I moved into New York City two weeks ago. The homie commonly know as Zeitgeist would lead you to believe that I’m telling you this due to some conflated sense of self-importance, a trend primarily brought about by getting pumped the fuck up by every new twitter follower. This is of course, shamelessly true.
(Note: I used the word “shameless” in that last sentence, because people who acknowledge themselves in self-deprecating fashion think the self-deprecation gets them off the hook for being douchey. Of course, it ironically does the opposite.)
In other words, telling you of my recent move is a confirmation that despite being a postgrad in the real world who has no clue, I am also on the right track. Obviously this is beyond crucial, and is the sole reason why there’s no point in instagramming your tapas unless they are sitting in your “look, I can’t afford things”* kitchen—a nice foreground to your decidedly meh window-side view that gets much more Facebook likes than it aesthetically merits because MANHATTAN. It also sets the stage nicely for me to tell you about a mundane occurrence, that is obviously a huge deal because it occurred on the elevator of my apartment building in New York City, the surefire sign that I am a 22 year old, who, despite being on the right track, is figuring everything out and doesn’t have a clue.
INT. Elevator, Stuyvesant Town - Day
Me: Dawg, I have all this change that I’m saving up in my change jar.
Roommate: You talk about this change jar a lot
Me: Not only is such obsession a tremendous exhibition of Judaism, but it also underscores that while I would one day like to have a cabinet with spices that no one ever uses, being fiscally irresponsible is a hobby I cannot currently enjoy. Overall, a win-win
Roommate: Truth. The East Village
Roommate: It is a requirement for people our age to randomly mention vibrant neighborhoods in the cities we have just moved to.
Me: Oh word. But this change jar. I’m thinking either I cash out at the end of each calendar year, or wait like 30 years and go on a dope sauce vacation. I really wanna do a second one, but what if I die? I know that we have all the time in the world, but some of us are unfortunately winners of the reverse lottery, so its important to savor every day and all that good shit.
Roommate: What if you write a will? That way it wouldn’t go to waste
Me: Yea, but that still doesn’t solve the problem of ME, Ricky Bobby’s racing automobile, capitalizing on using the change.
Roommate: But that’s where you couldn’t be more wrong, my friend. You could BLOG your will!
Me: HOLY SHIT
Roommate: You’re welcome. Looks like you have a date with that desk of yours that is way too nice for you to have at this stage of life, but isn’t because of helicopter parents.
Me, Desk, Now
Homies, this is my Will. Also known as my Smith, my I.AM, or my Nye the Science Guy.
I am accomplishing two things here. One, if I do happen to die, this shit will go VIRAL and I would get so many more twitter followers up in death-land. Two, I can underscore how I don’t have many possessions at the mo’, but the little things in life ya digg.
Yea Hi. Ok. Here We Go:
My Jar of Judaism, also known as a green lysol jar with a fuck ton of change it, goes to my good friend Paul Stoltz. As a person who is into mundane things that are actually not mundane, he is perhaps the only person who would treat said change jar with such undying and unnecessary devotion. He is also currently watching Breaking Bad, a television show that I am required to mention at least once per post as mandated by blogging law.
Backpack With Patches of Every Country I Went To While Abroad In Europe
Nothing screams “look, I am an individual” more than this. Therefore, I would like it to be buried alongside me.
Dillon Panthers Trucker Hat
To Christopher Gudgeon, Ben Goldhaber, and Ari Khuner-Haber. All are former college roommates who share a collective passion for Dillon Panthers Football.
Furthermore, because including them in my Ferrell is the ultimate testament of BFFs, I now don’t have to attend one of their bachelor parties should it seem unappealing.
Will be split equally amongst the children of my two siblings. Being that they wouldn’t know me, they wouldn’t feel guilty about not reading them. Anyone else would just have to waste time out of some dumb sense of obligation that I am probably exaggerating.
Artsy as fuck picture collage
On my wall, I have a picture collage of things I find particularly dope sauce, inspirational, or attractive. Essentially the same idea as the wall of legends, except I had mine before Angry Boys. I also listened to “Levels” before everyone else.
I bequeath this to Kelsface Cohen, mostly for the priceless reaction that is sure to occur when she reads this.
A Sweatshirt of Choice
To Catherine Walsh, because she asked nicely. There are many to choose from, so its important to choose wisely here.
Ripped Georgetown Basketball T Shirt
To Modern Nightclub, who would likely never accept this, because stooping to one’s level defeats the entire purpose of nightclubs
Dope Sauce Light, That Looks Like A Tripod
There’s a few options here, but all of them are kind of weird and essentially networking plays.
Booeymongers Sandwich Card
To Justin Eisenband, who likes this particular sandwich establishment more than people who unbutton one too many buttons like cocaine. I’m two sandwiches away from a free one, so this is a really good deal
The Optioning Rights To This Will
To Evan Karr, for coming up with the tremendous idea to do this will
All Other Possessions
The obligatory, yet not necessarily less meaningful word up to the fam. Marty, Jen, Nolie, and Alyssa. Not only are they significantly cooler than your family, but they also never eat dinner on time, and drink more coffee per capita than 99.9% of the world’s population
**Those Tapas were likely $18, and definitely not enough food.