Hey, at least I'm not bitter

To all of the people with their shit together, (ie. school, relationships, jobs, marriage, home ownership, children, you get up before noon) congratulations! On opposite day. Go fuck yourselves, is what I really meant. I'm a realist. I've accepted the fact that I'm not going to find the perfect job, or marry my best friend and soul mate. Chances are slim to none on having a big house with a nice lawn and a moron shaggy dog named Artie, chasing after his ass. I probably won't have 2.5 wonderfully spoken children, or go to an evening yoga class with the rest of the modern working mothers in my neighborhood. I won't drive a hybrid, be a part of a book club, or watch Sunday night HBO with my white collared husband.

What's in the cards for me, you ask? Well, I'm just ball parking here, but I have a feeling it's going to be something along the lines of a dingy apartment, furnished with milk crates, my grandma's old tv with a line through the top of the picture, a twin mattress, plastic forks, and not enough toilet paper. I'll start internet dating, meeting guys who are 40 years old, balding, who take care of their elderly mothers. I'll eat copious amounts of Chinese food and my fridge will be 90% condiments and vinegar packets. 9 times out of 10, my fortune cookie will tell me to “Lighten up, and enjoy life.” Dear fortune cookie; don't tell me my fucking business, is what I'll say. My cat Little Jerry Seinfeld with be the light of my life.

I'll turn 30, maybe have a one night stand and get promoted to battering onion rings. I'll upgrade my tv box with the red digits, and grandma tv with the pull knob, to a 28 incher from Cash Converters. Sans line through the top of the picture. All in all, it'll be a good year for me. I'll take up scrapbooking and maybe jogging for a couple weeks, but then I'll remember how much I hate people who scrapbook, and how I especially hate running.

I'll run into you at the grocery store while buying cat food and one ply toilet paper, your recyclable bags in hand. Your t-shirt will have a witty comic about your lack of a carbon foot print and you'll try to catch up on the last 6 years. The “Old ball and chain” (you'll laugh) is doing well, your bilingual 2.5 children are growing like weeds, little Jimmy just got a medal for track and field, and the new job is great! Company car and everything. You'll ask me what I've been up to, all this time. Chances are, I'll call you a hippie fag, poke a hole in your bag of milk and then yell “MARTIN RULES! Medal THIS, Jimmy!” and I will grab my crotch. I'm hoping they will have invented rocket skates by then, so I can make a quick getaway. If not, I'll rip open a bag of peas and throw them on the ground, in hopes you will slip on them like a Scoobie Doo cartoon. If there is any poetic justice in this world, you will.

I will be living proof that God has a sense of humour. But hey, at least I'm not bitter.