For a guy who went out with a beautiful girl the night before, I’m awfully somber.

Though I know why.

Because I played golf today, which I don’t do, and I therefore sucked at it completely. Which I hate. Not sucking at golf, in particular, sucking at anything is what I hate. Just like you. And the thing is, I’m human, which means that I suck at a good lot of things, I just generally try to avoid those things and save myself the embarrassment.

And that is why I am not a kajillionaire. Cause I would suck at it. I’d be all bloated on my own sense of real, monetary worth, actually buying and selling countries just because I could, like a total prick. I would hate myself.

And who wouldn’t? I would buy these countries, fuck up their economies by turning their major export into coffee mugs with my mug on them (and I’d laugh every time I told that joke, which would be often. My minions would be forced to laugh, of course, that being their job; but one day I would meet this stunningly gorgeous woman who wouldn’t put up with any of my shit and she wouldn’t laugh. I would suddenly realize what a major a-hole I had been for years, and my whole life would suddenly be meaningless), change their names to U.S. of Daaaaave, and then sell them back to Russia for a loss. Just because I could.

It would be ugly. So I think I’ll just become a multi-millionaire, which I think I could handle fairly well with class and dignity. I’d even contribute regularly to charity, and would be beloved by all. “That Dave,” they’d say, “he’s one kick-ass multi-millionaire!”

I’m not down because I sucked at golf today.

I’m down because I’m addicted to attention and the fact that I had a date with a hot girl the night before doesn’t sustain me through even an entire weekend.

That’s all true, but it’s not why I’m down.

I’m down because I’m still in this fucking loaner-apartment with only my bed and a chair, no fridge, no microwave, no TV, and with my life on hold waiting for my burned-out apartment to be fixed already so I can get the rest of my stuff back from the insurance company and get on with my life, pathetic or not, for chrissakes.

I’m 1,000 years old with a real job, my own car, many leatherbound books, and stuff that smells of rich mahogany and I’m living like less than a college student. I’m like a college student that can’t even pull it together enough to steal cinderblocks and 2×8’s from a construction site to put my crappy Yorx stereo and older brother’s records on (do they even make Yorx stereos anymore? Those were the days -Ed.).

I’m like a college student who was so lame he got caught swiping milk crates from the back of the supermarket and so instead his shoes, and underwear are in a big pile at the bottom of his closet, covered with dirty clothes, rendering the two indistinguishable.

Which reminds me: before my place burned down I had my own washer/dryer, which, in retrospect, I friggin’ loved. Now, I have to gather quarters like a chump and waste a night standing in front of a laundromat dryer trying to put on a face like I really do have a party at the Playboy mansion to get to, but I’m just so down with being cleanly for the ladeez that this is a necessity. And that’s why I’m wearing Power Rangers sweats. And flip-flops. With beanie and a T-shirt that says, “I’m with stupid” but there’s no arrow because it’s meant to be directed at myself.

And that’s what I’m down about.

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