I’ve decided. I don’t trust myself anymore. I’m going to let Paul the Psychic Octopus make all my decisions from now on. The kicker is, even when I think I’ve made the right decision, it always turns out wrong. It’s not like Tom Petty says. Even the losers get lucky sometimes. No, they really don’t.
That’s what I thought anyway, tonight when I couldn’t make it all go away. The night I had a chance to turn my whole life around. Go for the brass ring, like Grandpa always said. I miss him. I miss how he made life sound so simple. About an hour ago I reached for that big, brass ring–AKA my only shot at non-loserdom, my amazingly funny, yet insightful stand-up comedy act–but, as usual, I second guessed myself and it slipped through my fingers.
Losers don’t get second chances at anything. The only shot losers get in this world is if they’re funny. And after my first official attempt at funny, I prayed someone would just run me over and put me out of my misery, but do it in a way that would put a smile on my face. I worry about Paul. The minute he’s wrong he’ll have to resort to stand-up, and, well, it’s hard enough when you’re not an octopus.
