time committing racketeering, extortion, and tax fraud by day, and attending the most exclusive booze- and drug-fueled parties by night. Since I came by my money so easily by ripping off the rich, I would’ve tipped everyone generously — especially the working slubs who rely off such gratuities to barely eke out a living. I would’ve almost overdosed a few times by getting high on my own supply, as they say, but they’d serve as wake-up calls to slow down a little. Then in my early 40s, some rat would’ve pointed to me in a courtroom for some transgression, and all of a sudden I’d have been serving seven to 10 years at a penitentiary upstate somewhere. While some days I’d have had regrets, I would’ve never forgotten the good times — not even sadistic security guards or other terrible inmates could’ve taken that away from me. Soon, I would’ve served my time, got out on parole, and tried to put the criminal lifestyle behind me. Of course, I would’ve slowly but surely realized that working for a living afforded even less dignity than I’d had in the clink. And I would’ve found myself slipping back into my old ways — reestablishing connections to the underworld and committing all the crimes that landed me in jail in the first place. After spending several more years doing a lot of crime and partying my ass off when I wasn’t off stealing shit, I would’ve died violently some time in my late 50s or early 60s — killed either by the gun of a jealous lover or some kind of law enforcement type. And that would’ve been much better than the retirement plan I have now. Also, at least a life of crime would have afforded me some good times where the cash and drugs flowed and I felt like I was on top of the world. There are no such good times now. I spend all my waking hours working for money that I already owe to creditors. I never get ahead. If I buy concert tickets one month, I eat ramen all through the next. Every pathway through this life is a deadend. I drew the short straw — like so many of us did. We all played by the rules and we still didn’t even come close to winning. When they told me as a boy, “Crime doesn’t pay,” they never said, “Neither does working.” Nor did they say, “Crime occasionally pays, but in the long run, you’ll end up dying some time in your late 50s or early 60s. But you know, at least you’ll have a lot of fun and be able to afford some of the nicer things in life. And you’ll get to taste the sweet nectar that is dignity — which is something you’ll never get working 9-5. So weigh the pros and cons of embarking upon a criminal career, and make your decision accordingly.” I just wish they’d been a little more honest is all. “… I SAID ALOUD TO MYSELF IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE.” Sometimes during bouts of drunkenness when I think I’m a genius, I write down my ideas. Then I’ll look at them again when I’m sober, and realize that drunk me must be some kind of fucking idiot. The title of this entry is proof of this. How did I ever laugh at that? I WONDER IF ANYONE HAS EVER BROKEN BOTH OF THEIR FINGERS IN A MINISKATEBOARDING ACCIDENT I’ve definitely seen people break both their legs in actual skateboarding accidents. And I imagine mini-skateboarders wipeout all the time. But even if they didn’t break their fingers, I bet someone, somewhere had to go to the emergency room after wrecking their mini-board. And I imagine everyone in the emergency room that day had themselves a nice laugh. 13
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