A Ten-Year-Old Dreams
So we open a business, hoping to do the bootstraps thing. You know, work hard, elbow grease, lube to fuck someone over before they’re fired and go, “But I have a family.” “Well too bad, sob story.” Yeah, be- ing a boss is super great except making no money sucks. You get the respect of older people though. In this economy, with all the other whiny kids, we get a lot of respect. Except respect pays nothing, and we’re still broke and figuring out how to be. If you ask someone older, “Have you changed since you were twenty?” they’ll say “No,” but really “[Some damn long story trying to say they have].” Because change is cool when you can look back but it’s not when you’re moving forward—gay marriage. Take gay marriage. Starting our business is like gay marriage. We sell condoms; we sell the thinnest condoms ever, better than those Trojan Horse Ecstasy Cold-Hot Fever gloves. And guess what? When that grandma or Depression-era old guy comes to us—or just comes in general— and asks us what a great job we’re doing, what’s the business? We say, honestly, because he’ll be dead soon, and because people will forget him too, that we sell ourselves, and no, we’re not being dramatic, because owning a condom business is not what I dreamed of when I was ten. But we hope they fit well.