As I move into my late 20s and am quickly losing every particle of post-college hopeful optimistic exuberant stupid ambition, I am finding that it may be time to begin planning for the future, by which I mean discovering a way by which I will as soon as possible no longer have to do any of the stuff that I am doing right now. It is with this in mind that I went to go see a jerk at a bank.
Financial Planner: If you had to value your net worth—
Hero: You mean my worth as a human being? I have had the same job title for four years during which time I have lived in a state that is my nightmare but from which I cannot escape, I measure time based on the aged strata of pizza shrapnel buried into my beard, I have less money in the bank than I did when I was in college, the last great thing I accomplished was two years ago and it included tater tots and I’d really rather not get into that right now, and I am still typing out hyperbolic recaps of the very few human interactions that I allow myself to have onto a website that is used primarily by 14 year olds who like to transpose incoherent song lyrics onto pictures of dramatic nature settings — I will let you be the judge.
Financial Planner: I meant your worth in cash terms.
Hero: Seven dollars. More if you count monopoly money and money that I made with my crayons.
Financial Planner: I think a good place to start would be for you to not buy any more crayons—
Hero: You no good son of a bitch.
Financial Planner: Let’s maybe talk about some market strategies—
Hero: Certainly yes let us get into that. Question: when a gentleman of your personage says ‘diversified’ how many different types of apple juice do I need to buy before my apple juice portfolio can be said to be ‘diverse.’ As a follow-up question, where are all of the pie charts and do you even have an oven at this ‘bank’—
Financial Planner: I was not referring in any way to apple juice. You cannot become rich buying many different types of apple juice.
Hero: Thanks, Obama.
Financial Planner: Let’s talk about your ten year growth plan—
Hero: Sorry buddy but my doctor says I have at least 12 more years of puberty left.
Financial Planner: OK, but your long-term goals—
Hero: American Gladiators. End of goals.
Financial Planner: That show is cancelled, how can you even begin achieving tha—
Hero: I’d probably start by having a far less shitty attitude about it than the one you are presenting me with even though I am offering you solid gold here—
Financial Planner: Opposite, no, you are bringing us the opposite of gold to work with. Last week you came into this bank and tried to deposit two Taco Bell wrappers and a drawing of something called “Nerf Underpants” with the words “Patented Do Not Steal I Own Several Nerf Guns So I’ll Let You Decide What Will Happen To You If You Steal” written at the top of the page in purple marker—
Hero: THERE WAS CHEESE ON THAT WRAPPER! DO YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT COMMODITIES!!!
Financial Planner: TACO CHEESE ON A GARBAGE WRAPPER IS NOT A TRADABLE COMMODITY!!!
Hero: OK GENIUS WELL I HAVE BEEN OPERATING UNDER THE OPPOSITE ASSUMPTION SO HOW WILL THIS EFFECT MY STANDING IN THE MARKETPLACE???
Financial Planner: NOT WELL!!
Hero: MY TAX DOLLARS BAILED YOU OUT I THINK IT’S PRETTY INAPPRECIATIVE OF YOU TO NOT DO ME ONE SOLID AND INVEST AT ENORMOUS PROFITS MARGINS ALL OF THE TACO CHEESE THAT I HAVE BEEN HOARDING ON MY PERSON FOR WEEKS!!!
Financial Planner: GET OUT!!! YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!!!!!
Hero: OK but serious question I am just about ready to retire, so…
future is looking bright
an apple a day keeps the doctor away
unless i pick it up and hurl it at your face for giving me an apple when i asked you for a cheesecake. in somewhat related news i haven’t had a cheeseburger in 27 months, my boss has a weird thing about ‘germs’/’visible unnatural seeming bodily hair’ and maces me with lysol every time i sneeze or shave pictographs into my armpit and then show everyone, and i own two sweet little kittens so my laundry only gets peed on something like 9 times per week HOW ARE YOU ALL DOING. ok gotta eat something called a quinoa and try not to weep into it
how is a guy supposed to get any action around here
yes, fine, that is my shoe in the refrigerator, i just wanted to have an excuse to go back and see the cottage cheese and now your squealing about ‘food hygiene’ and ‘wanting to throw up all over the place’ are once again ruining all of my romantic schemes. i also don’t think it is relevant how many demerits i have earned for hiding for hours huddled in a break room cabinet so that i may sneak out at nightfall and eat everyone else’s pudding. where is my lawyer
My ten year high school reunion is coming up next year, and I am trapped a couple of thousand miles away with no vacation time and a sense of unbridgeable dissonance with every person that I see every day and a general feeling of vitality-putrefaction brought on by such a heavy incompatibility with my surroundings that it is a lot of times difficult to find the will to plan a trip to the store for a sorely needed new jar of applesauce, let alone a cross-country flight, and also most days I can not carry on any kind of interaction for more than three seconds at a time without being completely bewildered and sent slinking to the ground in a paralyzed effigial heap by the crazy bullshit that is being talked at me, so I am probably not going to be able to attend and will therefore need to send a proxy.
Should you desire this post, you will have set of objectives that cannot be strayed from under any circumstances. Failure to complete every flawlessly considered task in a manner that results in my immediate and perhaps unconstitutional election to mayor of my hometown and the proposal of marriage from no fewer than every single person male and female that I graduated with is grounds for being slapped and then imprisoned in my underground discipline room, which consists of one lawn chair and a giant projection of the tape I made of me dressed as James Lipton and stoically reading every script of The Secret Life of the American Teenager as I stare piercingly into the camera.
Objective 1: Arrive early enough to replace every arranged name-tag with business cards that say, in a humble typeset, “Ryan Sullivan: Sex Genius”
Objective 2: Find the principal. He will be the handsy doofus with the bleached hair winking suggestively in you would think biologically impossible rapid flourishes at inappropriate moments of every conversation he is in. Hand him a giant piece of cardboard upon which I will have fingerpainted “Voucher for 10 Ponies to be Donated by Legendarily Benevolent Ryan Sullivan to be Used in an Immediately Regarded as Celebrated Tradition Quatra-Annual Steeplechase In His Name and to be Otherwise Fawned Over and Gaped At By All.” After handing him the voucher, you will engage in a heated exchange into the headset that I am ordering you to wear, during which you will use the phrase “Dr. Ryan sanctioned this you son of a bitch” no less than four times before turning back to the principal and saying “Make that 11 ponies.”
Objective 3: Rub your butt on the gym floor like an itchy dog. Tell no one. Leave one of the business cards at halfcourt with the word ‘Revenge’ penciled on the back.
Objective 4: Carry three drinks with you at all times so that any time you hear something like “Hey remember that time Ryan said he was going to ‘erase his shame’ and then wiped a chalkboard eraser back and forth across his sweater and then walked around the rest of the day covered in chalky rectangles?” and “Who even is Ryan Sullivan” you will be prepared to immediately hurl three drinks in their face at once.
Objective 5: If anyone asks what profession I am in, you are to tell them that I am either a knight or a movie star. Example: “Ryan also starred in a superhero movie called ‘The Avenger,’ you may have heard of it. It was a movie he made in which he finds the monkey who gave him lice and hits it in the face with a watermelon.”
And so on. You can ad lib if you want, but don’t stray too far.
In my absence from this page I tried to do a twitter, but the only people who followed me were sex robots, I got in certain copyright hot water over the betutu’ed puppy image I stole, my parents tried to forge my signature on some legal documents claiming to absolve them of ever having begat me or “anyone even remotely resembling my emotionally haggard likeness,” I have been blocked by Cosmopolitan Magazine on four different accounts, and also when I tried to send my grandma a twit asking where my birthday money was, she twitted me back with a picture of a slip of paper nailed to the outside of her house with the headline “Blacklisted” and the only name listed was mine, so anyway now I am back. Quick question though how do I let the sex robots know where to find me
thanks spotify but you give worse advice than the guy who told me that eating cat food would make me strong like a tiger
my beautiful metamorphoses
I start a new job tomorrow, and in the meantime I’ve had an interim of two weeks since my last job ended in which I have fortified myself in my home, cycling through a meticulously ordered succession of stages ranging from “this definitely looks like a food stain on my pants but the type of food eludes me; i will just be naked from now on” to “what day is it” to “i would google the symptoms for muscular atrophy but i’m not sure i remember how to spell atrophy and i haven’t left this chair in exactly 19 episodes of Seinfeld because of the atrophy” to “shut up, guy, you’ve told me to stop sunning myself in my underpants on your lawn so many times that it’s lost all meaning, now turn your sprinkler back on so that i can wash away this shame/mustard,” much like a caterpillar enters its cocoon to undergo pupation and emerge a beautiful butterfly. Today my newly developed form finally proceeded from its encasement, as I was out of beer and cake frosting and it was already 2pm, nearly time for breakfast.
Grocery Checkout Person: I’ve never seen one person get this many different types of frosting. Are you, um…are you giving them as gifts?
Hero: Shut up, no, I am having a tasting later with my good friends Stuffed Animal Big Bird and Lifesize Cutout of Miley Cyrus. We are connoisseurs.
Grocery Checkout Person: …And five copies of “Dangerous Seduction” by Jackie Collins”—
Hero: We also have a book club.
Grocery Checkout Person: Would you mind helping me bag this stuff?
Hero: Only because I do not trust you to arrange the frozen tater tots beside the gallon peanut butter with appropriate delicacy.
Impatient Guy Behind Me in Line Wearing a Fishnet Tank Top and Fluorescent Yellow Visor Like an Idiot: You just stuffed 12 frostings into that tiny little paper bag and your face is covered in bean dip. Who…who is responsible for you?
Hero: I am awesome at bagging. This is the most work I’ve done in weeks. I’d forgotten what it was like to get some satisfaction out of accomplishing something that didn’t involve grilled cheese.
Grocery Checkout Person: Incidentally, it looks like someone has already ravaged this bean dip…I see no evidence of utensils or snacks of any kind being involved in said ravaging — it looks like someone just stuffed their face into the container—
Hero: And caressed it lovingly with his jowls, yeah, no, I don’t know who could have done that but I’m outraged that you’d try to sell it to me in this molested condition. I’m feeling rejuvenated — I’ll run as quickly as I can and gather some replacement bean dip for you to give to me for free.
Concerned Patron: What is happening to his limbs??
Grocery Checkout Person: I’ve never seen someone flop around so violently and still somehow inch forward in one direction.
Hero: I’m doing it!! I’m getting the bean dip!!!
Impatient Guy Behind Me in Line Wearing a Fishnet Tank Top and Fluorescent Yellow Visor Like an Idiot: This is some bullshit, bro. I’ve got shit to do. Frisbee. Pong. Peeing in places that are not the toilet.
Concerned Patron: Oh, Jesus, he’s finally tipped over.
Grocery Checkout Person: What are you doing?? Just stand. Stand up. Do you remember ‘standing’? I think he’s trying to roll.
Hero: Look at me go!! I thought my muscles had “atrophy,” but it turns out they really need “a trophy.” YES!! I’m back. Reward me. Discount the cake frosting by 150% or I’ll start throwing elbows.
Grocery Checkout Person: He’s rolling around like an oblong hot dog. He’s getting covered in gum and angrily discarded sales fliers.
Hero: I’m not paying for the gum.
It is going to be a difficult wakeup call tomorrow morning.
i’m on a roller coaster of emotions
combined all of the viable food in my refrigerator to create chili cheese tater tots. i feel like i may be permanently crippled and i’ve been crying a lot ever since and my girlfriend says i’m not allowed to sleep inside anymore, but i’ll still spend the rest of my life chasing that high
this is bullshit