The Northville Review
an online literary journal
Blessed by My Presence

Glen Binger

Under the charcoaled early morning moon, Kanye West awoke in a puddle of his own chunky vomit in the middle of southwest suburbia, New Jersey. He was unfamiliar to the area and still lingering in midnight rejected depression. A slight breeze wisped his sticky, unshaven cheeks. He was anything but prepared for this.

The sewer drain smelled of decomposing leaves and vodka-soaked Cap’n Crunch, so Kanye peeled his face off of the cold metal grate. Pieces of rust stuck to his forehead. He had little to no recollection of the events that took place the night prior. Worst of all, his new white Nikes had been scuffed with what appeared to be human feces. He felt a tear wash down his cheek, rinsing off leftover cereal in its path.

“What happened?” Kanye muttered to his BlackBerry.

He stood up and brushed the dark spots off his violet leather pants. The high from humiliating quite possibly the biggest country superstar to ever make an appearance on MTV had now become a low. He squinted, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed loud enough for the dog in the neighboring yard to hear. It started huffing.

Everything was grey and white and blurry and he had trouble standing without swaying back and forth. The dog saw him, and started barking. It felt like tiny beads of lightning striking every square inch of his brain. He wanted to kick the helpless animal, but he decided against it due to his past experiences with animals; particularly animals with gills.

His phone vibrated in his palm. Startled, he tripped over his own feet and fell backwards into the puddle of puke behind him, adding to the mysterious twist of putrid colors now painted on his white sneakers.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

The dog kept barking. He still wanted to kick it.

“Who be textin’ on my personal cell?” He looked down and saw that it was only the battery dying. He checked his messages. The only text he had in his outbox was to Twitter. “Worthless,” it read. His inbox was empty.

As he stumbled to his aching feet, he realized that he could check his Twitter account to try and figure out the timeline of last night’s events, if he had updated his profile more than once. However, if he was going to check his Twitter profile, his phone’s battery would most likely die in the process.

There were three possible options. He could use the remainder of his battery life to either A: call a taxi or a friend and somehow get back to New York, B: use the GPS on his phone and start walking in the direction of city life, or C: check his Twitter and piece together last night’s events.

Not many men had the ability to prioritize simple things in life the way Kanye West did. He took a deep breath and started pacing in the middle of the moon-lit, vacant street. Of all the problems around him, indecision pushed against his brain the most. Or maybe that was the dog that had now started growling.

“Bitch, if you don’t shut up…” he drifted off into silence.

There is no such thing as content in Kanye’s life.

“I need to find some more liquor.” He rubbed his doughy belly, and looked up towards the house with the dog.

“This house looks nice,” he thought. “Maybe they have some decent vodka.”

There was nothing in the universe that could have stopped him. He was completely unprepared, yet somewhat aware. In absolute disgrace, he raised his phone to about chest level and opened the browser on his BlackBerry. The last four Tweets:

This sewer drain is less comfortable than it looked
Jay-Z just took a shit on my Nike’s!
What kind of seventeen year old bitch thinks she can out-do my girl, Beyonce?

His phone died in his sweaty palm as he read the fourth update aloud to no one. It made him feel cold. He shuddered as he slid the frigid piece of electronic back into his breast pocket. The air was chilly and made his nipples hard. But he didn’t notice. His mouth tasted like regurgitated cereal and he could smell the shit on his sneakers. But he didn’t pay attention to that, either.

“Mmm… can’t tell me nothing,” he thought.

Kanye West adjusted his shirt, walked up the path of the house with the barking dog and smashed a window next to the door as quietly as he could. The lowest low point of his sad, famous life hadn’t even yet bruised his ego. In fact, nothing up to this point had. Not the skid marks he had yet to notice on the seat of his pants. Not the rust of the sewer drain sticking to his face. Not Jay-Z’s waste product on his sneakers. Not the taste of recycled cereal in his teeth. Not even the blood now dripping from his glass-infested knuckles. Even his preference to check Twitter before calling a cab hadn’t made him think twice.

“I be gracin’ this house with my presence,” he said to the silhouettes of the living room furniture.

No one answered. Even the dog had stopped barking.

“I said…” he stopped, looking at the empty staircase.

Nothing made him more depressed than the blackness that darkened each step towards the second story. He expected the flip of a light switch. He expected a man carrying a bat. He expected attention. Maybe even some sort of alarm. Nothing.

“Never mind,” he muttered.

He turned and sat down on the only white sofa in the living room, not thinking about the substances smeared on his pants and sneakers. Kanye leaned sideways, shoved his throbbing head into the colorless pillows and picked his legs up onto the cushion next to him, smudging the white fabric with seven different kinds of disgusting.

The only words he could manage to sob between gasps of air were, “I just wanna update my Twitter.”

About the author

Glen Binger edits the magazine 50 to 1, is a member of The Broad Set Writing Collective, and writes monthly fiction for eFiction Magazine. He lives at the beach in New Jersey and refuses to acknowledge MTV for further ruining the reputation of his home. He is the Lil' Wayne of literature. Visit him online: