How many roads must a man walk down?
I've been reading Richard Branson's book, Losing My Virginity, and it inspires me to aspire (not a typo) to being an adventurous billionaire. Having that much money would surely be a pain in the ass, having to count and recount and guard it all. But if you look below the surface, tucked into the shadowy recesses, there is an upside to having more money than you could ever spend: freedom. Freedom to punch stupid people in the mouth and spend the day floating in a suspension of liquid butter. I'd commission a VW Touareg sized golf cart with a cow-catcher on the front and drive through the mall. I'd rent out a golf course for the summer and not play once, just so I could sit there and watch people get pissed off.
Alas, I am not an adventurous billionaire. To be honest, I'm not even a billionaire. Not even close. I've got the payment on the Jetta, the rent for the apartment, and one or two or thirty thousand dollars in student loans to pay back. My accountant, Ray F. at Jackson Hewitt, has been crunching some numbers for me and it looks good. I should be a billionaire by the end of the year, provided that I don't do anything foolish like eat or put gas in the car.
Now for the bad news. I've gained ten pounds since I started this desk job. That's a lot for me. I've been, nay--I was the exact same weight for about five years. This sudden heft is indirectly proportional to my suddenly static nature. Perhaps the sandwich bags full of cookies and pretzels (to get me through the long morning) aren't helping.
I used to run a lot; typically after some act of youthful vandalism. Running while laughing hysterically probably burned even more calories. So many good times, so many stories that I can't wait to tell once I'm sure the statute of limitations has expired. What else is there to do with a bathroom sink left on the side of the road?
And the cat's in the cradle with the silver spoon...