One: Recreational Nihilism I like to think I’m an optimist, but these are trying circumstances. Small hotel room, three of my classmates, an hour drive from school at a YMCA-sponsored “civic engagement” program. And Ritchie. Classic asshole. Cinematic, even. Now, like I said, I’m a Xanax-pillbox-half-full kind of guy, but this is a bit much. This is because, as I say, Ritchie is, and I’m repeating myself intentionally here, lengthening the sentence for emphasis, adding words to make you feel it as much as I do, deep, deep within the darkest chambers of my soul, an asshole. He tells me he doesn’t remember asking for a lap dance, and to put a fucking shirt on. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have to take a shower, and people tend to do that with their shirts off,” I explain. He doesn’t seem to hear me, otherwise occupied at the work desk that comes wi...