It turns out that I continue to only be in love with myself. Why this is a mystery to people I will never understand. How can people not be in love with themselves? I find myself wondering this all the time. Even when I was fat and boring I was still in love with the idea of myself. Basically, I am sort of diluted. I am also sort of broke. That being said, this is why you do not switch jobs for no reason unless you have checked your brokerage accounts cause you forget to stop spending money like your bank account is the vault housing the riches of Scrooge MacDuck. Most of my life I have been swimming through coins thrown in my direction that I don’t really know what to do when the world is not raining dabloons on my wench head. I don’t even think this is much of a worry as I will just go to the bank tomorrow and be like SOMEONE FIGURE OUT HOW TO GIVE ME MONEY BEFORE I COME BACK IN HERE WITH A RONALD REAGAN MASK ON AND PRETEND THAT I AM BODIE IN MOTHER-FUCKING POINT BREAK. I guess maybe that is what my life has been setting me up for–to become a fucking bank robber that surfs and fucks my time away before I take the ultimate plunge, whatever that may be. God, I want to run away with a troup of banditos and be as bad as possible. I want to be a serial aids rapist. I want to be epic. Instead I am only being stable.