landing us a ton more attention from goth chicks. Last night, Kyle and I doubled with this reclusive gray-haired woman and her hot roommate at Chili’s. When the waiter came to take our order, Kyle’s gaze caused the guy’s body to burst out in boils and explode, making the roommate shriek and jump into my arms. Way to wingman, dawg. 

Back at our place, Kyle and his date interlocked their fingers and began chanting, opening the gates of Hell in the middle of our kitchenette. As screams and lava bursts emanated from the nether realm, Kyle sprouted giant, leathery wings. Then he ripped the old woman’s head off, let out a deathly cry that warned of the impending apocalypse, and flew her body into the abyss, the portal closing behind him in a gigantic fireball. “Wow,” I said from the next room, too busy with my date to really pay attention to Kyle. “This is the best handjob I’ve ever had.”

• Hello, Jim. I am Doctor Van Helsing.

• Ha. You must get a lot of Dracula jokes.

• Jokes? Oh, no, no, dear boy, Dracula is no laughing matter. He is a brutal, vile murderer.

• Yeah, that’s cool. Anyways, I’ve been having a lot of anxiety lately.

• How could you not? It is frightening to live in a world where a creature like Dracula roams free.

• Totally, totally. Do you have anything for anxiety? Something I could smoke, maybe?

• I have these cloves of garlic. I prefer to keep them around my neck, but I suppose you could smoke them. In fact, doing so could make the very air around you poisonous to the beast, preventing him from ever coming near.

• Mhmm. Wow. I don’t know if that’s really what I’m looking for.

• Alas, you are correct. Tempting as it may be, I cannot content myself with merely keeping Dracula away. It is my duty to lure him to my wooden stake, and put an end to his reign of darkness once and for all!

• Marijuana. I want marijuana. Can you help me out or not?

• Oh, of course. I personally smoke a great, great deal of pot.

Teacher: Remember, class, you’ll have a sub Tuesday.

Me: Fuck the police!

Policeman: I’ll let you off this time with a warning. Just slow down, okay?

Me: Fuck school! Burning nearby schoolhouse.

Grandma: Have some cookies, honeybun.

Me: Burning nearby grandma with a sick roast about her poor baking skills. I eat the whole plate and thank her for having me, though, because I am a good grandson.

Boss: Just try to have it on my desk by next Friday-ish. No rush.

Me: Taking my boss’s Cadillac for a joyride, then driving it into the marina. Who’s employee of the month now

Cashier: That’ll be $29.50.

Me: Sowing the seeds of dissent among the proletariat in an effort to build class-consciousness.

Neighbor: Some clouds, huh?

Me: Leading the charge to the capital. Kicking down the doors to the presidential palace, and killing El Dictador with my own two hands, the very hands his mercenaries stomped on, dirtied, bloodied, and broke. Walking out onto the balcony and lifting the severed head of the tyrant before hordes of chanting people. Feeling a single tear run down my cheek, as my heart swells with pride. ¡Viva la nación! ¡Viva la libertad!

Therapist: What’s really going on here, David? It seems like there’s neither rhyme nor reason to your actions, just…rebellion.

Me: I recently read Rebel Without a Cause, and I have a tendency to emulate the media I consume.

Therapist: You’re aware that that’s a movie, yes?

Me: I know. All it took was the title. Bitch.