Justin Bieber has an unauthorized biography.

I do not.

This is why I generally consider my life a failure.

It’s not so much that I’m not a teen singing sensation living the high life of sold out arena concerts, junior high groupies and the ability to appear on iCarly whenever I want. Aside from the sold out arena concerts, most of that would lead to me needing to go door-to-door to introduce myself to the neighbors every time I moved.

It’s that I can’t comprehend how no one has found my life interesting enough to write a book about. Really, it wouldn’t be that difficult. So for anyone out there who needs a start in writing my unauthorized biography (*wink, wink*), here’s what you need to know:

My morning begins at about 6:30, though really I’m not out of bed until 6:45. I’m either a disheveled mess from feeding a baby during the night or spending most of the night dreaming about wrestling bears. I don’t know why. I get out of bed and take a lukewarm shower using Gillette products. I use Gillette because I heard once they’re the best a man can get, and I am a man (allegedly). Following my shower I get dressed, choosing from a wide variety of polo shirts, long-sleeved tees and a Montreal Canadiens shirt I got at Target for $6.95 (casual Friday, bitches.) I head downstairs, at which point I brush my teeth, fix the abomination on the top of my head called hair and put on some Old Spice deodorant. I don’t wear Old Spice because I’m an old man, though. I wear it because I heard somewhere that antiperspirant causes cancer and so I started getting deodorant only and that was the only brand I could find. It should also be noted that I have no problem with using a cell phone, which really seems like it’s more a cancer-causing threat than a tube of Gillette antiperspirant. (The best cancer a man can get.) I don’t know if deodorant containers are called tubes. Following my minimal amount of physical upkeep, I venture in to the kitchen and eat a bowl of cereal with just enough milk in it to make the cereal float. By now, my 3-year-old son has come downstairs and is laying on the couch growling at me when I try to talk to him. I also have started a pot of coffee, made with one tablespoon of ground coffee per cup. They are generous tablespoons. Following the completion of my cereal, I pack a lunch fit for any school-age child, complete with sandwich, yogurt, string cheese and hopefully some Jell-o or pudding. By now, I’ve also helped my 3-year-old go potty. You haven’t lived until part of your morning routine includes sitting on a step stool staring at a toddler peeing. With my lunch packed, my coffee poured in to my travel mug (3 teaspoons of sugar - I’m not afraid of you, diabetes - and a splash of milk), I throw my computer bag over my shoulder and head out to my Ford Focus to begin the journey to work. My commute is a usually hour-long affair that involves brake lights, stop-and-go traffic on the highway and NC-17 language that involves some variation of the word douche. My commute also makes it completely possible for me to arrive at work anywhere between 10 minutes early or 25 minutes late, even if I leave at the same time every day. I work for 8 hours plus a 1 hour lunch. After that, I begin the commute home. This is, again, an hour-long affair that involves even more variations of the word douche. By the way, I’m currently accepting nominations for different variations. I’ve already got douchemobile, douchenozzle and doucheface. I arrive home about 6:30, judging whether my commute was long or not by whether ‘Marketplace’ has started on NPR. I walk in the door and am usually assaulted by my 3-year-old son who is likely wearing either only his underwear or a tank top and shorts because it looks like a basketball uniform. I eat dinner while he stares at my plate asking repeatedly if I’m done and, when I am, the playing of sports commences. This lasts until about 7:45 when it’s time for him to throw a tantrum about going to bed. After he’s asleep, I hold a baby for the rest of the night and watch things on our Netflix queue. I’m in bed by 11:00, cursing Comedy Central for having ‘The Daily Show‘ on so damned late. Fist shaking is usually involved. I fall asleep and resume my dreams about wrestling bears.

Seriously, what does Justin Bieber do all day? Sing stupid songs? Besides, he can’t be nearly as happy with his life as I am mine.