I’m a failure

I’m a failure

Jordan Spieth was born July 27, 1993 — 26 days after me. He went to a small private Catholic high school in Dallas. I went to Nazareth Academy in La Grange Park, IL. He has two siblings, a brother and a sister — just like me. He stands at 6-foot-1 and 185 pounds, a mere inch taller and ten pounds heavier than yours truly. On paper, we’re not so different. Only, he’s a professional golfer who just won the Masters.

I’m a disappointment.

Thursday

1:15 p.m. — Spieth tees off alongside Henrik Stenson and Billy Horschel in first round of the Masters at Augusta National. Meanwhile, in Dubuque, Ryan eats peanut butter and jelly Uncrustable.

5:09 p.m. — Spieth cans six birdies over seven holes to take the lead at 8-under through 14 holes, leads field after day one.

7:45 p.m. — Ryan gets out of night class, gets stood up by date, goes to bar to spend money he doesn’t have.

Friday

9:57 a.m. — Spieth tees off to start day two. Ryan bullsh#ts a presentation that he just realized is due in an hour.

2:30 p.m. — Ryan starts playing NBA 2K15 on his roommate’s PS3, proceeds to start season 0-5 because he lacks defensive fundamentals and can’t figure out how to MAKE A FREAKING FREE THROW.

3:37 p.m. — Spieth birdies the final hole, setting a 36-hole record at 14-under par.

7:05 p.m. — Ryan arrives at work five minutes late, buys dinner from the vending machine, watches a mandated HR training video about the correct way to hold a camera.

Saturday

Noon — Ryan wakes up, hung over, just kind of lies there and stares at the ceiling for like twenty minutes.

2:55 p.m. — Spieth tees off to start day three. Ryan arrives at the Maid-Rite diner to eat a late lunch/early dinner by himself, orders a “pizza-rite,” which he assumes is going to be like a pizza puff, but turns out to be this gray mystery meat patty with one slice of fried mozzarella cheese on top.

7:05 p.m. — After hitting his second shot into the crowd, Spieth saves par on the par-four 18th to set the 54-hole record at 16-under par. Ryan gets ready to go out, gives pair of jeans the sniff test, they pass.

8:30 p.m. — Ryan arrives at Easy Street to watch the Bulls barely beat the hapless 76ers, attempts to hit on some blonde girl from out of town, fails.

Sunday

2:50 p.m. — Spieth tees off to start the final round of the tournament, needs to hold onto his 4-stroke lead to win.

3:15 p.m. — Ryan finally brings himself to get out of bed, takes his first shower in three days.

6:53 p.m. — Spieth bogeys the 18th hole to fall one stroke shy of tournament record, wins the Masters with an 18-under par, dons his first green jacket.

9:43 p.m. — Ryan considers watching porn, decides against it, passes out while watching reruns of “Louie.”

Monday

Noon — Spieth cashes his $1.8 million check. Ryan pays the city bill, which was $100 this month, for some reason.

8:54 p.m. — Ryan writes editorial about Jordan Spieth, refers to himself in the third person like a douchebag, is failure.

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