FRIDAY ME: Walking into the office just now, I felt this unexpected rush of gratitude and optimism. I can’t pinpoint why, exactly. Maybe it was the flowers in the courtyard or the friendly faces of our co-workers. Whatever the case, I’m so happy to be alive and to have this job, and I can truly say to you, “Good morning, brother.”

In many ways, Andy Nosticia is your average college graduate. He has a menial office job, still hasn’t figured out why his company faxes anything, is severely disillusioned, drinks his wine from a coffee mug because all his other dishes are dirty, and of course, he doesn’t have his shit together.

You might think patchouli, but that’s not what I mean. I mean spicy shoes left to fumigate by the door. Acrid plastic yoga mats made in China that will take Vedic ages of rebirth to break down in a landfill. Gluten-free soy candles blessed by Peruvian shamans that cost an arm and a leg. Burned sage sitting on top of a seven-layer dip of cologne created by human bodies in motion.

Why are you here? Strike that—you don’t have to answer that. It’s what’s called a rhetorical question, obvi. Also obvi: you came here for wisdom, for guidance, for that one little nugget of an insight which you can squirrel away and unleash upon the world in a big way. You came here with a plan, a tablet, a book rearing to go. Maybe it’s werewolves in space. Maybe it’s vampires meets Das Boot—Dracula in a Submarine. Maybe it’s Bambi-grows-up-and-commits-Bambi-patricide. Turns cannibal.

I once pretended to be Jamaican for five minutes.

Considering the fact that I’m whiter than mozzarella and have lived in Ohio my entire life, this was no small feat.