Like most guys my age, I've had my ups and downs. Truth be told, things unraveled for me a bit after my disappointing third-place finish in the "World's Most Interesting Man" competition. I felt I got shafted and I spoke out, and consequently I was barred from many of my favorite cantinas and clubs and even some take-out establishments, plunging me into a deep downward spiral. For months I holed up in my room, bitterly watching Dos Equis commercials and closed-circuit video of my driveway. (There's a cat that goes by at least twice a day.) Though I can hardly remember, I'm told that for several weeks I communicated only by making yodeling and grunting noises, which embarrassed my family and alienated the nice little Salvation Army volunteer on my corner. I took lots of ibuprofen and Gas-X pills and later, after I got my voice back, I made a tremendous number of hang-up calls to churches and auto-repair shops, just trying to get my head on straight. I saw a shrink who suggested that I do my laundry more often and try gargling, which helped, but soon enough I suffered another setback. Due to a bureaucratic screw-up or computer malfunction--I was never able to find out exactly what happened--I failed to win the MacArthur "genius grant" I was counting on. Those jerks sent me plummeting downward again. My nerves got so bad I was unable to drive a motor vehicle. I got the shakes and couldn't eat with a fork without bloodying my lips.
Needless to say, it wiped out my summer. I had to cancel my Wimbledon qualifying match and withdraw from the Trans-Pacific Yacht Race. Also, GQ reneged on the photo shoot and I missed the press dinner at the White House. (When it rains, it pours.) The despair was overwhelming. For quite a while I could only sit and brood in my dark room and think about giraffes on jet skis. Then roller skates. I'd hear them shrieking, even as I was shrieking, and after my tax bill arrived I lapsed into a sort of blackness that I cannot even begin to describe, although if you set aside four or five hours to meet for coffee I'll try to convey it properly and in the right chronological order, because I've left out a lot here, believe me.
Rest assured I'm doing better now--making "very good" progress, my therapist says--and I can say with reasonable certainty that I understand why Poincare became so confused, and Mandelbrot too, because I've been through it. I suggest we schedule two or three meetings where we talk about me, and then one where we talk about you also. I'm adamant about fairness and allowing a woman to express herself fully, either out loud or in writing if you're not averse to that.
Thank you. FYI, I rewrote my earlier profile not because of the feedback but because I realized that I do NOT "look like an ancient shark," as my daughter cruelly put it. I should not have quoted her. She's an idiot, anyway, and has blown any chance she might have had with the MacArthur people.
I'm going to quit before I get started on my kids. Thank you.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I love you very, very much... whoever you are.
