Facing an array of failure on the cusp of my college graduation and impending one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand dollars of student loan debt at the age of twenty-six, my life options have never been more clear. Through a detailed analysis of employment potential, career prospects and quality-of-life projections, the only thing I have going for myself at the moment is hoping that my girlfriend of six months is actually one of those secret millionaires.
Most people might say something stupid like, “The love of your awesome girlfriend is worth more than money,” which is completely true if I wasn’t such a greedy bastard. She is all that I’ve got right now. And I mean that in the most heartfelt way, provided that she is pretending to be a hard-working actor to test my devotion and worthiness of her millions.
I will even settle for one single million. It qualifies. It can be like that creepy comedian who was on the first season of Who Wants to Marry Millionaire. I’ll take it. Ethics will go straight out the window. I don’t really care if her fortune was garnered by dumping toxic chemicals directly onto a poor African village from a helicopter (how this is cheaper, I don’t know). She’s the secret millionaire looking to spread the wealth, and I will take it, no questions asked.
Let’s examine some of my other options and how my girlfriend posing as the secret millionaire this whole time trumps anything I could actually pull off with my half-wit abilities and even worse prospects:
Get a job. With a screenwriting degree. “Let’s entrust the screenplay for Avatar 2 on this kid with a blog!” Odds-wise I end up a frustrated assistant who hates everything I read while just being mad at myself for not quitting. I spend the hours from eight-to-eight (go entertainment industry work day!) answering the phone for a frustrated executive who hates everything that he or she also reads. Secret Millionaire girlfriend: lounge on the beaches of Tahiti with awesome girlfriend reading books and scripts that are innovative between zip-cord adventures through the jungle.
Default on student loans and credit card debt. Go through the demoralizing prospect of wage garnishment and tax refunds going straight to creditors while barely making payments that hardly cover the interest alone. Secret millionaire girlfriend: buy the USC building that kids have sex on and name it the Max Lance and Secret Millionaire Girlfriend Building Sex Memorial Tower.
Write a screenplay. The two major obstacles here are a difficult market that specializes in niche markets trying to find productions when credit is scarce mixed with an utter lack of talent. Movie ideas I have written so far: frumpy strippers in Alaska and a bunch of moody high school kids whine for ninety pages. Let’s say I do trick someone into hiring me to write their movie. What’s that get me? A year’s worth of repetitive notes, headaches and late checks? Secret Millionaire girlfriend: get a kickass camera and film whatever the hells I want.
Time and again, we prove that the only way I will reach my goals in life is for my awesome girlfriend to pull the plug on this charade and unveil herself as the secret millionaire girlfriend on live television. Yeah, they have featured Skid Row and Downtown Detroit, but what about lazy white descendants of the middle class who would rather just do nothing? Who is more deserving than that?
That is for her to decide. And whether I am picking her up for our hot date on a bicycle, taking her to the movies then asking her to split the cost of popcorn she doesn’t want or stealing the neighbors’ flowers as my sweet gesture, I don’t know what else I can do. She is an awesome girlfriend to begin with. Putting up with all my poor-ness and pathetic future for all this time. And now, live television, let’s make that season finale happen.