Instead of moving on with our lives, we've stuck to what we know, because finding anything else is just too hard. We spend most of our money renting flats we don't like; we eat supermarket pizzas; we mildly enjoy a few episodes of a new American comedy series before lying face down on a pillow trying to think of new ways not to go to work. On the weekends we get as fucked up as we've been doing for the last ten years despite the fact that it throws us into wild, vertiginous depressions, because it's the only thing we have left to believe in. We are the new aging Italian bachelors in our own mundane versions of The Great Beauty—the new-British professional wreckheads, the generation that doesn't know what to do with itself now that it's been forced to choose reality over the grand, overarching myths that steered our parents the way of relative peace and respectability. When you have no myth to guide you, what do you lock in on when the hangovers and comedowns demand some normalcy to return to?