Remember college? Did you squeeze every minute of fun out of it? Keg parties, BJs at the frat house, watching Brittany do the Walk of Shame from your place back to sorority row, sleeping late, skipping class, no responsibilities. That certainly wasn't my experience, but it's still how I'd like to remember my college days. Actually, that's not true; all my nostalgia revolves around the hope. Back in college, the world was my oyster, ready to be cracked open. But two years later, reality has set in and I'm now the cynical poster boy for giving up on lost dreams and the hope that the future is bright and shiny.
My alarm goes off every morning and each time as I hit "snooze" I utter a profanity, each one more vulgar and heartfelt than the one before: BEEEEEP BEEEEEP "Damn it!"...BEEEEEP BEEEEEP "Son of a bitch!"....BEEEEP BEEEEEP "Motherfucker!" until finally I've slept so late that I know I'm going to be really late to work, but yet I have to get up now because if I'm any later than what I'm already going to be at this point, I'm going to get chewed out when I get there, and, hey, that's no way to start a Monday.
So I shower and do a half-ass job of shaving. I grab a pair of clean boxerbriefs from the pile of laundry that I got out of the dryer and threw on the chair in my room. Wrinkled clothes, dirty glasses...most days I look like a hungover Drew Carey, even though I didn't have anything to drink the night before. I get to work and look at the clock every 10 minutes until 5:30 and ask myself 100 times: "You couldn't have figured out that you wanted to be a comedy writer 7 years ago? No clue at all, huh? A scholarship to NYU or UCLA wasn't worth giving your career aspirations a little more thought? No? Ok, well go back to filing now. Better hurry because your bosses' lunches aren't going to pick themselves up, are they?"
Then I'm exhausted, though I can never be sure if it's because of working hard or the fact that my spirit is gone, so I try not to focus on it and just pick up a burrito for dinner and go home to lie in bed and watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Maybe if Kris Jenner had been my mother, I'd be more successful now. Sure, I'd be pushing 30 and still dressing and acting like 13 year-old, but I'd have money and fame--the only things that really matter. Of course, I'd vomit every week when the credits ran and I remembered that I was on a show that was a Ryan Seacrest Production, but that would keep me skinny, except for my giant Armenian ass.
And then I start thinking that maybe I should just adopt a kid. I can't afford it now, but maybe if I cut out the Starbucks for two or three years. But then I think how I'd be a terrible father. If I adopted boy, I'd be completely screwed. I hate the outdoors. I know nothing about sports, video games,...what else do boys like?
And if I adopted a girl, I'd be fine until she got her first period; then I'd be useless. "Here are some tampons. Don't go swimming; you'll attract sharks. And don't go camping; you'll attract bears...and wolves. Congratulations, sweetie! Today, you're a woman!"
But I do think I'd be good when it came to talking to my daughter about boys. "Don't be a whore or no one will ever marry you." Sound advice. Concise. To the point.
And after all that, I fight the necessity for me to go on anti-depressants because I'm worried it might interfere with my "creativity" and prevent me from writing the world's next great dick-joke. Because I know in my heart that that's how I'll become famous: tweeting some joke about how my crotch is clean-shaven and ready for basic training or a court appearance. HBO will order a 13-episode season, and I'll be on my way to becoming the straight Michael Patrick King.