Thank you, voters, I will be smoking this medical marijuana overseas, as I nurse this aching bac—hip. Hip! I said, "hip," right? Oh, fuck it. I have cancer.

Because we live in a world that does not yet make sense (note: See Maine), I've decided it just as logical to marry myself and then fake my fake spouse's death (note: me), so my fake self and I can enjoy a delightful life together free from the confining structures of "society."

Do you know where people go when they fake their deaths? Barbados. That's right. The land of palm trees, delightful colorful buildings, and hurricanes named after terribly insecure but nice enough when you get to know them I guess secretaries. I know nothing at all about Barbados, except that it is a former British colony, which means that people in Barbados play cricket. They also clearly call each other "Sir" this-or-that and ride bicycles. So while you're off at your silly accounting job or painting your garage turquoise or wearing that stupid bow tie, I'll be swigging whiskey out of a jar with local cricket sensation Sir Jasper Kenneth Louisville Reginald Johnson IV. Unsurprisingly, he is quite the dandy.