Excerpt: The (Entirely Factual) Adventures of Thomas MacGregor

From the first section:
I’ve already stepped on one roach already this morning.
The worst part is, I just scrape it off the bottom of my foot, and keep looking for my work shoes. I’ve gotten so used to living with this slob that I don’t care anymore. Some time in the past, I used to have a nice flat with nice roommates who were also working on their MFAs. We had this great coffee and cookie ritual every Thursday. Now I eat cold toaster pastries and drink instant coffee. Or I would, if I could find the electric kettle. Or any utensil or open container of food that’s not covered in mouse shit. I miss blackberry scones. And good coffee.
The Roommate is sprawled on our musty couch, watching some shitty talk show. His name is actually Donald John, but I prefer to think that he doesn’t have a name, and is just this lump on the couch whose name is on the lease.
“You want a beer?” he asks and waves a bottle at me.
I just ignore him. It’s half-past eight, and I still can’t find my good shoes. I’m going to be late for work. Again.
I thought by the time I was twenty-five, I’d be a best-selling author. I’d have book signing events and an adoring editor and great reviews. Instead I’m still in my starving artist phase, keeping myself afloat with this crappy office job so I can keep living in this crappy apartment.
Where the hell did the Roommate get the money to buy beer? It’s not time for his dole check yet. Not like I actually want to know. Probably some deal with one of his skeezy friends. It would just be nice if he bought some food sometime, seeing as I keep buying the instant noodles and he keeps eating them.
Shit. I’m going to be late.
Screw this, I’ll wear my slippers. I’ve got to go. At least that loser keeps paying the electric bill. Probably so he can keep watching the TV.
Out the door. The elevator is broken. A big “X” of caution tape over the door. Fantastic.

From a later section:

12:00 Noon
I open up my computer.
I’ll check my blog before I start writing.
Holy shit. I have to be seeing things. I squish my eyelids closed. Open them again. Refresh the page.
Holy fucking shit. I have two thousand new page views.
And comments. I’ve never seen so many comments on my work that weren’t in red pen. Lots of exclamation points too.
Awesome story. Waiting for the next update.
F---ing brilliant. Just forwarded it to the office listserve.
Apparently I posted something while I was blackout drunk. Something that the internet is in love with.
I’ll have to do this again.
“I’m one of those people,” I say aloud
“I’ve noticed,” Andrew says. “If by that you mean the sort of people who can’t follow a shopping list.”
“Thanks. That was very witty.” Andrew glares at me. I have a sinking feeling that I’m not a nice drunk. But apparently a very creative one. I suppose too much writing training has repressed my creativity, and what I really needed to do was let myself go.
Which means as unpleasant as this was, I’m going to have to do it again.
“You have Michael’s phone number?”
“You want Michael MacLean’s phone number? Are you f---ing insane?”
“It’s creativity. Stop trying to impose some social norms.”
Andrew raises his eyebrows.
“He’s a fun person to go drinking with,” I explain. At least I assume it was fun.
“Really?”
I nod. “Just thought I’d give him a call and ask if he’s free tomorrow.”
“You know,” says Andrew. “He’s got one of those things called a ‘job’. You know, that thing you’re not particularly familiar with.”
“Thanks. Very funny. I did have a job, thanks.”
“Aye. And only once, I’m sure.”
I decide to ignore him. I don’t need his approval. Besides, I could call Neil. But he seems like more of a jerk. And his wife is kind of mean.
“If you want to kill your liver that badly,” Andrew says, “I’ll drink with you.”
“You? You drink?”
Andrew laughs. “So now you’re hardcore.”
“I held my own with your friends, didn’t I?”
“We’ll see,” he says.
Whatever. Once I break through into my creative unconscious, I’ll be the one laughing.