In all my years of watching CourtTV/truTV and its true crime shows, I have only seen the murder victims described by interviewees as The Most Wonderful Person Ever. They are also usually incredibly popular high achievers in school or work, often on their way to becoming a doctor or a scientist, and they never fail to leave behind photos of themselves in a family photo with the warmest, most comforting smiles. I no longer find it strange that I never hear the interviewees say, “Well, that bastard really got what he deserved.”

Given my refusal to believe that the network has a bias towards good, sympathetic victims, I have come to two possible conclusions: either human beings are inherently good and most have been a positive part of somebody’s life, or the old adage that nice guys finish last is untrue. Nice guys, apparently, get finished first. If you, like me, choose to believe the latter, then there is only one course of action that will prevent us from ever being murdered: be a total dick.

I have already begun my life change by dumping my girlfriend over a text message that reads, “i brk up, k?” That was hard to do, because I truly love her, but it was either that or someday getting shot in the face. Sorry, honey, I’m pretty superficial like that.

I also borrowed a lot of money with no intention of paying back from someone who seemed like a huge Sopranos fan, always dressed up in mafia cosplay, and saying things like “he’s just breaking balls” before punching me in the face. Haha, he was so into it too.

Generally, I’m confident in these activities, but there was that time when I was at the checkout in a Pavilions supermarket and was asked if I would like to donate a dollar for cancer research. I said, “no,” believing that to spend 80 dollars on chips and not be willing to spare a single dollar for cancer research must be approaching the apex of the dick curve, and my success would no doubt be ensured. But now I often wonder if by avoiding getting murdered, I have put into motion a series of events leading to my dying of cancer. Damn, do you think it’d be too strange to go back there to give them the dollar?

If they gave out awards for excellence in procrastination, I would no doubt sweep the event, but most likely I would not attend the ceremony because I could do that some other time. Maybe after one more game of Who Has the Biggest Brain on Facebook.

My bad past experiences with regular dogs have led me to purchase one of those robotic ones, and technically, I should’ve been absolutely in love with Robie. His urine was formulated to emit the aroma of springtime flowers, he guarded my house with precise laser eyes, and whenever I told him to sit, he would get into the lotus position, with the option of turning on soothing Buddhist chants.

I was arguing with a friend when he told me that with my hair, I could pass for a chimp at the zoo. This was followed by a “Burn!” in a slightly higher-pitched voice.

The life of a model is pretty weird, doubly so if the focus is not on your face, but on your hands. I would be invited to parties, only to get the “Ew!” look from the other patrons when I arrive, and the constant murmuring behind my back would continue until I flash them my flawless fingers and leave them speechless.