Somebody Get This Man A Label Maker

A man standing in front of a window in an oval room. His gaze is strained, and from a distance he seems thoughtful, to some maybe even wise. It was in this moment that he lifted his thumb to the window and wiped away a small smudge on it. He turned to his desk and twiddled his thumbs. He grew bored. He opened random cabinets until he reached one with a composition notebook with a post-it note on top. It read, “The world is yours Donnie.” He smiled dumbly. His mind reels with memories of not his mother, but his maid, the only sort of guardian figure in his early life. He sure does miss her. He sighs, his tiny hands interwoven into each other; he’s always taken this line of advice to heart whenever he made a decision. He could always get all the toys he wants, no matter what age. He got the cars and the money and the girls and the fans and the buildings and he made sure every one had his name on them. He is the best. He’s tired, he’s thought such big thoughts today and now he needs to golf.