Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Goals are great if you want to achieve failure in measurable increments. That’s why I avoid having any. As a college graduate and married man, I’ve now cowered in the face of opportunity enough times to have soiling my pants down to a science. Of course, my anthropomorphic version of opportunity has beady red eyes and a nasty scar down the right side of his face. I gave it to him when I turned away from engineering to major in creative writing. Since the age of eleven, all of my bad decisions have manifested themselves in the form of a metaphorical hangnail of surprising sharpness.
My own dearth of accomplishments up to this point in my life doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the abundance of accomplishments already attributed to people younger than me. The world is filled with eighteen-year-old NBA stars and nine-year-old best-selling authors. For years I thought the solution to my sense of inadequacy was to improve myself to compete with these prodigies, but I now understand the true solution isn’t bettering myself so much as it is worsening others. Rather than playing on a junior high basketball team or learning to read, children should be clearing mine fields and receiving beatings. Unfortunately, short-sighted senators cut both of these exciting youth career paths from the Child Health Care Act of 2007.
Having no legislative mechanism with which to automatically sabotage the young, talented individuals who surround me, I’m left with no choice but to pursue success on my own merits. So far, the pursuit has been a sad and meandering affair, with frequent stops to catch my breath and placate my overactive bladder. Here’s the current state of that pursuit, conveniently compartmentalized since failure is much easier to swallow in bite-sized portions:
Last week, Lola got a quarterly bonus that almost equaled the amount I spent on her engagement ring. She may have destroyed my self-esteem as a provider, but in terms of the financial investments I’ve made, she’s by far the most profitable. Instead of setting up a Roth IRA, I think I’ll use beads and other shiny trinkets to purchase more wives.
Some people become journalists because they want to make the world a better place. Others choose that career path because they want the excitement of breaking news. By littering and shunning charities, I make the world a little worse every day, and I find breaking news to be an incredible inconvenience to my nights of quietly browsing the internet. My problem isn’t that I don’t like where I work, but that I don’t like working. After buying a second wife, I shouldn’t have to deal with that particular problem any more.
I’m probably in the worst shape of my life right now, which is quite impressive considering how bad of shape I was in when I was in the best shape of my life. I have a gym membership, but I also have a fridge full of beer and a pantry full of foods that can be eaten while drinking beer. I expect to double in size every six months for the rest of my life. I’ll have to secure four wives a year just to finance my eating habits.
After all the loving neglect I’ve showered upon this site, I’m often shocked that people still visit. Of course, most people come here through Google looking for a valedictorian speech, Halo 3 secrets or a crash course on unicorn sodomy. At one point, this Web site had a major role in my plan to circumvent traditional employment, but my old and weary fingers tire quickly from typing. That’s why I will closely examine the secretarial skills of all additional wives I purchase.