30 Years of Quality Customer Service
Caption: Me in ten years. A rare moment of happiness as I reflect on my fantastic inner life.
I turned 30 on Saturday. I think too many people stress about turning 30. It’s stupid. They make it this big deal. Not me. I’ve just decided to give myself 26 weeks to achieve all of my grandest ambitions. If I have not achieved every goal I have ever set for myself in six months then I will admit that life is too hard and I will say to God:
“Jane, get me off this crazy thing!”
My Goals (to be completed in six months or LOSE THE GAME OF LIFE)
1.) Become a world-renowned rapper/hip-hop artist (My first single: Jiggle It!)
2.) Start a popular clothing line
3.) Go sky-diving
4.) See The Bucket List
If these goals are not completed in six months I will leave New York. I will become a janitor in a large hospital or some gigantic boys’ school and I will live in the janitor’s closet. During my working hours I will speak only when spoken to and look at the floor when someone is talking to me. I will scrub the floors on hands and knees even though I can do it with a mop while standing. Often I will be overheard talking to myself, addressing myself as different characters from my past: my mother, my father, my ex-girlfriend, my old car, Austin Powers, Scooby-doo. During my free-time I will remain in my janitor’s closet, taking meals infrequently, writing writing writing. Always writing. A fifteen thousand page autobiography, much of which will be completely spurious, with chapters like “Accepting the Nobel Prize for Calligraphy” and “My Wife, Hope Davis.” A twenty-nine volume fantasy epic entitled The Chronicles of the Twilight of Nathaniel Rosemark and the Shadow Guild Quadrillion! which will mostly be a thinly-veiled metaphor for the Jay and Conan Tonight Show controversy. Twelve books of modern nursery rhymes like this one:
Little Jerry Tickles
Always got in pickles
Because he had no social security card
When his driver’s license expired
He felt so damn tired
And he just went and ate a lot of food instead of fixing the problem
Of course all of these books will be completely illustrated by me by hand. I will publish nothing. If there’s room in the closet I’ll also invent and build lots of elaborate booby-traps to protect my work from interlopers. I will be the best hermit ever!!!
When I die at age 83, the school or hospital administrator who was meanest to me will discover my work and say “THAT OLD MAN HAD A FANTASTIC INNER LIFE!!” But it will be too late. I will have already become an angry ghost and decided to haunt him. I will walk through the corridors of the hospital (or school), a dark phantom, a mysterious phantasm, shouting “WHO HAS MY GOLDEN ARM? WHO HAS MY GOLDEN ARM?”
But there will be no golden arm. There will be no way to stop the horror of the ghost of the prolific janitor.
