I Almost Died Tuesday Morning But Kinda Deserved To
I've been through a lot these past 48 hours. It all started on Sunday night, right when the Super Bowl kicked off. Before that, my weekend looked promising. On Friday, I had some buddies fly in from Indianapolis and we explored the city all weekend. We were having a blast! Well, that shit turned sideways as soon as Sunday hit. On Sunday morning, my friends and I woke up to each other naked the smell of gas. We were pretty nervous at first and couldn't figure out what was going on. My roommate was nowhere to be found so I couldn't ask him what was happening. We opened all of the windows and turned off the heat thinking there was something wrong with the thermostat.
We left the apartment to get away from the burning gas and went to a bar that night in East Village to watch the Super Bowl. Now, this is where I hit Rock Bottom.
First off, I had money on the 49ers. That's pretty self-explanatory. 2nd, I'm averaging 1 kiss per month and I'm trying to stay consistent. I met a girl there and things were going alright! But wow did I throw a worse interception than Jimmy G in the 1st quarter. As we were talking, this dude who looked just like Jimmy G walked past me and my deformed brain made me yell, "Oh hey, it's Jimmy G!" Well, that girl turned her head quicker than PFT did when he got caught by the Super Bowl media security when that girl said, "No way you're 5'10". Soon enough, Jimmy G would rip my heart out twice that night.
You can't tell me that's not him! Hell, I wish I was that girl. Not to make out with him of course, but to walk away from Jimmy and go talk to Mantis more, duh.
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Next up, I met the most beautiful girl from Spain. She seemed she was at least 50% interested in me. Those odds weren't good enough as she got snatched by a STOOLIE. I couldn't be mad at the guy because he supports us, but I was mad.
Finally, I met this girl from Italy who was GORGEOUS! As we were talking, this dude from London sits across from us and goes "hey, that's my wife". I checked both of their hands and they didn't have any wedding rings on them. I was not going to strikeout that night. I replied, "Ah, very cool" like that one Russell Westbrook interview.
Well, my IDGAF attitude failed as he stared into my soul like the Grim Reaper. As any 130-pound human would've done, I got up out of that seat and went to the bathroom to hide in the handicapped stall where I belong. I came back a few minutes later and was approached by the guy. "Hey, I was just joking, I don't even know her". I shook my head and before you know it, the girl from Italy was heading to her Uber ride.
Now, I'm not close to dying just yet, but I'm close baby. While my confidence left my body to go straight to heaven hell, I still had my physical strength (at least what's been given). On Monday morning, my friends and I once again smelled the gas and were getting very nervous. I called our apartment complex to put in a maintenance request. I never got a follow up that day. Before heading back home, my lower back started to ache. Little did I know a fever was in the process of developing.
As I got home, I started smelling the gas from the stairway and hallway. I lost my shit and sprinted (waddled) to my apartment. As I opened the front door, I noticed the windows were open. I called the maintenance guy and asked him if he checked out our place and he sent me this.
Well would you look at that. The stove knobs weren't completely shut off. How did this happen? My friends and I didn't cook all weekend! That instantly made me think of one suspect, my roommate. I'm not pointing fingers, but the fact that my roommate who is a raging, gambling, alcoholic who has once left his chicken fingers to burn in the toaster oven last month lead me to think he did it. Or maybe my 2 friends were drunk and bumped into it. Either way, I know what side I'm on.
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To conclude, the gas got my ass. I threw up yesterday morning, I'm battling a fever, and also owe over 2,000 LinkedIn recommendations again. This was my Jordan Flu game blog. Godspeed everyone.