OPENING TO A NOVEL I'LL NEVER FINISH...

Lance Gifford was, of course, an off-kilter kind of character. The kind you'd find washed up within the vowels and consonants of a good, airport book or a bad, twentysomething American screenplay. His life was as askew as his shirt and almost as low as his jeans.
Lance wanted oh-so-desperately to be considered something akin to cool. Sadly, Lance was about as 'cool' as a happy, active radiator. He was into the latest sonics and often clicked his fingers to what he assumed was the 'next big thing'. He always tried to get there before they (They being a band) became famous sold their souls to a man who, when the 'heat' wore off, wouldn't know what to do with them. Lance wanted that to be famous, if only for 2.5 minutes. Fame would be wonderful. He wouldn't lose his head. He'd use his wealth to keep it firmly attached. He didn't know what he'd be famous for exactly. Maybe he'd invent something of use, something amazing that would cause people to make noises of agreement and wonder.
Lance was a man of modest means and honest principles. He, to popular disbelief, had kissed at least three girls he wasn't directly related to. One, a rather large little lady in a jumper, ended up taking a shine to him. He soon realised she was quite the mad monkey. It took him about four years to realise this. Lance wasn't the quickest bullet out of the gun. After that mess of a muddle he decided to kiss other things and not give them his phone number. Just to be sure and extra safe, Lance buried his phone in a friend's garden.
Lance Gifford was (and maybe still is) one of 'those folk'. He likes to keep himself to himself and his eyes on the road. He believes in fate but not in ghosts. He thought he saw a phantom once but it turned out to be a carrier bag attached to a stick. His house mate was a 'little off' like that. This is why Lance lives on his own, in a self-built house, with a cat who, if played the right music, will laugh like a human. He never did it in front of other people. Lance figured that the cat was shy.
So what of a story? Is there a story to be had here? Is this merely a bunch of words slapped together to distract you, the reader, whilst I loot your mind for ideas, coins and memories? It's not really anything. Lance is a figment and, somewhere, in universe where up is down and cats laugh like drains, this could be happening. I could be wrong, however. That's happened in the past.