Call me Mr. Brownstone

It's difficult at my age to figure out what to do with my life in terms of a career (and an overall way of being). I have given thought to just about every viable option. I have decided that I do not have a head for numbers and really do not want to put up with all the macho head games and adolescent hi jinx associated with Wall Street and its brethren, so finance is out of the question. I have considered law school, but am not willing to sacrifice three years of my life and hundreds of thousands of dollars for something I probably won't excel at. I even thought about trying to finagle funds out of my parents to buy a bar in Carroll Gardens and turn it into yet another establishment for yuppies and hipsters to get plastered and quote the New York Times verbatim. Maybe I could do a whole zen thing and get into feng shui and acupuncture. What about joining a community garden or an improv group? Is the answer more schooling, a career advisor, entrepreneurship?

No, the answer is simple and much like becoming a realtor, it requires no postgraduate degree and no apparent skills - just desire. The answer is one word: Junkie. I could become a junkie! I discovered this whilst watching an HBO documentary called Methadonia. It followed a group of recovering addicts who are currently being treated with Methadone.

Why didn't I think of that seven years ago? I could have saved my parents $130,000 on schooling and used that money to start building an inventory of smack. That's gotta go a pretty long way, right? What does a bag go for these days? $20, $30 at the most? A few of those a week and I'm on the road to the American dream.

You may ask why a seemingly normal, educated, middle class individual with a fairly comfortable lifestyle would choose to get involved with heroin. That is a valid question. The answer lies in the fact that junkies never seem to be too concerned about anything. And they get to nod off during the day without really being noticed. They only have one objective in life and that is to find more dope! That's it. It's like being a little kid again when all you care about is candy and that's what your entire life is based around: acquiring candy. Non-junkies have way too many things to deal with - career, romantic pursuits, dysfunctional families, tipping, whether or not to bring a gift when the invitation explicitly says not to bring a gift, squabbling over inheritance, car insurance, health insurance, utility bills, the proposed commuter tax, the war on terror, the upcoming election, hygiene, mortgage rates, the Dow Jones industrial average, carcinogens in our air, our failing schools and saving Darfur. Below is a partial list, in no particular order, of things I personally would no longer worry about if I became a full blown junkie.

• Leaving my sunroof ajar


• Improper grammar and usage


• People that do not use turn signals


• The Sirius/XM merger


• Natural stone vs. composite countertops


• The elasticity of my socks


• The scratches on my rear bumper


• Parking


• How much to tip the cleaning lady


• The traffic on the Gowanus/BQE combination


• Pasta that is cooked beyond the desired al dente


• My putting


• That lambswool sweater that I accidentally put in the wash last year instead of getting it dry-cleaned


• The fact that I can't afford an Aga stove


• How irritating the nouveau riche are


• The tyranny of the papacy


• Germs


• Running out of Yardley French Lavender soap and having to resort to Irish Spring


• Keeping my cast iron grill pan properly seasoned


• Obtaining the perfect inside-out golf swing


• That sociopath that lives next door


• The lady that runs the antique store down the street that gave me a less than welcoming greeting a few weeks ago


• Whether or not Big Love is returning for a third season


• My outrageous Con Edison bills (and the fact that Con Ed is making a GODDAMN fortune this summer)


• My disdain for visible balconies and air conditioning units in condo buildings


• If alternate side of the street parking regulations are in effect


• Ball flight patterns of my long iron shots


• Sirens, horn honking and loud cars blasting loud music


• The lack of amenities in and around Victorian Flatbush


• The long lines at Momofuku


• My jealousy of those bastards who own townhomes in Brooklyn Heights


• The fact that Delta flights into JFK can either come into Terminal 2 or 3 and American flights 8 or 9 and not all Jet Blue flights are necessarily out of Terminal 6


• Frank Gehry's bizarre vision for Atlantic Yards


• People that use "its" when it should be "it's" and "their" instead of "there"

And the list could go on and on, but perhaps I will add more at a later date. See, junkies just have no worries. They don't care where they sleep (and what thread count the sheets are), what they eat (if they eat for that matter), who they wake up next to, what they do with their leisure time and so on. I could not imagine a more carefree existence! It would be heaven. Where do I sign up? Is there a car allowance? Oh yeah and I hear the high is fucking incredible. What's not to like?