BEVERLY HILLS, CA – FEBRUARY 12: Music Producer David Guetta arrives at the 2011 Pre-GRAMMY Gala and Salute To Industry Icons Honoring David Geffen at Beverly Hilton on February 12, 2011 in Beverly Hills, California. (Photo by Jason Merritt/Getty Images)

So as I was munching on a delectable crumb of dryer lint and drooling lasciviously on my woolen socks in the laundromat, I was surprised by an unusual conjuration, one which appeared in front of me like a vivacious slice of life on a magnificent spring day. There, in front of mine own eyes, I did spy a microscopic David Guetta, the enthralling sophist he is, perched upon a single flying speckle of dust in the air. Not only was he entirely naked, but he seemed to be trying to communicate with me via whimsical and bemused (yet tasteful, nuanced) expressions. It was at this time, I immediately was doused in a philosophical napalm, the sort of which fundamentally changed every single thing I knew about the universe. David Guetta filled me with his love, and I was born again.

It is difficult for me to find the words to communicate exactly what I learned in this instant. But David Guetta, the David Guetta we know, the David Guetta that was for us, well, that David Guetta – he and I skipped over to a local minor league baseball game before I bared my fangs and hurled several turns of phrase onto the unassuming folks at the ticket booth. My ideas were certainly rocking the boat, and before I knew it, I was being ushered in to throw the first pitch of the game.

As everybody and their mother does too, I love a good jumbotron. And I watched as my body piloted itself on the big screen right to the pitcher’s mound. David Guetta was in my ear. He was explaining to me the new lore. He was telling me that he enjoys systematically slaughtering aliens on off-world planets. He told me that in David Guetta slang, spaghetti means something entirely different.  I jammed my finger right up into my nose chasm and licked all the cavities in my mouth. I rubbed the baseball in my hands. I know, David Guetta, I whispered into the wind. I wound up my arm and threw that ball as if it was destiny. 

On the cab ride back home, absolutely limbically drunk, David Guetta sang to me a melancholy, melodious tune so precious and gorgeous that I couldn’t help but weep. David Guetta guided me home and tucked me into bed, still perched upon that speckle of dust, accompanying me to my bedroom cradle, absolutely free of worry.

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