More than a year ago, some people on the internet wanted to buy me a soul portrait, and gave me $150 to commission a mentally ill person to photoshop god lasers and dumb tigers on to my high school yearbook photo, or my driver’s license mugshot, or something. I of course refused, but graciously accepted the money anyway, and proceeded to labor over the spiritually meretricious document myself. I additionally made a somber vow to spend all one hundred and fifty dollars on a humorously mediocre Italian meal served at the Olive Garden, a chain to which American families compliantly fork over their dinner plans each year by the tens of billions, probably. I also pledged that I would record the endeavor carefully, in a drawn out faux-journalistic spiel that had loads of jokes in it. But since I’m currently weighed down with an olympiadic bronze statue’s fist worth of shitty pasta in my belly, and feeling a bit off, I give you this essay instead.