His car hit a pole, and he was inconsolable for days. He screwed up on his taxes and started checking for wiretaps and unmarked cars. He lost his wallet and blew containment, a total meltdown.
He only asks you how your weekend was so he can tell you about his weekend, which is consistently unbelievable.
His emotions are a huge dog pulling him down the street on a short leash – he stops and smells the roses and takes off again, fast, no control, no rhyme, no reason.
People in his life live fear of the day when something really bad actually does happen. Lucky for him, he lives in the suburbs. Papercuts are Roman tragedies, there.
For him every day is Super Bowl Sunday, he goes to bed and it’s the end of the world, and every morning he wakes up to the opening of curtains and the sound of a starter’s pistol.
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