My therapist said I should write about my idea of a perfect day to help me visualize and achieve happiness. I don’t know why I keep doing what my therapist says.

My perfect day begins with me NOT waking up in a pool of my own cold urine, and the realization that I forgot to put on the rubber sheets the night before. My perfect day would continue with me NOT masturbating in the shower to a laminated picture of Victoria Jackson that I found at the used book store because I’m so lonely. Next, I would eat a large bowl of delicious Sugar Bastards, my favorite breakfast cereal. In the box, I would find a slap bracelet toy, which I would immediately use and NOT slice open my Ulnar artery and bleed profusely all over the kitchen.

On my way to work, I will see my hot neighbor Cynthia washing her car. A slight breeze will blow her perfect blonde hair away from her face revealing her slender, graceful neck. She will pick up the bucket of soapy water, but – oh, no! It’s too slippery and she drops it, sudsy water falling all over her chest. She is wearing a thin white T-shirt and no bra, and now she is soaking wet and starts to jump up and down for some reason. I will crash my car into a fire hydrant because I am looking directly at the activity in Cynthia’s driveway. She will race over to see if I’m alright, unaware that her shirt is now completely see-through. She will offer to make love with me, but I will decline, having creamed my pants five minutes earlier.

My perfect day will end with me having dinner at a fancy restaurant. I will order a modest piece of roast chicken, but I will be served a giant juicy steak, free of charge. The waitress, who looks just like Victoria Jackson, will give me her number and I will call her the next day to inquire firstly as to whether I left my jacket at the restaurant because I’m pretty sure I did, and secondly if she wants to go on a date with me. She will accept, and we will go putt-putt golfing the following night. However, I am only allowed one perfect day, not two, so the date will go horribly, with me accidently calling her Cynthia and hitting her on the shins with my putter.