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.