Once upon a time, in my mid thirties, I realized I was in danger of becoming a boring middle class white guy. My life needed some sparkle, some drama. A little je ne sais quois, if you will. I decided the solution was to become an alcoholic.
Alcohol does not discriminate. It has made heroes, buffoons and celebrities of people at all income levels, on all continents, and every industry. Writers, actors, politicians, doctors, mill workers, cabbies, psychotherapists – alcohol really is an equal opportunity fucker-upper. I entertained visions of myself holding court in a darkened, wood panelled kingdom, raising glass after glass of cheap draft beer with my classy but well deprecated cohorts. We would meet after work, and solve the worlds problems one drink at a time. Eventually, the lights would come on, we’d clap each other on the back and go our separate ways. It would be a charmed life. One of mirth and comraderie, perhaps the occasional act of derring-do, should a damsel in distress happen to wander in.
The truth of the matter is that after a couple of pints, I was ready for a nap. Determined, I knocked back a third and ordered my fourth. This emptied my wallet and I realized not only would alcoholism require staying awake for long periods of time, I’d need to be rich as well. Based on my experience thus far, I would also be urinating frequently. The amount of time, money and peeing involved made this a no-go life enhancement initiative. I’m too goddamn lazy to be an alcoholic.
In another episode of reckless self improvement, I was determined to become an asshole.
A consistent third place sprinter in track and field and honourable mention at every sciene fair in my school days, I had consistently proven nice guys finish last. No more, I said to myself. It was my time to shine, to take the bull by the horns and show them what I was made of. No prisoners, no excuses, no apologies.
I stocked up on the necessary literature: Chicken Soup for the Selfish Bastard’s Soul; How to Make friends, Then Steal Everything They Own; ScrewYounomics – The working Man’s Guide to Oppression and Profit. Thus armed, I could not fail.
I duct taped pillows to the hallway walls so I could practice bumping into people and not apologizing. I kept a pile of rocks by the window for tossing at people walking their dogs, and a list of insults designed to erode the self esteem of young mothers and thier children took up permanent residence in my coat pocket. Post-it notes of activities to let people know, in even the tiniest ways, that they were dealing with a heartless sumbitch were attached to every surface in my home. Things like taking the last piece of pizza, leaving the toilet seat up, calling all women chicks or broads, and cheering loudly and drunkenly at sporting events. Yes, even little league. Especially little league.
On day one of my magnificent transformation I boarded the train for work. Chest out, shoulders back and legs akimbo, I sat myself so as to take up two seats. My music was bleeding from the headphones loud enough for everyone within 15 feeet to hear, and I leered at the young girls. Two stops later, an elderly woman smiled and nodded at the second seat under my newly self-important haunches. I instinctively smiled and drew my limbs in. Actually, I stood up and helped her with her bags while she got seated.
I realized then and there that I was a big fake. I was trying to live a lie, and I am an awful liar. There is too much effort involved in becoming a chest thumping, knuckle dragging, money making Alpha citizen. Once again, I proved too damned lazy.
My hat’s off to those with the natural gift for petulant narcissism. Making sure the earth is a smoking pile of rubble for the meek to inherit is no easy task. My little experiment proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not worthy of such goals.
Twice I strived, twice I failed. Oh, woe is me. Well, not really. I still think about becoming more interesting or more successful. I just haven’t figured out the easiest way to do it. Until I do, I am doomed to a life of empathy and mild anebriation. Sorry, but you’ll just have to deal with it.Lazinesss saved my life.
Once upon a time, in my mid thirties, I realized I was in danger of becoming a boring middle class white guy. My life needed some sparkle, some drama. A little je ne sais quois, if you will. I decided the solution was to become an alcoholic.
Alcohol does not discriminate. It has made heroes, buffoons and celebrities of people at all income levels, on all continents, and every industry. Writers, actors, politicians, doctors, mill workers, cabbies, psychotherapists – alcohol really is an equal opportunity fucker-upper. I entertained visions of myself holding court in a darkened, wood panelled kingdom, raising glass after glass of cheap draft beer with my classy but well deprecated cohorts. We would meet after work, and solve the worlds problems one drink at a time. Eventually, the lights would come on, we’d clap each other on the back and go our separate ways. It would be a charmed life. One of mirth and comraderie, perhaps the occasional act of derring-do, should a damsel in distress happen to wander in.
The truth of the matter is that after a couple of pints, I was ready for a nap. Determined, I knocked back a third and ordered my fourth. This emptied my wallet and I realized not only would alcoholism require staying awake for long periods of time, I’d need to be rich as well. Based on my experience thus far, I would also be urinating frequently. The amount of time, money and peeing involved made this a no-go life enhancement initiative. I’m too goddamn lazy to be an alcoholic.
In another episode of reckless self improvement, I was determined to become an asshole.
A consistent third place sprinter in track and field and honourable mention at every sciene fair in my school days, I had consistently proven nice guys finish last. No more, I said to myself. It was my time to shine, to take the bull by the horns and show them what I was made of. No prisoners, no excuses, no apologies.
I stocked up on the necessary literature: Chicken Soup for the Selfish Bastard’s Soul; How to Make friends, Then Steal Everything They Own; ScrewYounomics – The working Man’s Guide to Oppression and Profit. Thus armed, I could not fail.
I duct taped pillows to the hallway walls so I could practice bumping into people and not apologizing. I kept a pile of rocks by the window for tossing at people walking their dogs, and a list of insults designed to erode the self esteem of young mothers and thier children took up permanent residence in my coat pocket. Post-it notes of activities to let people know, in even the tiniest ways, that they were dealing with a heartless sumbitch were attached to every surface in my home. Things like taking the last piece of pizza, leaving the toilet seat up, calling all women chicks or broads, and cheering loudly and drunkenly at sporting events. Yes, even little league. Especially little league.
On day one of my magnificent transformation I boarded the train for work. Chest out, shoulders back and legs akimbo, I sat myself so as to take up two seats. My music was bleeding from the headphones loud enough for everyone within 15 feeet to hear, and I leered at the young girls. Two stops later, an elderly woman smiled and nodded at the second seat under my newly self-important haunches. I instinctively smiled and drew my limbs in. Actually, I stood up and helped her with her bags while she got seated.
I realized then and there that I was a big fake. I was trying to live a lie, and I am an awful liar. There is too much effort involved in becoming a chest thumping, knuckle dragging, money making Alpha citizen. Once again, I proved too damned lazy.
My hat’s off to those with the natural gift for petulant narcissism. Making sure the earth is a smoking pile of rubble for the meek to inherit is no easy task. My little experiment proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not worthy of such goals.
Twice I strived, twice I failed. Oh, woe is me. Well, not really. I still think about becoming more interesting or more successful. I just haven’t figured out the easiest way to do it. Until I do, I am doomed to a life of empathy and mild anebriation. Sorry, but you’ll just have to deal with it.
