expecting ME to make you feel better,

to assuage your fears,

to tell you that once you get out in the real world

everything is gonna be okay.

To say, “Don’t worry, Johnny, it’s all gonna work out.”

Well, I can’t do that anymore,

and you know why?!

Because I’m Nostradamus,

and I can SEE into the future

and you’re all FUCKED!

You’re goddamn SAT scores don’t mean shit!

You’re doomed!

Do you really want to know what the future holds? Do ya, Johnny?

Because I can tell you!

You’re gonna start out by being a below average college student who

rarely shows up for class, smokes a lot of pot, gets a Tasmanian Devil

tattoo, has unprotected sex with countless anonymous partners, gets

arrested for setting fire to the ROTC building, and then drops out

halfway through the last semester of their fifth year to follow Phish

around on tour.

Then you’ll wind up spending the next few years as a very successful

heroin addict/porn-star who stars in over 430 films, including Anal

Rodeo, Romancing the Bone, and Edward Penishands.

This will segue nicely into your first suicide attempt,

a long stay at the methadone clinic, and a three-year stint in the food

service industry, after which you’ll move back home, where you’ll

spend the next year lying around on your parent’s couch, eating

Cheesy Poofs and watching the Discovery Channel.

When given an ultimatum by your parents,

you’ll finally go back, finish college, get your degree in Art History,

and then run right out and snag yourself a 401k cubicle job at some

huge multinational corporation that makes napalm and pesticide so

you can pay off all those student loans in a timely fashion, maintain

your impeccable credit rating, get yourself a twelve-disc CD changer

installed in the trunk of your Toyota Camry, while you wait for your

employee stock options to split again so you can buy that 3 bedroom,

2 ½ bath mortgage in the suburbs with a chemically treated lawn and

a power leaf-blower.

About this time you’ll marry someone you meet at work that

you don’t really love, but hey, let’s face it, you’re not getting any

younger. You’ll cheat on them out of sheer boredom whenever the

opportunity arises, the two of you will crank out a couple of kids for

the tax break, you’ll get yourself some personalized license plates to

make yourself feel special, go into therapy, and start getting gray hair

just in time for your mid-life crisis.

At which point you’ll realize that you’ve spent the majority of your

adult life deep-throating the corporate cock, without ever doing

anything remotely creative, and that when you die the only thing

you’re gonna leave behind is a pile of empty Prozac bottles and 1.6

children who hate your fucking guts and swear to god that they will

never be anything like you.