Big News And Shit I Love About Being Single

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False Truisms

The first thing to remember about any break-up is that 99% of the time, people are going to tell you the same old shitty sayings.

“There are other fish in the sea.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“She wasn’t good enough for you.”

None of them are particularly helpful, enlightening or even accurate. Shall we take these one at a time?

1. If I was interested in fucking other fish, this would be more helpful. But it took me 27-odd years of dating to realize that 99% of the fish out there are either fat, crazy or just trying to sell you into white slavery. The other 1% is simply hiding in wait to fuck you over when you’re at your most vulnerable. Seriously, dating goes like this: you meet 100 girls, only 15 of them are at all attractive. 10 of those girls have no interest in speaking to you what-so-ever. Only 3 of them will agree to go on a date with you, and 2 of them turn out to be completely insane anyway. The last one turns out to have Chlamydia. That’s what dating is. The endless process of weeding through the trash heaps to find the one person with enough going for them that you’d consider contracting an STD.
   


2. I really do think everything happens for a reason: God loves to fuck with us. You ever notice how just when things get really, really bad and you think your life can’t possibly get any worse, a sudden ray of light appears. And there’s an easy solution to all your problems that’s almost within reach. So you stretch out your weary, tired fingers for hope and BAM. God kicks your fucking teeth in. A break-up doesn’t have to have any cosmic significance. Sometimes life sucks walrus balls and that’s just the way it is.
   


3. What does it say about me that a person who isn’t even good enough for me can’t stand to have me around? How does that make me feel better? Even if she were a fat, alcoholic with a hair-lip, she’s leaving because thinks she can do better. This sort of thinking is implying that I should set my sights lower to someone who’s really scraping rock-bottom. Like a crack addict with a clubfoot. Or a homeless hermaphrodite with leprosy. Or a toothless hooker with narcolepsy. Which in my case, is probably true…but you don’t have to TELL me that.

But I suppose that it’s the job of your friends (and complete strangers in bars, video shops, and mortuaries…damn, maybe I’m talking about this more than I thought) to try to offer you advice to get through this difficult time. Most of them fail. However, I’m lucky to have a few very special friends in my life who really made this challenging time more bearable. They are the few people who really understand me and know how to comfort a man in most satisfying non-blowjob-inclusive manner I’ve ever encountered. I’m not big on thank yous, but I’d like to take a moment to reach out to two very special friends I couldn’t have done it without:

Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker

I love you guys. In fact, it’s high time I paid them a visit.

Return From The Dead

So I’ve been gone a while. You may have noticed. You’ve moved on to read the scribbling of other degenerates. I understand. You’re in a different place now. What we had was great, but you’re just a different person. It’s not you, it’s me. That sort of thing.

Who the fuck do I think I am just crawling back into your life?

I’m the motherfucking king, that’s who.

Look, whatever other short-comings I have (and there are a SHITLOAD of them, believe me), I can still throw words on a page with the best of them. And after shedding my girlfriend and 20 pounds, I’m back, vicious and ready to spread my vitriol across the web like a herpes outbreak.

Last you heard about my personal life, I was happily dating and gainfully employed at a new company. Well, I’m 0-2 in those respective departments. I know, it’s stunning that neither a woman or a place of business would want me hanging around for years on end. The profanity, my inability to keep my mouth shut, my degradation of women, religion and the country…really, where did I go wrong?

You know what I blame? Pittsburgh. Fuck that shit-kicking, hick-ridden, inbred-infested, gay-steelworker employing backwater. Seriously, what the shit was I thinking?

Back in NYC (well…within hailing distance, anyway) things are pretty bleak…but at least it’s not Pittsburgh. I think that’s about to be become my new favorite phrase.

“Hey Ehren, that fat chick you’re taking home is balding, covered in acne and sweating like thermal tighty-whitey encased balls in a sauna.”

“Yeah, but at least she’s not Pittsburgh.”

Actually, they have a name for fat, sweaty, balding, acne ridden girls. They call them "Pittsburgh 10s". And by “they” I mean “Me”.

It’s weird as hell being single again. I haven’t seriously flirted with a strange girl in like 3 years. At first I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to remember all my old lines and pick-up routines. Then I remembered that I never had any. Unless you count Rohypnol and astroglide.

In my prime, I could pick up the phone and be guaranteed ass from at least one of 5 or 6 girls. Granted, some where a drive and a half away, but the option was there. In my absence from emotion-free sex (or, since it was a live-in relationship, should I simply say “absence from sex”?) they’ve all found better things to do with their vaginas. What the fuck! They should have been home by the phone with a vibrator on the off-chance I decided to call. One of them has a kid now. It’s depressing to me that a girl I once anger-fucked on the hood of my car is now somebody’s mom.

Fortunately, the real beauty of having a blog like this is that even when shit goes horribly wrong, I can think “well, at least this is going to make a funny fucking post.” My supply of ass has been cut off, forcing me to branch out and meet new people. I like to call this “the recipe for disaster.” You should call it “your lucky day.” Hilarity is the only possible out-come. I’ll be back soon, bitches.