Rolling In It

I am, to put it quite simply, rolling in it. Cash flows from every orifice of my body. I am the Trevi Fountain in human form. My stacks are the fattest in the land.

20 smackers in the bank, vibing heavily. Not a care in the world. Living like Donkey and Puss at the end of Shrek 2. La Vida Loca.

This hefty fortune I amassed through sheer force of will. I have lived a life in thrall to those most time-honoured of American values, hard work and dedication. Remember kids, you don’t need magic powers to be a superhero - just the desire to achieve your goals no matter the cost.

Only joking! I do dick all, and I do it all the time. I am an unconscionable loafer. Laziness comes to me as flight does to the bird (penguin excluded). It is my ethos, my art.

I am not a rich kid, deprived the fire of ambition by the inescapable comfiness of wealth. Nor am I a product of our broken society, brought up suckling at the teet of the state and grown accustomed to the sweetness of her milk. My laziness defies categorisation. It cannot be contained.

Doesn’t this laziness, this aimlessness, make me miserable? Well, maybe, but I don’t think so. For a while I tried working hard at school - nothing doing, happiness-wise.

Also, I must quibble with the terms laid out in your question. Well, my question, but, you know…

I am not aimless. I have a goal. I was a pretty happy guy pre-birth, and back then I did sweet f - all. Through laziness I shall reaccess that happiness. It will reoccur and all will be well.

This was my plan, up until, oh, not long ago. But the plan has changed! Who knew that could happen?

I was ambling along, as is my wont to do. Suddenly my amble ended - I had slipped! Not on a banana peel, but on a notebook, small and black. I was still flat on my arse when I picked it up - had I needed to bend down to get it, nothing doing. I opened it up and had a look inside. It was full of poems.

Naturally I didn’t bother to read them. I did, however, read the inscription in the front. It was from the nameless poet, addressed to whoever should stumble across this collection of his verse. The poet, it appears, had lived a tragic life. He pined after a woman who did not see him. One day she did, and the two loved each other and were to be married. Yet faced with the prospect of gaining his heart’s every desire, the poet froze. He left his sweetheart waiting at the altar.

The poet attempted to recapture this love through his work. Perhaps it would repeat itself, if only he willed it so. Alas! The pain was too great, and death could be the only respite. His final wish was for this book to be submitted to all the top publishing houses in New York (and if they failed there, then London). Per his request, they poems were to be attributed to whoever found them - perhaps they would bring them some satisfaction, even if they could not the poet.

Why I did as he asked I don’t know. It went against everything I stood for. But I did it.

The book was accepted by a boutique label operating out of the Upper East Side. It sold nothing - who reads poetry - but was hailed by critics as ‘a profound howl into the void by a voice uniquely in tune with our 21st century (dis)connection’. Consequently I was awarded the MacArthur genius grant - for the uninitiated, that’s $625,000 paid in instalments over five years. The first 20k just arrived. I am, to put it quite simply, rolling in it. I’ve started writing the follow-up already. It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.

And I’m happy! If I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s that happiness doesn’t come from within, but from without. No amount of internal struggle will make it happen. It’ll just happen. Or it wont.