“All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence, and then success is sure.” – Mark Twain
I shouldn’t be where I am today. Growing up in the cesspool of disappoint that is Delaware County, Pennsylvania, right outside of Philadelphia, the writing was on the wall for what I was destined to become.
My father has been a treatment operator for the local water company since he was 18, and his father before him was a treatment operator for the same local water company. Water and wastewater utility is just the family business. It’s in my blood. Joining the union and working the 9-5, blue collar life was inevitable.
No one escapes the crushing monotony of every day life in Delco. No one. That’s why we’re so passionate when it comes to our professional sports teams. All of our rage and aggression built up from doing an unrewarding occupation is suppressed deep, deep down into our inner being, and the Eagles, Phillies, Flyers, and (not so much) Sixers are our release. It’s almost as if we revel in the self loathing.
So how was I able to get away? It’s simple, really. I’m delusional. There’s no rhyme or reason — I just have this internal belief that I’m bound for greatness with literally no evidence of that being the case. Call it blind faith or straight stupidity, but I’m a henchmen with ambitions more suitable for a “Don.”
I mean, look at me for a second. Really examine the fat-faced potato I look at in the mirror on a daily basis.
I essentially look like a Ben Roethlisberger cardboard cutout that was left outside during a torrential overnight downpour. Besides this face built for radio, I have the speaking skills and voice meant for the part you skip over in porn, and the writing abilities of a gorilla that suffers from Cerebral palsy furiously slapping away at an ultra sensitive typewriter. That’s just the reality of my situation, yet, here I am, a “professional writer,” all because I’m irrationally confident.
Bill Simmons touched on this a bit, defining the irrational confident theory as “a guy who isn’t one of the team’s best players, but he’ll have stretches in which he THINKS he is.” Think Lance Stephenson on the Pacers. But instead of stretches, I genuinely just live my entire life as if I was actually talented. And if my track record is any indication, it’s been a rather successful state of mind.
There is, of course, my golf game.
— Dan Regester (@Dan_Regester) September 3, 2015
That swing screams double par on every hole, but, incredibly, that is not the case. A fellow TFM writer has constantly called it “the ugliest thing in existence” and is in utter disbelief after each round we play together.
“You shouldn’t be as good at golf as you are. No seriously, you’re a dumpster fire. But because you’ve fooled yourself into thinking that this miscarriage of a swing is not only acceptable, but an advantage to hit the ball farther, you somehow are a decent golfer.” – Jared Borislow
Then there’s my romantic résumé. Every girl I’ve ever dated has been comically out of my league. If you saw us out together, you’d think I was an oversized, dying special needs child who was living out his final moments with Make-a-Wish. Yet, when the time comes and my number’s called, I swing for the fences because I’m as poised as juiced up Barry Bonds at the plate during his 73 dinger season. I guess chicks really do dig both confidence and the long ball, guys.
And finally, my career. At best, I’m an articulate illiterate. I kind of just ramble on, say a few sexual euphemisms like “pressure-washing the quiver bone” or “cattle-prodding the oyster ditch” and just end my writing without much warning. That’s not a successful style, or at least shouldn’t be. Yet, I didn’t let that hold me back, ended up convincing Dorno to hire me and I’m over a year in, and you kids at least tolerate me enough to be gainfully employed.
At this rate I expect to be King by 2020. Yes, King..
Image via Youtube