Caruso’s party was filled with the same lunatics from last year. I wonder if Caruso ever realizes that he is thirty, and he has this sobering moment about all the kids he lets wander into his house, and trip like cocaine addicts in his living room. And he thinks about how all the women he has slept with over the last twelve years have been naïve freshman girls from his alma mater. Then I would think he takes another hit of his joint, and laughs and lets the pig tailed cheerleader go down on him one more time before he fucks her. And after she leaves to hit her curfew, he lays in bed alone, calls a phone sex hotline and talks profusely about his problems to a sultry bleached blonde, who becomes intensely bored with a middle aged man’s sex life and various addictions. Maybe she clicks off the call, and he doesn’t notice and keeps rambling on until he becomes sick of himself, or maybe he does notice and rambles on anyway, until he feels ill. Then he lies there, depressed and self-loathing, then he calls his high school sweetheart, who is married with two kids, and he begs her to tell him where he went wrong.
Their conversation goes nowhere, leading to her telling him that he needs to stop drinking and self-medicating, and he becomes devastated and hangs up as she begins to tell him to stop calling her. Maybe Caruso doesn’t ever think of what a fuck up he is. Maybe he just sits, drinks, and fucks himself into oblivion. He doesn’t need to give a shit about his shit life. Then Caruso would be inspiring, somewhat endearing maybe, if you look past the teen predator and addict parts of his personality. He lives a shitty life, makes shitty music, throws shitty high school parties, drinks shitty beer, and eats shitty fast food, and he lays back, sleeps with anything with breasts, and doesn’t care that the world doesn’t care about some jackass like him. The lucky psychotic prick.
(This is a work of fiction, an imaginative narrative).