run-on to the future

i was just in tahoe last week and i loved it so much that now i wanna just live there again, ungraduate from college, never work in tv, get in shape, snowboard every day, marry the most cutest, mellowest, stoniest mountain girl i can find, have some kids and buy a house with a hot tub, then sell a novel and a screenplay adaptation of the same and then start directing, get a divorce, move to malibu, start dating starlets, and then die, eaten by a shark off the coast of oahu while filming some underwater scenes for a (groundbreaking) dog-food commercial that i have to make because i owe my lawyers a truckload of cash for the defense of a trumped up charge stemming from a beach party i held where this fucking kid named, ironically, henry, claims to have been injured by "casually reckless placement of a lawn ornament resulting in the loss of his eyesight," so my brilliant defense team comes up with the argument that he must've been blind already if he walked into a two-ton african porcupine sculpture and i settle out of court for 2.5, owe my lawyers 7, then the shark gets me so my poor ex-wife is saddled with my debt so she sells the malibu place and then, on the verge of selling our youngest, bonnie, now 1 and a half, to an elderly couple in dallas, she creates a reality series (based on an idea i had originally told her in Reno, at a blackjack table) where the contestants all commit a real crime, the same crime, each in their own style and we watch their trials to see who gets off, and she cashes in huge, which is, i guess, fair, then buys the malibu place back, gets a two-hour special on fox - the climax of which is she blows it up, my house, and i'm still dead from that fucking dog-food spot because of that conniving kid.