Nineteen-eighty-four was the best year of my life. I can't remember anything about it, but I've seen the photographs. I looked almost intolerably happy.

I'm looking at the family photographs of that year as I write this. I'm typing entirely with my right hand. With my left hand I'm holding a photograph of myself in which I'm proudly displaying my genitals to the refrigerator. I can't remember why I was doing that, but I probably had a good reason.

In the next photograph I'm sitting on my grandfather's lap. He's smiling adoringly at me. I'm smiling contentedly at the camera. He died a year later.

Next. One of me and my parents. I'm glad they're still alive. It's Dad's 69th birthday tomorrow.

Yes, but who's to say that the limo owner didn't work hard to get that limo while the person living in the mobile home is a lazy SOB who sleeps in and is drunk all day?