You asshole, you're making almost six figures at that cushy job your daddy lined up for you. There's no way to fail and nowhere to go but up. You're dying to leave that all of a sudden for a prettie Biggie-Sized (TM) pay cut and surgical removal of whatever sort of prestige you've managed to build up in the last year-point-five? And all this to take on a position that, it sure seems, you could quite possibly be woefully underqualified for, setting up for the first time in a long time a glorious opportunity to fail, to fall flat on your face and have all the wess-cose playaz laugh they fool heads off at you? My, whatever possessed ye, my confused, bewildered little lion cub? Stepped on by the rhinos so quickly?

Pragmatism. Excellent opportunity, looks great on the resume. Loads of hi-fi tech experience in a marquee startup poised to take over the world. Not like those losers in Purchase. Man, you shoulda seen this shit. This shit makes our guys' shit look like a piece of shit. Embarrassed to know 'em, that's what I am now. "Hey, didn't you build th-" Shut the fuck up before I ram these little plastic Black minis up yer cork-hole. But that's not the point. These guys got it all goin' on. Rock-solid, flying like a Falcon, and a pool table in every building, besides. This is "definately" the place for an upwardly-mobile geek-by-way-of-charm-school screaming meteor like myself.

Ah, really? But peep those killer palm trees. Straight out of 70% of all movies ever made. The sun, the beautiful babes, that sweet Pacific exhaust. Yeah, baby. This is where the action's at. Watch as your spirit soars free, finally breaking through your suburban Maryland scary white over-doted, under-sexed dinosaur egg. Yeah, baby. Toning up, rollerbladin', surfin', banging cocktail waitresses two at a time, and hangin' with the in-crowd, swimming pools, movie stars. Just like the fucking post cards. Shit, that is the life. And don't tell me that it only exists in my head, and that no matter where you are, life's only what you make of it. I've been telling myself that for 29 fucking years now and look what it's bought me -- blue balls and a touch of self-celebrated alcoholism. No way, man, it's that Rodeo breeze and coconuts that's gonna fix me. Fix me good. Watch out, big city. New sherriff. Rock.

New life, eh? New job, new locale, new everything. Well, but you've been doing that a lot lately, haven't you? And no matter what fence you look over, the chlorophyll over there rules supreme, and every time you look down, the grass beneath your own feet starts to wax a dull tan. What makes you think this'll be diffurnt, huh?

Because... TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!

Yes.

But so is tomorrow. The perennial, plaintive, pitiful cry of the terminally procrastinant, self-deluded, self-loathing, self-important miserable wastoid sonofabitch scatterbrain. Every single move he makes is unfettered, triple-filtered brilliance. He keeps it that way by never making a move to begin with. Think you can draw out the days like Yossarian, boring yourself not to death, but to life? Nice try, loser. Do that long enough, you're liable to wind up scratching out aimless dime-store artsy analysis some time, wondering where the hell the drink cart is, and hoping like fuck that it'll help to pass the time till you can get off this steel tube and check your goddamn cellphone messages. Trust me, not a pretty sight.

Pragmatism. Location. Cocktail waitresses. All valid, compelling arguments.

So what are you running from?

A troublesome job? A lonely home life? The embarrassment of having nothing with which to respond to that pesky mosquito of a question, "So, what do you do for fun?"

Work responsibility? Social responsibility? Homemaking, lifemaking, self-improvement responsibilities? Christ, the only time you write lists and make plans and study are when you're on an airplane or there's nothing even tolerable on TV and your fingers are sore from banging out the same tired (but awesome!) improv babble on the Korg. Or at work.

You're not still running from your father, are you? Holy puke, what a tiresome, hackneyed refrain.

Yeah, I'm running from that. I'm running from all of those things. Moving on, starting anew, it's a born-again, baptismal cleansing. Past sins forgiven, nothing but clear skies and limitless beauty as far as the eye can see. Yeah, until you step off the airplane.

Want to know, then, what I'm running from?

I'm running from today, sir.

Tomorrow has such boundless possibilities. Physical, emotional, mental orgasms that your pitiful little melon can't hope to comprehend. Tomorrow, I am a prince, a hero, a superstar, a king, an oracle, a rich prick driving a fancy car, a legendary author, a world-renowned gourmet chef, a missionary bringing a new gospel to the hopeless, lost masses, and the undisputed, immutable ruler of all things great and small.

But today, I might fuck everything up. So I think I'll just sit here. When's lunch, anyway?

Terrific, now I'm a little homeless red-haired whining bitch. That's progress.

What acronym you want, fella? Whaddya got? SAD? ADD? OCD? ED? (Hey...) Sure, I'll take 'em all. A good pathetic excuse never hurt anyone. So take your labels and stick them to your forehead like gold stars of redemption. Keep going, what else you need?

Drugs! Paxil, and that other one. St. John's wort and a host of other placebic herbal remedies. Gimme, gimme! Magic beans, grow me a weed to carry me up into the light. Speaking of that, the drink cart still hasn't come by. But keep going.

Shrinks. Yeah, definitely need one of those. How can you hope to heal yourself if you don't even know what's wrong with you? Whaddyou saving all that cash for, anyway? And who the fuck you think is gonna get you those drugs and those acronyms that you so richly deserve?

Maybe. I but I still wanna do it myself.

Yeah, OK. Sounds good. Get your little job, make your little move, make LA your bitch, go forth and conquer, be fruitful and multiply, kick ass, and take names.

But, my boy, let me tell you this, and you better listen up but good, and hang this on your fucking wall so it's the first thing you see in the morning, and the last image on your rods and cones as the blinds cut headlight slivers to dance you to sleep every night.

THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.

Today is March 6, 2000. You have until March 6, 2001 to get your shit together (said shit to be explicitly defined shortly.)

After that, I am taking over.

And even if you don't get the job and don't move one inch, same deal applies.

One more year.

Last chance.

Do it.

-- Me, seat 19F, 9:05 PM, 3/6/2000