About a year ago there was a Wednesday night that was drearier than the others. You might remember it yourself: the silence that engulfed, a night when we all assumed that it would only be overcast just before getting hit with a downpour on the way to the car.
That night saw me in a restaurant enjoying a bowl of soup and occasionally adding notes to an open laptop by my side. The waitress would bring over coffee, take a peek over my shoulder, and walk away with quizzical eyes and a wrinkled forehead. This was because whenever she walked over, she would see a Microsoft Paint drawing of a stick figure version of myself wearing a boxy suit, surrounded by several comically large bags of money. I had labeled the picture as “Five Year Plan”, but the meaning behind it was crumbling.
My world had been shaken up, tossed away. In a matter of mere minutes, a lifelong goal had gone from malleable and infallible to what can only be described as the moment when all of the milk is gone from a bowl of cereal but there are still bits of soggy Rice Krispies clinging to the edges. In a word: unreachable.
My life had been ruined and I was the culprit. A plan that starts off with getting a suit before then amassing large amounts of money only works if you have one of those two items before you start. All I had was some breakaway trousers and 268 dollars in Farmville coins- both, I found out, were nonrefundable. I stared into flickering pixels, spoon twirling through a cold bowl of lobster bisque. There had to be a way. A way to what? I wasn’t sure. Existing for me consisted of remembering to eat and forgetting to sleep, with the occasional failed YouTube vlog in between. How was I supposed to figure out a way to success, to false validation, with only minimal effort?
Then it hit me. Candy. Late night TV. Every desperate attempt at attention grabbing advertising that I had ever seen put into action. Bits of an unholy epiphany combined into a gross, sugary softball-like object and struck me in the back of my skull. This was it, my final chance. An idea so powerful it caused my vision to go dark the moment it came to fruition.
I needed to eat a Kit-Kat at the largest building Adult Swim owns.
I woke up in a bowl of creamy broth and lobster. Lack of sleep had caused me to pass out for a few moments, shocking the woman who had dealt with my patronage for over four hours. I assured her that I had enjoyed the soup very much, paid for my meal, and headed out into the rain. Thoughts assembled all at once, telling me just what I’d need in order to pull this off:
- A working car
- A Kit-Kat (along with a backup)
- Driver’s license (for the car)
- A degree, and
- A Journal
The main headquarters for AS was located in Georgia. This was 786 miles away from my house, making a round trip of around 1,580 miles. Relying on buses or rides from others wouldn’t get me out of state, much less from the Appalachian Mountains to Atlanta. Lyft and Enterprise would cost too much, and I had been banned from several taxi companies across the country, so I was left with the single option of finding my own car and driving it southward. That, or
The degree would be harder. See, there’s a method to entering a building, and then there’s the illegal option. Had I truly wanted to, I could have stolen a car, robbed a gas station, and broken into the building. Yet there’s no class in a method like that and in the words of my Uncle Nicky: “Save jail for when you truly run out of options. ‘Cause by then, you’ve already crashed the stock market twice and murdered six people.” While I hadn’t seen Nicky since he got that 65-year sentence, the words still stuck with me.
No, there was a better way. A way to infiltrate the studio’s vault of voice actors and young, supple comedy writers. I needed to become a television writer myself. Even more than that, I needed to learn how to be funny. This would no doubt be the most challenging obstacle and a field where I had little experience.
Lastly, a journal. Journaling never caught on with me in my younger years despite my proclivity to talk about myself as an adult. I searched for ages to find the perfect medium to throw my thoughts into an uncaring void, and after a tedious five minutes, I found myself with a blog and unending opportunity. But the plan doesn’t stop there.
Expect a follow-up post soon describing in a little more detail how I’m going to get to my end goal and what progress I’ve already made. To quote my second favorite saying from Uncle Nicky: “Don’t expect me to keep quiet after the third shot of Ribena. I’ll stop talking when it kills me.” Just like good old Nicky, I’m not anywhere close to shutting up.