My leisurely slide into middle class live continues unabated. I awaken in bed to her and roll out. Breakfast is egg whites, followed by a round of core exercises. I get to work and the day is a competition of writing and meetings. When I’m not in a meeting, I’m writing. When I’m in a meeting, sometimes I’m writing. I come home and either head to the gym, or I cook dinner. Sometimes I cook dinner and then head to the gym. On the weekends, I reintroduce myself to alcohol. Monday comes. I awaken in bed to her and roll out.

That’s how I roll.

I didn’t really plan my rather happy white bread life. It just sort of fell into my lap and I took it into my hands with the kind of child-like wonder a kid shows at a gift’s unwrapping. At first look, it’s bland, but I know underneath is the festering raw ambition which has driven me forward even though I appeared apathetic and without motivation.

I want my luxury apartment. I want my v-twin sport bike. I want my leather furniture with warranty. I want my good food. I want my speakers with beautiful sound. I want my plasma T.V. I want my ikea catalogue, my three martini lunch, my brooks brother suit, my waking up at 50 wondering what the hell happened to my life and my wife is fucking the pool boy and my kidshatemebecauseimeverhomeandimhavinganaffairwiththesecretaryatmyfirm.

Yeah. I’m going to crawl into bed; next to her, and evaluate how I can remain relentlessly ambitious, climb to the top, while retaining my soul. I want to keep that part of me which drove down the PCH, which sat in the Missouri Ozarks wondering why, which walked the streets of New Orleans with a German in tow, which froze in the rain outside Boston thinking that the Atlantic smelled fishy, which screamed insults near the rumbling Chicago L train while a friend chanted nearby, which looked west with wonder and thought that life was too good to live. Being utterly corporate has a way of sucking creativity out of a man. I intend to defy that.