I have all kinds of days where I wish I had been born legally stupid, so that I wouldn't sit around worrying about a war in Iraq or roll in bed until 3 a.m. pondering whether my job reflects my values.
And so I fantasize that I had been born the kind of person who wears a hemp necklace and tends bar in Florida and doesn't vote, and that I had these just huge pecs and got sweet suntans and laughed out loud at Maxim and banged girls who work in retail. My only worries, therefore, would involve how frickin' sweet my tan is, how big my awesome pecs are and what kind of beer I'd drink before scoring some hot retail 'tang in Florida.
I think, "Wow, it would be nice to get by on looks, spend life drunk and stupid."
Recent events have prompted me to reconsider this fantasy.
Boobs or pecs, every chest comes with a downside.