I’m not very cool. My natural state is shaking like a Chihuahua on meth after a couple of 5 Hour Energy Drinks and an eight ball, I admit to having more Daddy issues than a knocked-up small town stripper and I’m less secure than the Mexican border. My finances are a total mess. I just found out that a child in Africa is sponsoring me.
I’m a goofy nerd; I haven’t even been to Coachella or Burning Man. I can’t pull off a cool nickname and the songs that fill my iPod are so embarrassing that my next of kin has explicit, detailed orders on how to destroy my Nano in the event of my death. (We’re talkin’ “Coldplay/Funky Bunch mash-up” kinda lame.)
I’m a hotter mess than a Taco Bell entrée and I’m currently deciding whether or not to have my next nervous breakdown catered or just hire a deejay like last time. I try way too hard, talk more than a Jewish mother on coke and dance like Olive Oyl on acid.
The thing is all this changes when I’m on Nyquil. Seriously, what’s in that stuff? Other than copious amounts of alcohol and just a smattering of Propofol. Usually I’m an insomniac but after a shot of the ‘Quil, I slip into nearly a coma state. I sleep so deeply someone could safely remove my pancreas with a soup spoon and a nail file without me noticing. The next morning I would just wake up in Vegas in a tub full or ice next to a dead hooker.
With Nyquil in my blood stream, I am Fonzie cool. On Nyquil I am tougher than Tyler Durden and just as mysterious. I strut around with a confident swagger calling everyone “Kitty Kat” or “Pony Boy” My vibe basically says “I got this” when, normally, I never “got” anything. I am so freaking in control and cool on Nyquil that I would actually hang out with me. I strongly believe that Nyquil successfully removes the gene that causes one to give a shit.
When I’m hopped up on the Nyquil love, I become my alter ego Roxy Nash. Roxy is the tits. She’s like the love child of House, The Mentalist and Rizzoli. Roxy looks good the moment she wakes up in the morning and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. She doesn’t take shit from anyone and the only people who walk all over her are the Geisha masseuses she hires for one hour every Sunday morning. Roxy’s daddy has daughter issues. Yoga does her. Xanax takes her to calm down.
Roxy is the lead singer of the popular British indie band “Vehicular Sodomy”. No one would ever dream of asking Roxy to do work for free. (I, however, am asked on what seems to be an hourly basis). Roxy’s trust fund has a trust fund. She has a butler called Cavendish who just, well, buttles all day. She’s an elite athlete, has a private jet just to transport her beloved dogs and instead of a private Island, she owns a continent.
To say that men worship Roxy is a gross understatement. She can inspire a man just by giving him a well-timed wink. She is the most sought after muse this side of Greek mythology. Not only will men move mountains for her, they won’t even ask her for a beer when they’re done schlepping. Men ask her what she’s thinking. She is more addictive than heroin and Kettle chips combined. Roxy is very dangerous. Once a man kisses her; he is be ruined for all other women. If a man is lucky enough to find himself in a relationship with Roxy, he will do whatever it takes to stay in the sweet spot: slaying dragons, sweeping romantic gestures, laughing at all her jokes.
I guess the key would be to channel a little bit of Roxy’s vibe out in the wild without the use of Nyquil. Until that’s possible, have you ever tried it chilled? It’s like a fine dessert wine.