When I’m feeling a bit nihilistic, I apply to business school. I tell everyone I’m an ENTJ and that they’re the only ones who get anything done. I go to Top Golf with all my friends…in a party bus. I order waygu porterhouses and wash them down with a glass of Lagavulin or Johnny Walker Blue or a Macallan 18. Maybe something Japanese to let you know I’ve got class.

I get my slim fit chinos at Brooks Brothers and Banana, and I get the most expensive haircut I can afford from the hottest girl in the salon. And I tell myself she wants me because of how she touches my head.

I listen to Springsteen and Sublime and Blink. And the part of my brain that senses irony has long been permanently burned out.

I date. Hot girls who look great on my arm and who don’t mind my juvenile obsession with kink. Smart though, because they gotta keep up with my conversation, you know? I’m not gonna waste my time on someone who won’t sit through my condescending lectures on finance I stole from a podcast and an article I read on CNBC.

But it isn’t time to settle down. I’ll wait til I’m 40 and then start looking for the mother of my future children…someone of good breeding, but not too good. Young. Maybe foreign. But white. Definitely white. Our towheads will run on the beach in Montauk with our Brazilian nanny while I count the ways I am a master of the Universe.

And in the end, who cares, because I’ll be long gone, and it’ll be someone else’s problem.