In Which Our Hero Tramples Cynicism and Embraces a Good Death(Left intentionally Incomplete.) in Good Morning Providence.

In two months and sixteen days I will be thirty. Ever bemoaned and ever the inexhaustible wellspring of existential anxiety, I am now at the mercy of a progression at the end of which is a benchmark, where so much is expected, but compared to some, the sum will disappoint. The way I envisioned myself at the outset of my twenties is a stark departure from the portrait I envisioned: an independent man with an attractive wife, perhaps child, a career as a psychologist/scientist/actor/author (and even then I was indecisive), satisfied with my talents as an illustrator and musician. And I recall the details of my twentieth frankly: A slightly overweight, second-year community college student, half- blinding emo hairdo tucked under a cylindrical paper hat, pimple pricked, slouching everywhere I stepped. A well-wishing co-worker approached me looking troubled roughly an hour before my lunch break, inquiring about the source of the apparent gloom in my expression, as I stood hunched over the cash register. (While her name eludes me, I recall holding nothing but meaningful conversations with her.) “___I’m twenty today.” “Oh, that’s great! Why do you look so upset?” “Well, I feel as if I’ve done very little with my life at this point.” “Dude, you’re still young. Why are you so worried?”
While I don’t quite recall my response, I could only assume it matched my hairdo and tastes in music at that juncture.
At that point, my ambitions were quite clear: Avoid the military by any means necessary, get into UCSC majoring in Psychology, lose baby fat, have a pretty girlfriend, learn guitar, earn black belt in Aikido, and become self-sufficient. Some were more accessible than others.
Ten years later, degree in hand, healthier, prettier, and smarter, but somehow, less decisive as to how my future is supposed to look. Fuck-ups in Washington and on Wall Street aside, tossing me into the worst of all possible economic realities post-graduation, and not a profitable landing pad upon which to ponder the bigger questions, while taking care of myself, I found myself in progressively lavish iterations of my parents’ house, my mother exercising stock options, and nesting.