I recently came to a startling realization: I am a slacker and proud of it.

Slackers are not lazy – we simply prefer to experience life via our own non-traditional means. Slackers operate by a totally different set of rules. Our idea of culinary bliss is an-all-you can-eat $5.99 buffet. We buy our groceries at friendly neighborhood bodegas, where two dollars’ worth of cold cuts, a loaf of cheap bread and a three-liter soda add up to a feast fit for a king. We buy our clothes from places like Target and Kohl's. Most slackers doesn’t own cars; we usually get by on mass transit and lifts from friends who faithfully support our cause. Most of us still live with our parents. Any semblance of a romantic life is completely foreign to us, though we’ll tell you that we’re simply “waiting for the right girl”. Until then, butt-shots of Britney Spears and twice-weekly reruns of “VIP” will do just fine, thank you.

Still waiting from that call from Hollywood to tell us that the battered, coffee-stained screenplay we submitted six years ago is in the midst of a bidding war between Arnold and Sly, we play it safe, not wanting to miss that expected call. So, we get by on part-time jobs, which are supplemented with hearty contributions from dear ol’ Mom and her trusty pocketbook. We calmly listen to shopworn recounts of the “good ‘ol days” from Dad while impatiently awaiting the fruits of our diligent studiousness, which he gives out with a firm handshake and an earnest exhortation to “get off our asses and do something with our lives”.

Neighbors become wayward surrogate parents, offering us a few precious dollars to run the occasional errand. We get by on charm and the benevolence of countless kind hearts. It’s a cultivated talent, attempted by many, mastered by few. We talk a good game, and for most intents and purposes, we play it well. While the “Sunday afternoon regulars at Lansky’s Bar ‘N Grill count Life’s wins and losses over a glass of too-warm ale, us slackers prefer not to find out whether Life has left its boot print on our respective slacker asses. Sometimes, it’s better not knowing – that way, your dreams stay as fresh as the free donut you pilfered for taking out dear ‘old Mrs. Griffith’s garbage. Slackerdom can be a profitable racket, indeed.

So, there you have it. I hope I’ve made it easier for the uninitiated to better understand my breed. Who knows, maybe you’ve had the characteristics but haven’t been diagnosed as of yet. No? Well anyway, peace be unto you and yours. And if you stop by your local Barnes and Noble and see some guy taking up space, reading but not buying, perusing but not moving towards the cash register, don’t hate him. It just might be me.