by Ethan Sanders
I wake up in a cold sweat. It’s 3:52 AM. Soulja Boy bellows “YOUUUUUU” somewhere in the distance. Groggily, I realize that I fell asleep in my jeans and windbreaker. I release a string of curses as I undress and throw my now sweat-drenched clothes onto the floor. Just as I try to settle back into bed, my phone buzzes. My Bank of America app politely informs me that my debit card has been overdrafted, and I now have an unremarkable sum of -$142 in my bank account. You might be wondering how I got here. Don’t worry, I am too. How could I be stupid enough to go absolutely broke and then fall asleep fully clothed while Soulja Boy spat vulgarities into my ears?
I dig into the depths of my memory to try and remember what happened to me the night before, but I can’t seem to recall anything. I simply try to carry on with my now-ruined day, but something doesn’t seem right. I just can’t put my finger on it. I have to find out what really went down, so I figure I’ll ask the one person who knows absolutely everything about me: my sleep paralysis demon, Seymore.
Unlike other people’s sleep paralysis demons, my red, beady eyed, 7’6” dark silhouetted buddy doesn’t just chill with me when I’m sleeping. He’s always in the back of my mind, viewing the world through my eyes. Don’t think of this as schizophrenia, just think of it as your childhood imaginary friend, but bigger, badder, and meaner.
Seymore and I have an unconventional love/hate relationship. He loves that he terrorizes my subconscious, and I just simply hate him. Regardless, Seymore decides to withhold information about what I went through last night because he’s a little turd. He tells me that if I want to know so bad, I’ll have to do something for his entertainment first: use the Poop Bucket that was recently introduced to every classroom on campus, in front of my whole class. A deal with the devil.
After much deliberation, I decide to decline Seymore’s offer. My dignity is worth more than knowing whatever happened to me.
I carry on with my day and arrive at school, but unfortunately, Seymore is still in a heckling mood. From the depths of my subconscious, he belts out the tune to “I’m Blue” by Eiffel 65. My natural instincts kick in, and before I know it, I’m busting moves in my first period physics class and chanting “I’m blue da ba dee da ba daa, da ba dee da ba daa,” as one does. My classmates do a double take. I can’t shut up. I get sent to the office and boogie my way out of class, singing the whole way there. Thank you, Seymore.