The Start of Something . . .

Let me start with this: I’m a twenty-seven year old male not living up to his potential, living amongst those living up to theirs. This is my age of angst; of agony and depression. This is the age of the unfortunate little me in the center of the world – NYC. There’s war in a desert. There’s poverty on the corner. There’s suffering everywhere. In all respects, I should be counting myself lucky. I fucking hate parts of my life. Actually, it’s the story I’m forced to tell – I’ve a hell of a lot of time on my hands.

I woke up today to my girlfriend’s kiss before heading out to work. A barely hidden pity for my nonworking ass was scrawled across her face; a look that will invariably turn toward contempt if I remain this lump on a log for too long. I made my way downstairs after considering and failing to convince myself to masturbate. I ate half a melon before perusing Craigslist for an hour. I then rallied myself to on the coffee shop; a ritual I’ve been fastened to for the latest stint of unemployment. The wireless is down so this is the story I’m forced to tell.

I’m an otherwise healthy and typical over-educated and relatively good-looking young man with my future just waiting for me. I’m also an aging wanna-be ascetic, with a worthless degree in psychology and an even more worthless graduate degree in history, who has recently come to the realization that he can no longer, given enough practice and determination, play for the Yankees.

It is no coincidence that I lay myself flat in the coffee shop situated next to one of the most prestigious law schools in the country. I still have faint dreams of acing the entrance exam, studying at Harvard and leading a life in politics thereafter. I still believe in the fantastic. This dream, like the Yankees, will inevitably fall to the wayside come thirty. The life I lead and the one I wish to lead are battling for permanent residency.