There's Plenty of Room at the Hotel California

Here I lay, bleary eyed and wondering where it comes from. I could not make this shit up if I tried.

I was working on a paper for which I had researched illicit drug use in adolescents. After completion, my paper would be presented to a magazine for possible publishing. My article was about methamphetamine use and the effects it has on teenagers and the lives of people who care for them. It was submitted to Rolling Stone through an intricate pneumatic tube system. In order to get their reply I had to use a different method of tubes. After pouring water down some clear neoprene, I watched it roll and fall out of sight until the water flowed back up and tube began to fill. I put my ear to it to listen to their response. A man's voice told me that they loved the article but unfortunately it was too graphic and 'scary' to publish. (Almost famous?)
On the way home, I drove on a freeway that passed over Disney Land. I could see the Small World off to my right. The man I was driving with told me which roadways to take since I was unfamiliar with California freeways. I made it back to the friends' house where I was staying. They lived in some sort of a small commune that housed several Duplexes that surrounded a central courtyard with dead grass. Their house looked as if it were all bedrooms. No kitchen or living area, just a long hall with sleeping areas. Even though there were many beds they told me there was no room for me to stay so I ended up in their neighbor's garage on a little canvas stretcher. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust and smelled damp and of mildew. When I woke, their neighbor came out and told me that I needed to clean up the mess, which included piles of old oil filters, dryer lint balls, coffee cans filled with nuts and bolts and baby diapers (used and unused). After finishing, I walked back across the courtyard and spotted my dad, outside, watching a game on a television. My mom was gardening. Hotel California was playing.
When I needed to leave my dad told me to stay because the game had three quarters left to go. Somehow, he was equating the amount of time left in the game to how much daylight was left. I argued that I was going to be late. The sun was sinking decidedly fast, I didn't know where I was going and was afraid to drive home on the freeways.
My choices for a ride were a little convertible matchbox-type car or an old refrigerator. When I decided to take the mini car out, my dad told me that he preferred that I use the fridge. I opened the freezer door and the fridge part was filling with water. So, I told my dad that the last time I drove the fridge the door kept swinging shut in my face and I couldn't see anything. I ended up driving away in the little car, dwarfed by SUVs and semis with the cool wind in my hair.