I was recently prompted to put some of my life goals in writing. Truth be told, I thought I’d hate doing it. That kind of thing gets me all stressed out and overly analytical and makes me scared I’ll never make anything of my life and will die a lonely death underneath a pile of newspapers and cats and credit card debt.

Wow, that seems a little harsh….

Hey, no one’s ever accused me of being “too happy” or “remotely positive” or “not into death.”

But this exercise was different. Perhaps it was the way it was presented to me or perhaps it was the tools I was given to complete it but it made me realize this:

My life is pretty fucking rad.

How’d I get so lucky, you ask?

I didn’t ask that. 

Suck it. I’m telling you anyway. It was through a tremendous amount of strategic planning.

Just kidding. I have no idea. But I do have a few pieces of general (terrible) life advice to get you too on the path toward living where we all strive to be: in the crotch of luxury.

Step 1: Meet and marry a guy like Dave.

I mean he’s a fucking catch, right?

By “a guy like Dave” I mean whatever brand of person you’re into but please make sure they have two qualities:

1. They make you laugh — a lot
2. They can fix things

That’s it. It’s just that easy. I learned this from my mom. Whenever she wants something done around the house she picks up a hammer and walks around threatening to use it creating a stop, drop and roll type of response in my dad who springs to action as if there is an actual fire to put out.

What if I meet a guy who can only fix things or a guy who is funny but can’t fix things? 

Go with the latter. That way you can laugh through your frozen sewer pipe for a full 7 days of no toilet use in the middle of January near the beginning of your cohabitation. Just kidding. That’s a real divorce-maker. So make sure Mr. Funny Guy also has enough cash to pay someone to fix things.

Step 2: If you absolutely and completely hate your job quit it. 

Disclaimer: DON’T QUIT IT RIGHT NOW.

Look, I know it’s scary, I know you need to make money to live so instead of whining about it figure out a way to get out of that shit. It took me a lot of years to come up with this one. Ask anyone I’ve lived with — they’ll tell you overly detailed accounts of nightmare co-worker tales (especially that one bitch who farted a lot, usually when walking past my desk).

Now, I’m not gonna give you some bullshit pep talk about figuring out what your passion is. Blech.

What’s your passion?

Drinking a lot of wine, sleeping until 10am (minimum), looking at the internet, going biking, half-assing DIY projects, taking a fucking nap and waking up to a chilled sav blanc on my nightstand at 4:45pm.

But no one’s paying me to a be a drunk, underperforming cyclist who sleeps a lot, makes a lot of messes around the house and likes to blog about it. (Note: if you’d like to pay me to be a drunk, underperforming cyclist who sleeps a lot, makes a lot of messes around the house and likes to blog about it please contact me.)

So, don’t follow your passion (unless your passion is something like surgery or space travel in which case do not attempt on your own, but please do apply to medical school or whatever fucking dork-fest education center astronauts attend) instead find something tolerable, make some friends, talk to some people with similar interests then one day, maybe, you’ll get a good gig. Or you’ll just call your husband to fix more shit while you sit by with a nice dry rose at 2pm on a Tuesday.

Either/or. You know, the crotch of luxury.