Recently I almost had to be hospitalized because of the delirious pleasure associated with turning 33. I could liken the sublime gratification I felt to receiving fellatio from a dozen glorious angels, their naked multicultural buttocks protruding from between their shimmering wings as they labor to provide me with maximum joy. It was such an otherworldly delight to know that I am one year closer to total oblivion, and that the period of my life where I am not in constant maddening pain is almost certainly more than halfway over.
When I think about what an embarrassment of riches I have, not just in the sense that I have survived to this point and am now rapidly approaching the yawning chasm of middle age, but also in the sense that I have finally found my way into a perfectly ordinary job in an office, with hundreds of binder clips and hanging folders, and a cornucopia of fascinating emails that go above and beyond what I could ever possibly need, and in the sense that on the weekends I have long hours of free time, which I devote to such hobbies as self-flagellation and attempting to smother the dreams of my youth, I am overtaken by a riotous gratitude that I can neither quantify nor articulate with words.
After the waves of transcendent euphoria have subsided, I remember that this amusing flight of fancy I call a life has been the result of much more than just my wanton good luck, and that the almost brutal elation that I never don't experience comes largely from my burning desire to achieve goals. Indeed, there lies within me an uncanny stick-to-itiveness that propels me toward ecstasies known to only a select few.
I have become so accustomed to trouncing life's challenges that the idea of being anything less than violently successful is as alien to me as using internet porn, and I might add that the neverending parade of solid dime pieces who twerk upon my nether regions as if they were born for that very purpose are certainly not detracting from these illicit crescendos of happiness.
I suspect that their pathological yearning for my loins is due to my irresistible bad boy ways, which include but are not limited to maniacal risk-taking and extreme indifference toward figures of authority.
They are probably also attracted to my rockstar charisma and virtuosic leadership abilities, which allow me to cruise through my interpersonal relationships in a perpetual state of assuredness and poise, and deftly take charge of a situation or project with naught but my instincts and a devilish grin. And though I'm sure many wouldn't care to admit it, they are also infatuated with my ridiculously bad temper, which compels me to destroy large quantities of glassware and decimate electronics as if it were going out style, as I fling about spittle and random obscenities in a charming paroxysm of vitriolic rage.
It's curious to imagine that in some parallel universe there is a person like me except completely the opposite, someone who is so dreadfully boring and average that they would go to the gym on a Saturday night and use only the arc trainer, and read
Confessions of a Raging Perfectionist on their Kindle, someone whose worst enemy is the fan on their laptop, someone whose current drug of choice is psyllium seed husk, someone who would rather sleep than have dinner with Gandhi, someone who would rather burn their towels than let them get mildewy, someone who genuinely gets a kick out of running errands, someone who gets far too excited about pens, someone who gets disproportionately thrilled about politics, someone who spends several hours in search of the right .gif, someone who goes to great lengths to be clever on the internet, in short, an enormous pussy who should probably be euthanized.
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Someone who uses a four-year-old picture because they are still pleasantly
plump on account of quitting smoking, two and a half years ago. |
If such an astoundingly prosaic individual with such a hilariously banal existence were to actually be real and have a high school yearbook, and a car that is strictly for getting from point A to point B, and dental insurance and a white noise machine and old friends he doesn't talk to enough, and poster board over the window in his bedroom and a moderate amount of hair loss, and not be just another of my exuberant whimsies, I'm not sure I would want to live on this planet anymore. But thankfully he is only a most humorous conceit, like Gargantua or Ignatius Reilly except a lot less interesting, so for now I can continue with my electrifying saga.
