It seems these days that we are constantly being inundated with content, whether itâs from the Internet, television, or movies. As such, the lines between media and reality are becoming increasingly blurred. Case in point, right now Iâm unsure whether Iâm living out Thomas Hutterâs story from the 2024 Gothic horror film âNosferatuâ, because some guy just fucked my wife.
Granted, Iâm not employed as a real estate agent in a quaint little German town in the early 1800s, but I did recently get cucked by Derek, the assistant manager at our local Bob Evans, so Iâm hard-pressed to think of a notable difference between us. I canât even prove that my wife Cara didnât have some sort of profound psychic connection with the guy. I mean, we eat at his restaurant fairly regularly, so heâs been at least tangentially aware of us for some years at this point. He may not be a wealthy Transylvanian count, but the similarities here are too big to ignore.
And get this! Much like Thomas getting stricken ill from Nosferatuâs bite and being cared for by a group of Eastern Orthodox nuns, I came down with a nasty case of food poisoning from the Farmerâs Choice Breakfast last month, and as the assistant manager, Derek was ultimately responsible. Also, the lady who took my blood pressure at the MedExpress definitely had Slavic features, so the parallels between my situation and Robert Eggersâ masterpiece just keep showing themselves.
Whoâs to say my wifeâs recent tryst with this guy wasnât done as a way of warding off some invasive, deadly plague, just like in the movie? Iâd like to think so, especially because Iâm desperate for a way to excuse this most recent slip-up of Caraâs for the sake of my marriage. I mean, the world completely shut down from the COVID-19 pandemic just a few short years ago. It seems completely feasible to me that the only reason weâre not currently dealing with its next iteration is that Cara let this dude raw-dog her behind the dumpsters while I was using the ATM in the Speedway down the street.
Oh well, maybe Iâm over-thinking this whole situation, and this guy really isnât the next Nosferatu. Or maybe Iâm not, in which case Iâd like to pat myself on the back for my comprehension skills. Only time will tell. In the meantime, some guy at the bus station just offered me $12 to jack off in front of him, so I may be reliving the film âIndecent Proposalâ. Iâll get back to you on that one.
