Millennials are such a self-absorbed generation, with absolutely no cognizance of anything outside of their own existence, that it’s kind of pointless to skewer them for being that way. It’s like bitching out a raccoon for eating out of a trash can. What kind of life lesson are you gonna convey there?
But sometimes, you get a Millennial that is so far up his own ass, he could use peristalsis to massage his temples, that we have no choice but to ether them on the internet.
Guess what we’re about to do?
An essay published today in Toronto Life wants you to know how one dude lives at home so he can ball out. And how much balling out he does. So, so much.
You wanna see how fucking hard he balls? Here’s his entire, unedited lede.
Be careful. It’s been rated ninety five B’s, for being so baller.
The night before my 30th birthday, my brother called me. “We’re going away for the weekend,” he said. “Get out of work.” I knew my boss was going to kill me, but I’ve always had trouble saying no to my brother. He’s two years my senior, and I look up to him. He told me that he and three of our friends were taking me to Montreal. It wasn’t as far-flung as some of our other weekend getaways—Miami, Las Vegas, New York—but I knew this one would be wild. We sipped complimentary glasses of wine on the flight and then settled into a penthouse suite at Le Place D’Armes Hotel, which cost $640 a night. We hit Joe Beef and tried the horse with artichokes and pecorino, plus just about everything else on the menu—a habit of ours when we can’t decide what not to get. Around 1 a.m., we rolled into New City Gas, a warehouse nightclub just outside the Old Port, totally obliterated. My cousin had booked us a booth, and we ordered bottle service—the Grey Goose, Hendricks, Patrón and Moët were flowing. We stayed until nearly 6 a.m., dancing to house music and trying to pick up girls (alas, none of us got lucky). We gorged and guzzled our way through the rest of the weekend, eating ridiculously decadent cronuts from a pâtisserie, smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz’s, fondue from an amazing Old Montreal restaurant called Bistro Marché de la Villette. We uncorked bottle after bottle of Amarone as we went. The pinnacle of the weekend was two hours on a closed racetrack behind the wheel of a $200,000 dark blue Lamborghini Gallardo. I tried to redline it—it tops out around 310 kilometres per hour—but the rental guy talked me down around 220. We were gone for only 48 hours, but it felt like 10 weekends packed into one.
I could say that this was a freak incident—a one-time blowout, but that would be a lie. Here’s what you need to know about me. I’m 31, single, and I live with my parents in a two-storey home in North York. I still sleep in my childhood bedroom, beneath my Mario Lemieux poster and framed picture of Jesus. My mom does my laundry and makes my meals. And, yes, I can already feel your contempt. But hear me out. I’m not lazy, dumb or deluded. I’m a pharmacist, and I work hard—sometimes six days a week. I sleep roughly five hours a night. I make $130,000 a year, and I spend the vast majority of it on experiences—wild, rare, unforgettable experiences.
Ha ha ha ha SO FUCKING BALLER. I make like, way less than half that, am the same age as this dude, and recently went to Montreal for a bachelor party. We had a penthouse suite, went to Joe Beef, had a booth at a club, and balled the fuck out.
You didn’t read about it, because literally no one gives a shit that I once had a good time on a trip somewhere.
But the gist of his piece is not just that he balls out (but he fucking does). It’s that he balls out while living with his parents, and everyone else not doing that is not fucking doing it right.
But hear me out. I’m not lazy, dumb or deluded. I’m a pharmacist, and I work hard—sometimes six days a week. I sleep roughly five hours a night. I make $130,000 a year, and I spend the vast majority of it on experiences—wild, rare, unforgettable experiences. My guiding philosophy is that life is short and we should savour every moment. And, unlike just about everyone 25 and older in this city, I don’t want in on the real estate craze. It’s not that I can’t afford a house or a condo. I follow the market closely and could hitch myself to a $600,000 mortgage tomorrow if I wanted. But when I consider what I’d be giving up just to own a few hundred square feet, I am convinced.
That’s perfectly fine. Some people would rather do it differently and have a home and a space they call their own.
Does he have a name for those people? People who are his friends? Yup. Fucking bitches.
One couple I know—he’s an engineer and she’s a support worker for children with autism—bought a brown-brick four-bedroom semi with a backyard in Ajax for $500,000. They can afford a vacation now and again (they went on an all-inclusive trip to Cuba a few years back), but their nights out are limited to what Ajax has to offer. For their anniversary, they went to a hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant for a meal that cost $30, total. They have to drive absolutely everywhere, they go out on the town maybe once a month, and most of their disposable income goes toward saving for their kid’s education.
Thai food isn’t supposed to cost much. Like, I’m starting to think for all your worldly travel you are not in the slightest bit cognizant of anything that isn’t you holding your own dick in your hand saying look how big my dick is.
Oh, and he’s got a big dick. Wanna hear about how big his dick was swinging while he went to Europe?
As a group, we travel whenever we want, wherever we want. In the last 12 months, I’ve partied in Brazil and backpacked through Guatemala and Mexico. I’ve been to Europe twice—once for a bachelor party in Ibiza and once to attend a friend’s wedding in a castle in Bordeaux. My friends and I decided to turn the latter jaunt into an epic European tour. We touched down in Barcelona (all-night beach party), Paris (foie gras, clubbing), Champagne (champagne)—then to the Loire Valley for the wedding, which was catered by a Michelin-starred chef—followed by Bordeaux (wine), Toulon (more wine), Monaco (cliffside villa, casino), Rome (pasta, pizza, prosecco), and then home—sunburnt, exhausted, pickled from booze, but euphoric.
Please, please, tell me more about how hard you ball.
There’s my older brother, who works in banking as a financial analyst. He’s our de facto hype man, the guy who goes from 0 to 100 in the time it takes to down two shots of tequila. Five years ago, for his birthday, we drank $130-an-ounce, 30-year-old Macallan scotch on the Park Hyatt rooftop. I’m convinced that’s what gold tastes like. My brother also lives at home with my parents and me.
YOU GUYS ARE SO COOL.
Anyway, so he lives at home. So what. Here’s the kicker.
My parents are often disappointed in my choices.
And yet, they let you live at home. With them. For free. That’s so nice of them. Perhaps you could be slightly more respectful of them and their wishes?
Fuck that, that’s not baller.
No, wait, here’s the kicker. I spoke too soon. Living at home does cramp his balling.
Yes, there are drawbacks to living at home. My folks are devout Christians, and they don’t condone sex before marriage. I’ve had girls over, but they rarely stay the night. If they do, my mom makes them sleep in the basement, and she keeps one eye open all night. Do they love when I come home at four in the morning? No. But they get over it. To make it work, my date and I will go to a hotel or her place, or wait until my parents go out. But I save about $1,500 in rent alone by living at home. My parents don’t accept money from me for expenses, although I occasionally chip in for groceries. And I hear what you’re saying: of course you live this crazy lifestyle—your parents support you. That’s true. But I’d be making the same philosophical choices if I rented. I’d just have to save a little more before heading out on big trips. And maybe I’d buy an $80 instead of a $200 bottle of wine. My lifestyle choice would remain the same.
Clearly you fucking wouldn’t as you have developed such a disdain for the cheap, wack ass lifestyle of being moderately reasonable with your cash. Save for a trip? I’d rather cut my dick off and feed it to my sister. What’s the point of having a dick if you’re only drink 18-year-old scotch?
Anyway, read the whole thing, and laugh and smile and barf and be happy with whatever self-awareness you have because it’s a million times better than whatever this jack off is working with.
Now, Watch The Opposite Of This: 8 Millennials Being Their Best Selves