It’s like forever later, but you win all the way to the Showcase Round.

There, it’s just you and the old granny wearing the sweatshirt from before, just somebody’s regular grandma, but she’s lived through world wars and nuclear bombs, probably she saw all the Kennedys get shot and Abraham Lincoln, and now she’s bobbing up and down on her tennis-shoe toes, clapping her granny hands and crowded by supermodels and flashing lights while the big voice makes her the promise of a sports utility vehicle, a wide-screen television, a floor-length fur coat.

And probably it’s the acid, but it’s like nothing seems to add up.

It’s like, if you live a boring-enough life, knowing the price of Rice-A-Roni and hot dog wieners, your big reward is you get to live for a week in some hotel in London? You get to ride on some airplane to Rome. Rome, like, in Italy. You fill your head full of enough ordinary junk, and your pay-off is giant supermodels giving you a snowmobile?

It’s probably the acid, but—you’re battling some old nobody you’ve never met, fighting over ♥♥♥♥ you don’t even want.

Probably it’s the acid, but—right here and now—♥♥♥♥ declaring a business major. ♥♥♥♥ General Principles of Accounting 301.

And maybe you don’t know what you want out of your life, but you know it’s not a grandfather clock.