When I woke up this morning, it was 1995 and all I could think about was how great my life would be because I was about to leave my little town and move someplace far and distant where no one spoke my language. There I would meet some beautiful man, a Frenchman ideally, who would teach me all about wine and bread and cheese. His fingers would be soft and his penis humongous. He would fall madly in love with me, naturally, and we'd live somewhere in Europe in his classic villa overlooking the Mediterranean.

This is what I thought my future would be like. That and maybe a couple of half French children who laughed at my horrible American accent, even though most people couldn't tell I wasn't French myself.

Flash forward fifteen years.

Am I really as happy as I seem? Not really. If you held my real life up to the one of my dreams in 1995, I'd for sure choose the other life. Only with a French lady, instead of a dude; enormous tits instead of a dode.

But whatever. I've got a pulse, and a bottle of wine I picked up at Fresh & Easy for $1.99.

Sometimes though, I really wish I would have gone to law school.