To quote a line from REM...

It's the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine. If by "fine" you mean "shitty and depressed." Why the bleak outlook folks? Well, how about this: I have officially joined the ranks of practical asshole adults everywhere.

"How?" you innocently and homosexually inquire.

"By trading in my 1974 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible for a--drum fuckin' roll please--2003 Chevy Cavalier," I condescendingly and handsomely reply.

I know. I'm a goddamn sellout. Worse, I'm a hypocrite.

The thing is, I really thought I was above it all. Honest to Vishnu, after skating through high school and turning college into little more than an extended Super Snack meets Netflix, I had actually fooled myself into thinking I could trump the world's petty pragmatism with my own brand of rebel narcissism. I eschewed traditional employment, laughed at summer internships, and scoffed at a continuing education, and what did it get me? Some wannabe corporate douchebag's four door Sedan. A FOUR DOOR SEDAN. I went from the pimpinest car in the world to a nondescript monkey turd on wheels. And for those of you wondering if it's possible to hate a car that you don't even officially own yet, the answer is FUCK YOU. Wanna know something else? The car's coloring is officially labeled as Desert Sand Mica. Not gold, not tan, DESERT SAND MICA. What the hell kind of preppy snatch-sniffery is that? Seriously, the way my life is going right now, inside of a month I'll be working in a cubicle and living in some upscale suburbian apartment. All that'll be left to do then is change my name to Bruce Schollard Courtney and permanently fuse my thumb inside my sweaty rectum.

Life. What a cock grenade.

(Note: For a more in-depth--and less vulgar--polemic on the above subject matter, check out the column I penned for the North Shore Sunday: Trevor vs. the Real World)