There’s a hippie who lives in a van on the other side of the street.
I’m aware of him but assume he pays no attention to me.
I drink.
I stay up late.
I scratch my balls when I don’t think anyone is looking.
I’m surprised the next day when scrolling through my media feeds and seeing one of the top things to pop up is me, scratching my balls—skin-on-skin, beneath the underwear, digging deep—and opening the refrigerator to get a beer.
And then it’s me in the upper right corner of the screen and the hippie in the van across the street filling the screen with his bearded face and saying, “Enjoy your dick beer, dude,” in what has to be the douchiest voice ever.
I immediately pull all the blinds and stop answering the phone.
I’ll be in public and people will shout, “Enjoy your dick beer!” or “Hey, it’s dick beer guy!”
I stop going out in public.
Now it’s the grocery delivery person going, “Hey … man, I don’t want to bother you but I gotta know … are you dick beer guy?”
If I stop ordering things, I don’t know how I’m going to stay alive.
I hate the hippie across the street. Is he happy watching me squirm? Is he watching at all? Maybe he’s laughing it up at all the attention he’s getting … at the expense of me.
I rationalize.
Who doesn’t want to be famous?
Who doesn’t want to be rich?
I start answering the phone. I go out in public. I hear it all the time.
I’m dick beer guy. I’m rich. I’m famous. I live so very far away from that hippie in the van across the street.
I do whatever I want all the time, but occasionally I’m reminded that I am and always will be dick beer guy and can’t believe how much better my life has gotten.
