Because I need to remember this moment:

The other night a man came into the ice cream store I grudgingly work at and started chatting as I rang up his order. He asked me if I was a student, blah-de-blah, I said I recently graduated and will be starting a HR job at a theme park likely later in the summer, yadda yadda, then he stopped me when I mentioned my major. He said he worked in the field and gave me his card, adding that he had an office located nearby and that I should contact him sometime. I absentmindedly thanked him, expecting later to find it was just a prank or that the website was really a fetish porn site or that it was the start of an elaborate trap to get me into his basement/death dungeon (which would not come as a shock one bit, considering the kinds of people an ice cream store can attract when it’s opened late nights, obnoxiously decorated, and is notorious for unsuccessfully fending off robberies).

Turns out he’s the former Director of Psychology and Law at a local hospital, presently the Chief Psychologist of the county’s police department, plus he was trained and assisted by the FBI as a forensic psychologist doing things like crisis and hostage negotiations. He’s received the Governor’s Award for Crime Prevention and has gotten national recognition for a recent publication. He is unarguably one of the best sports psychologist, assisting my hometown’s baseball team for years and even was, I kid you not, awarded a fucking World Series Ring for his help when the team won their last World Series Championship. The only psychologist EVER to get one. Then he worked with the Washington Capitals and, no coincidence, that very year the team won their first Division Championship. He’s a licensed pilot, spent years in the U.S. Marine Corps training in special weapons, demolition, and all around badass-ery. AND HE GAVE ME HIS CARD; HE EXPECTS TO HEAR FROM ME. How… how do I even talk to someone like that now that I know my crowing achievements are really just proof of a lifetime of lethargy?

So, after I stopped believing this guy couldn’t possibly be real, I typed up a very insincere e-mail draft.

“Dear kickass dude from the other night,

     You gave me your e-mail after I gave you some subpar ice cream. Double scoop Rocky Road in a cup! I totally remember. Okay, now that we’re caught up, here’s the deal: I don’t want to do any of the things you so expertly specialize in. I mean, it’s super boss but all I really wanted out of this major was to dabble in some self therapy and get a job that shows my degree can do more than collect dust after I stuff it in the back of a closet. To make this happen, I’m gonna need enough money to move into a modest space for two, have frequent car repairs done because I am a real shit driver, and perhaps even splurge on things like food, running water, and the internets. So if you could give your FBI buds a ring and hook me up for like, 10+ years, I could totally get you all the free Rocky Road a man could possibly eat.

                                                    Alright, cool.”

If I had slipped and pressed send my entire future would have been destroyed.

One time I asked what Diablo 3 was. Next thing I knew, I had clocked a day and a half without sleep just to stay up and play for 12 hours straight.

I am disgusting.