Like a G6

In the time it takes to peruse the Sunday ‘want’ ads, take comfort in the fact that someone else out there has just raised an absolute killing in a ghastly attempt at feigning political dexterity.  Or by selling cheap, knock-off Gucci bags from the trunk of their ’64.  My point is that at least what you’re doing is real.  You’re awake, alive, raw, real, here, right now.  Or at least as awake, alive, and real as that empty mug of coffee by the sink has left you feeling. (The paltry ring of residue at its bottom is the only witness to your early morning, pre-fix moments of frantic dissolution.)

You are a warrior, inexorable, bound for greatness.  In your relentless plight, you’ll pull out at all the stops to ensure your success.

For so long, you’ve simply supposed everyone had such brazen ambition. Alas, you realize, some people actually desire a lifelong career of minimum wagin’ it in oh, say, book retail.  At what point, you ponder, have these poor souls lost their childhood fervor – the kind that finds you believing anything is possible?  Was it life itself that lead them astray?  Or have they fallen complacent due to an excess of eCoddling?

In the end, feeling sorrowful for the dejected aspirations of others is of little interest to you.  Raised on Cher (Horowitz, not Sarkisian) and Reaganomics, you pride yourself on your can-do attitude.  You’re a child of the Eighties, after all.  This is your journey, better make it a charmed one.