I wasn't going to wait 'til I was a crotchety old man before I yearned for the good old days and spat on everything contemporary -- by then I wouldn't be able to enjoy my tunnel vision nostalgia. I would be too focused on my inconsistent bowels, my creaking back, or my sob-inducing impotency. I knew where I wanted to be, and it sure wasn't today or yesterday. It was 1992. I think back on that year with overpowering warmth. I remember filling blank tapes with MTV videos, playing my 16-bit video games and discovering my nether regions for the very first sticky and glorious time. (Thank you Cinemax!)

I was satisfied with the way things were back then. The “progress” since hasn't improved life for me.

“But you can record video on your cell phone now and send it to your friends!”

You might whine as I tell you this, but listen here! I see that fancy phone as another bill to pay, another foot deeper in the credit card grave I'm digging.

“But MTV is full of awesome reality shows now!” you might scream.

I hate those shows. I loved watching Headbanger’s Ball or whatever cream fest Peter Gabriel put out.

“But you can’t live in the past!” might come out of your ignorant mouth.

Well, you’re wrong.

I prefer to rewind back to when I didn't realize that shorts the length of Fig Newtons were ridiculous looking. When the decision of whether I was going to become an animator or a professional wrestler was still up in the air. And when my Fridays and Saturdays were consumed by long, epic games of the Rifts RPG (while snickering at the ‘real’ dorks, the D&D'rs) I breathe easier when transported to the good old days. So I've decided to stay there. And why not?

I threw out my internet-capable computer (after I wrote this article of course). Playstation 1, 2 and 3 were all sold. My DVD special edition crappy Christmas gifts of Any Given Sunday, Speed, and The Nutty Professor II were all returned to the people who try to know me but obviously do not. I stocked up on groceries so I would never have to leave the house and run into Paris Hilton or see an "Oh my God, they killed Kenny!" shirt that would throw this whole thing off. I was going to shove my psyche down a time funnel and look nowhere else.

I’ve fixed my computer to where it won’t get past ‘92. I’ve purchased sporting events from that year, the Bulls beating the Blazers, Bowe beating Holyfield, and the Blue Jays winning it all. I just run those tapes on a loop unless I vary things up with a viewing of Wayne’s World or A Few Good Men. You see I can’t handle the present and I sure as hell can’t handle the future. Things are changing too fast. You like a band, and the singer kills himself. You like an athlete and he gets old. Danielle Stelle writes two books within the year, and you think to yourself, “She can’t possibly put out anymore. She’s spent.”

So I say goodbye to the mid and late '90s, to the '00s whatever they shall be called. I turn my head away from Father Time’s reeking breath and pave my own way. I live in my basement. I live alone. I live in 1992, and I couldn’t be happier. I refuse to let time pass as it wants to do. I have to force it to stay where I like. I have to revel in it, with closed doors and no human contact. I’ve figured out what I enjoy and will ride it, traveling in a circle to a time and place where Raymond Burr never dies, Jordan just keeps on winning, and Nirvana takes me to their namesake with every mumbled lyric.