Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Matt, none of us know what the fuck we’re doing with our lives and all of us have problems and we’re all just meaningless sacks of meat wandering aimlessly around a rock that’s hurtling through space, and eventually that rock will slam into the sun and the universe will explode and none of this will mean a damn thing.” Which is true. But also I can’t help but feel like the Italian boy behind the bodega counter is judging me every time I show up at three in the morning to buy a pint of mint chocolate chip gelato. He doesn’t seem to care that the sun is gonna melt the earth one day. All he seems to care about is that I only need one plastic spoon and no bag, because he knows I’m popping the lid off this thing the second I walk out the door.

So yes. I have no idea what I’m doing. Today, I went outside. I ate a sandwich and a muffin. I drank a chocolate milk. I took a long nap. And it was a productive day.

ON THE TRAUMA OF HAVING (OR NOT HAVING) HAIR

I was born with a freakish amount of hair. Or so they tell me. I don’t really like to talk about the day I was born, because it’s the first and only time I touched a vagina, and I like to pretend I have a clean record. And yes, technically my picture got taken right after I slid out, but you can’t really tell how much hair a baby has from a picture taken seconds after it emerges from amniotic juices. Based on the sole surviving photograph I have of that day, whatever hair I had was caked in what looks like thick strawberry jam, except it wasn’t strawberry jam, it was bits of placenta, because they don’t even dry you all the way off before they snap the picture that will one day end up on your birthday cakes. They should really wait until the placenta dries and flakes off before they take the picture.