Words Of Wisdom And Places To Get Busy

Some friends of mine were discussing the role of sex in marriage yesterday. They were talking about a trip one of them was taking that involved 10 days on a tropical island in a wedding party. She said something along the lines of, “Wooo, 10 straight days of sex. I LOVE being single.”

To which I responded, “Sex everyday? Isn’t that the point of getting married?”

Both my friends, who either are or have been married promptly burst into laughter.

OK, maybe I’m naïve about marital relations, but is the sex drop-off really that big? The longest relationship I was ever involved with lasted nearly two years. Granted, it’s not marriage and it’s not 20 years, but we had a LOT of sex. I mean, even by the end of the relationship we were on a pretty steady at least twice a day schedule. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be one of those old guys who has crazy sex until he drops dead at 93.

I’m not sure women realize who important sex is. And I’m not talking about just the physical aspect, either. Think about this way: you know those times when your man hold the door for you, or sends you flowers at work, or calls just to chat with you? It’s not REALLY the door, the flowers or the call that’s important. What gives you girls that gooey feeling is what those actions symbolize: that your man desires you and wants to make you happy. THAT’S the real issue of sex in relationships.

Mario Puzo, the genius who wrote The Godfather, said in his book Fools Die, “The first time a woman refuses to put out, it’s over. No excuses, no headaches. If a woman turns you down in bed, start looking for a new girl.” For the longest time, I thought that it was bullshit. Now I’m not so sure.

Looking back on the one girl who cheated on me (that I know of that is), I remember that she DID turn me down once. Maybe I should have listened to Puzo and packed up my shit right then.

Let me ask this: if your married sex life sucks, could it be that you’re just not with the right person? In the relationships that worked really well for me, neither one of us could keep our hands off each other. I’m not sure that familiarity could ever really destroy that. I imagine that there are always new places and positions to try, new outfits to be found…sex is really only as boring as you let it get.

In the off-chance I find married life considerably more G-rated than I anticipated however, I’ve decided to start compiling a list of places that I’d like to have sex. If any of my readers have other suggestions, please feel free to chime in.

1. Airplane. Yes, it’s probably uncomfortable beyond belief and requires that your date be extremely thin and flexible, but come on. Mile High Club. No quibbling, it’s something that should be on everyone’s list.
2. Dressing room at Victoria’s Secret. Why buy the garters when you can fuck your girl in them for free? I imagine the secret would be for the guy to stand in a shopping bag so his legs are not visible to people walking by.
3. Drive-In Movie Theater. OK, so I’ve already done this one…twice. But it’s fantastic! It gets two thumbs way up from Ehren.
4. Library. Maybe it’s because I used to work at one, maybe it’s the fact that it’s a place where people are supposed to be quiet, restrained and disciplined. Either way, it sounds like a shushed-good time.
5. Church. It’d have to be a catholic girl, though. As a Jew, it’d be nice to fuck a Christian for a change. Besides, I suspect that Jesus is getting tired of only getting to watch men fuck boys in his house.
6. At a National Landmark. Don’t really care whether it’s the Eiffel Tower, The Empire State Building, or Easter Island. I just want to make a post card that I’m SURE would cause a lawsuit from the Historic Society.

NASCAR and Walmart: Bane of American Society

Last week I heard a story that reawakened my hatred for NASCAR. For those of you who missed my rant on the subject, it’s definitely worth checking out. The story goes like this:

Apparently a winning driver accidentally said “shit” on the air during a victory speech, causing hundreds of angry letters to the station and the FCC. Apparently, it seems that a number of parents were incensed that a curse word was uttered while they watched TV with their kids. I guess they feel that this could potentially scar their kids for life.

At this point, I wanted to slap every single NASCAR dad who wrote in. I mean pimp slap. Open palm, right across those gap-tooth, inbred mouths, so hard their heads ring and those eyes well up with tears like the first time they sat on Uncle Ray-Ray’s lap.

Let me explain something: last week the same kids and parents got to see a guy killed live on TV. KILLED. As in, run over at 200 miles an hour. As in he no longer breathes. How the FUCK is that less damaging than hearing an adult yell a four letter word in a moment of joy?

This is the type of hypocritical bullshit that absolutely drives me nuts about this country. Here’s the deal: if you’re REALLY into protecting children from damaging influences, you’re not allowed to be pro-violence. No quibbling. It’s exactly the same beef I have with Walmart. Walmart sells guns, condoms but no CDs that contain any curse-words. Basically, they’re saying that it’s ok to kill people, and it’s ok to fuck people, but don’t you DARE write a song about killing or fucking people.

Walmart really sums up America for me: bloated, out-of-control, and completely over-run by rednecks.

Sometimes I get really bothered by the fact that it’s so uncool to care about anything these days. I think back to the 60’s and all the bands writing about serious controversial stuff: anti-war, anti-establishment, anti-government. Yeah the hippie movement burned out on weed, acid and the 70’s, but at least it was a generation that encouraged kids to be interested, empowered, and active. I think kids today are too interested in getting rich, getting laid, and sitting on their ass.

I think we need more angry role-models. It pisses me off when girls want to be like Paris Hilton and guys want to be like 50 Cent. Yeah, it’d be great to be rich, pretty, dumb, and slutty, but maybe it’s time that our generation set our goals a bit higher.

Ben Franklin and The Grain Industry Can Go Fuck Themselves

And now a phrase we, as a culture, don’t say nearly enough: DAMN YOU, BEN FRANKLIN!

Ben Franklin first came up with the wonderful idea of Daylight Savings back when he was working for France, and those damn farmers in America's Heartland have been holding the rest of us hostage ever since. I swear, I'm not sure I can take another year of these random time changes. That means you're all about 365 days away from a headline that reads:

Lunitic Arrives Hour Late At Ben Franklin's Tomb. Arrested For Descrating The Grave Of Founding Father.

Every single spring I wake up one morning and find that I’m an hour late for everything. You can’t do that to me! I have enough trouble trying to keep my life together as it is! I understand that according to Einstein, time is relative. It shouldn’t be a variable in day to day life, though! Lazy, shirking farmers! Let it never be said that the Grain Industry isn’t trying to mercilessly screw us. And by “us” I mean “me.”

Twice a year, at daylight savings time, I have the same thought: “That’s it! I’m moving to one of those loser states that doesn’t believe in changing time around for the convenience of some inbred hillbillies.” Then I get angry, and consider starting a profession that can make innocent people comply with completely outrageous demands.

This post is to declare myself the official founder and Dictator-For-Life of the Guild of City-Dwelling Mystics: we provide rational thought, irrational anger, and general discontent about our entire society, while contributing nothing of value of our own. For tax-reasons, this organization doubles as a religion.

Now on to the good stuff. Our list of demands is as follows:

• If the grain industry gets to change time itself, we demand the right to change quantities to suit our every whim. Paychecks, goods, services, and distances are all fair game.
• We also demand the right to declare up to 3 “Honorary Saturdays” a week. A declaration is valid up until 2 A.M. of the day in question. No formal announcement is needed. Everyone else will have to learn to adjust their schedules accordingly.
• Each month, the members of our guild will receive a tribute consisting of: a hogshead of brown M&Ms, four pennywhistles, two suckling pigs, and “a comely lass of virtue true.”
• We, as an organization, find it inconvenient to memorize a lot of names. Forthwith, anyone with a name beginning with the letters “R” “K” “S” or “W” must immediately change their names to “Gladys.” Men and women alike will have to suffer on this one.
• Each member of the GOCDM have decided that spelling shall change, based on the time of year. Each month, we will add, remove, or alter the alphabet, based on our convenience. For example, for the remainder of the day, the letters “Q” “B” and “O” shall cease 2 exist. Als, the letter “F” will hereby be replaced with “C.”

I think that ur demands are relatively simple, reasnable and ratinal. Rememer, it’s nt like we’re asking yu t change time itself.

CUK YU, EN CANLKIN AND ALL YU LAZY CUCKING CARMERS!!!!

I Visit Two Scenic Locals

In the height of all ironies, I was stricken with an illness yesterday. While it certainly wasn’t the Hantavirus, Lupus, or Scabies, the jury is still out whether it was Scurvy, Rickets or just the Black Death that terrorized Europe during the 1300’s. If anyone wants to recreate yesterday’s schedule, here’s a few steps that will accurately simulate the experience:

1. Hire professional Strong Man Jouko Ahola for the day.
2. Buy a 20 Sledge Hammer.
3. Have the former beat your solar plexus with the later every 15 minutes or upon regaining consciousness.

Essentially my day consisted of pain, sleep, pain, things rushing out of various orifices and more pain. I didn’t even know my body held that much liquid. It was as if my digestive tract was the Titanic and the contents therein were screaming women and children.

I’m glad to report that I have since recovered enough to at least journey somewhere other than the toilet and my bed. Let me tell you, as scenic as those locals may be, they were getting pretty old as far as I was concerned. I place the blame for this illness where I believe it’s deserved: Paris Hilton. Some say I’m crazy, but come on. You can’t look at her and NOT think she’s a hotbed for stupidity, poor-fashion, and some really nasty forms of STDs. She’s got to be like the Congo of Sexually Transmitted Illnesses. 20 years from now they’ll be finding diseases on Paris that they haven’t even named yet. How’d I come in contact with her? I’m proud to report I’m one of the 6 people living on the planet that has NOT had sex with Paris Hilton, but she did briefly flash across my screen while I was channel surfing on Tuesday night. Apparently that’s all it takes.

I also think that due credit should go to the God of Sickness, who decided to smote me down for the post where I make light of a number of diseases. Oh Great God of Sickness! Hear my plea! I hereby repent my evil ways and will never mock those who suffer from unfortunate diseases with even more unfortunate names again

…today.

When I get sick, I always think back to college and the one time I actually went to the wellness center to try to get treatment. I had been suffering with a pretty horrible flu—fever, nausea, head-aches, the whole deal. The first question they asked me was, “Are you sexually active?”

The attendant got really nervous when I answered, “Are you asking me out?”

Essentially, any student admitting to being sick was immediately assumed to be suffering from obscure sexual ailments. Not that it really mattered, because the only thing the wellness center was allowed to prescribe was free samples of Claritin and cough-drops.

I guess the moral of today’s post is this: Stop the spread of disease. Stop watching Paris Hilton.

Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Speak In Public

Sometimes I really wish that life happened at slower speeds. Not because I’m over-whelmed by today’s fast-past world, but because I feel like maybe then I could work on my blurting problem.

And I do have a problem. Make no mistake. I mean, it’s one thing to say the stuff I write on this blog. It’s another to blurt this stuff out to the wrong company.

For example, I was walking home with a girl I was dating towards the end of college. She was nestled onto my arm and we were quietly chatting and joking to each other. I made a comment about how soon I’d be leaving this life behind forever, and wondering if I’d really left my mark on the place.

“What do you expect them to do?” she asked sarcastically. “Chisel statues of you and sacrifice virgins in your honor?”

“Hon, you of all people should know that to really honor my memory accurately, they’d have to sacrifice the slutty girls.”

A little free advice: girls you’re dating don’t like to hear that kind of thing.

I’m not sure why I do this kind of thing. Maybe I’m secretly afraid of achieving happiness. I only wish that this was the kind of thing I did only in my personal life. Unfortunately, that train (as I like to say) has sailed.

For more information on me screwing myself at work, check the very end of this post. I swear, sometimes I’m sure I have Tourettes. COCKSUCKERFUCKSHITASSBITCH. You know, I think that’s the answer. Next time I blurt out something unbelievably inappropriate, I’ll just follow it with a string of the foulest language you ever heard. That way people won’t think I’m an idiot. I’m just suffering from a neurological disorder.

The king of all blurt-outs, however, happened a number of years ago. I was sitting in a dining hall with one of my dear friends, and she was talking about her recent man problems. We had reached a point in the conversation where she was really looking deep inside herself, wondering if she would ever be happy. I leaned forward and grabbed her hand across the table.

I looked deep into her eyes, cleared my throat and realized I had no clue what was about to come out of my mouth.

“You know, Jen” I began, looking at her earnestly, “we’ve been friends for a long time now. I feel like you and I have really come a long way; as if we’ve grown up together. I know we tease each other now and then, but through it all there’s no doubt that we’re always there for one another.”

Jen’s eyes opened up wide. She leaned forward just slightly, as if sensing what to come would be a pivotal point in our relationship, forever changing how we interacted.

“That’s why I want you to know that if we’re both still single in 20 years--”

Her eyes started to mist. Her hand trembled ever so slightly.

“—I’m going to keep looking.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before she threw her cup of soda at me and stormed out.

I know it’s going to come as a shock to all my loyal readers, but I have to admit, after looking at all the evidence, there’s a very strong possibility that I’m a dick. Shocking, I know. I’ll give you all until tomorrow to come to grips with it.

Things I Find Hysterical or "Why I'm Going To Die Of A Tropical Disease"

I’ve found, through years of testing this sort of thing, that I’ve got a very strange sense of humor. For example, I was speaking to a particularly AWESOME female who lives in Washington DC, when she mentioned that the popular morning radio personality has Lupus.

I was incapacitated by laughter for the better part of 10 minutes. Not to make light of some one else’s pain…well, ok, I guess I am. I guess I just find the idea that a morning radio man, whose job it is to get people excited and happy about the day, has a crippling, horrible illness.

“Hey folks…today I thought about killing myself again. God, I hate you all. Living your lives. You don’t know what it’s like to suffer, any of you! I hope you ROT, you smug bastards!!!”

Or maybe

“Hey, this is Mad Wolf in the morning, coming to you live on DC 101. I’m glad you stopped in this morning. Today we’ll be talking to Rob Lowe, having strippers in for a hotdog eating contest, and don’t miss part 27 of our ongoing series: the agonizing pain with which I live every waking moment!”

I also observed that there are a number of illnesses that I find hysterical. Not people suffering from them understand. It’s pretty much just the names. Here they are:

• Lupus
• The Hantavirus
• SIDS
• Scabies
• Rickets

You realize what I’ve done, right? I’ve just published the names of one of the afflictions guaranteed to kill me. It’ll be the only time anyone will be able to say, “He died of Scabies. How’s that for poetic justice.”

I don’t even know what scabies is.

The other incident that reduced me to incoherence (well, more than usual. Incoherence is rated on a sliding scale) involved a movie plot. My friend was telling me about an idea for a movie involving a prison in the future, where whatever crime landed you there is committed against you every day of your stay there. Sure, the murderers get off pretty easy, and it’d be difficult to find a dude whose job it’d be to ass-fuck the rapists, but the people I think would have it the hardest? Car thieves.

I can just imagine a car-thief waking up one day, 20 years after his offense and just being utterly reduced to tears.

“Please, God, I’ve learned my lesson! I just want to be able to keep a job or make a date with a girl!”

I know…I’m sick.

Name That Mental Illness Or Physical Defect and Other Joys Of Dating

Princess, thanks so much for mercilessly pimping my blog. I often think if everyone who read my posts here told three friends, and each of them told three friends…I’d still have no social life and make no money. But at least I’d be popular…to strangers…over the internet.

Speaking of online friends, my buddies and I recently had a discussion about the loserliness of internet dating. Lots of people feel that meeting someone over through the computer is the dating equivelent of food shopping at the dollar store. I'm not sure I agree.

When I first started blogging, way back when I was still using My Space, I wrote a bit about how I didn’t understand the online dating process. Now I’m a little bit older and a little bit wiser…well, older anyway. I’ve actually successfully picked a few girls up online so I guess I have more perspective on the whole phenomena.

Picking someone up in cyberspace is like the opposite of going down to a singles bar. At a bar or a club, the music is usually turned up so load that you can’t speak to anyone. When you pick someone up, it’s based almost entirely on appearance. I mean, girls say they like a guy with a sense of humor. How exactly am I supposed to make you laugh when horrible music is blasting at decibels and frequencies meant to collapse high-rises? Essentially, you go to a club to hook up with someone good looking. Why do those relationships fall apart? Because sooner or later you realize that she’s a bitch, or an idiot, or trying to harvest your kidneys for sale on the black market.

When you pick someone up online, you’re getting to know all about their personality. Intelligence, sense of humor, beliefs…you know, all those little things that I hear are so important to a working relationship. The downside is you might not be physically attracted to the other person when you finally get together. Come on, all of us have those pictures that make us look amazing. And we sure as hell flaunt them online at every opportunity. When you finally meet someone you’ve only seen pictures of, you realize little things like: wow, maybe you should have told me that you just got out of the burn-victims ward; leprosy is not Indian for “sexified;” no, you definitely never mentioned that you were not “technically” a woman; and there really is no such thing as a “young 85.”

Online dating sucks…but I don’t think it sucks any more than regular dating. I guess meeting people is hard, because ultimately, we’re not looking for “people,” we’re looking for a special someone. I don’t think that online dating should carry any kind of social stigmatism these days. There are bad dates aplenty out there, both online and in bars. Some have goiters the size of a football helmet. Others stab you with a power-drill while you sleep because they think you’re “planning to leave, just like daddy.” So don’t hate against the online daters. There are plenty of psychos and sideshow freaks to go around.

Men: Chimps Of The Fashion World

Perhaps the greatest part of being a man is that the bar is set so low for us. We’re not expected to know how to dress, cook, decorate, clean, or groom ourselves. Women just sort of assume that we’re completely incompetent. That’s why I always love the amused smile that appear on the face of girls when the see men shopping. They look at us the same way they’d look at a monkey who can fly a kite. You almost expect them at any moment to point and say, “Awwwww…That’s adorable. He thinks he’s people.”

If a woman tells another woman that a dress they’re wearing is ugly, it turns into a scene from High Noon. I think that’s why they tend to tip-toe around the issue if (or more accurately, WHEN) their boyfriend dresses like a slob. What they fail to realize is:

1. We really don’t care.
2. We know that women are more than happy to do it for us.

Really, all you need to know about fashion, you can tell by looking at the styles. Women have all manner and styles of dresses, skirts, blouses, sweaters, and shoes. God, don’t even get me started on the SHOES. The last time I noticed a woman’s feet was because I was holding both her ankles up over my shoulders. Then you come to Men’s clothing: suits. Basically, you can get three styles of suit: black, grey, or striped. Even fashion designers say, “You know what…three colors is pretty much all men can handle anyway.”

I had this theory for a while that women like to passive-aggressively project their opinions of their man’s failure through fashion. Some girls wanted me to dress more sensitive, some more rugged, some more upscale. It was as if they subconsciously expected me to change depending on the shirt I was wearing. Then I decided that women only date men when they run out of stuff to accessorize. Married women just have kids. My mom had two boys and then, finally, a girl—the youngest. By the time my sister was 2 weeks old she had more clothes than I had owned in my entire 12-year existence on Earth.

Even well-dressed men are still dwarfs in the world of taste, as far as women are concerned. A man who's fashionably attired is sort of loked at as a huge step forward for our gender: like chimps using tools.

Today I decided that I needed a drastic bedding up-grade. Let me tell you, when a MAN decides he needs new bedding, that's how you know it’s a disaster. If I had slept on my gear for another night, I’m pretty sure that I would have woken up in a government containment area, like at the end of E.T. I had been dragging around the same motley assortment of blankets, sheets and pillows since college. There are rape wards that haven’t seen as much potentially scaring sexual activity as my blankets.

So I wandered around the mall for about three hours of pure hell. After staring blankly at different bedding sets for an hour I took my phone out and tried to decide whether to call a fashion expert to walk me through the next two hours or the Suicide Hotline. I’d like to tell you it was an easy choice.

One part of me wants my living space and my body to look absolutely stylish, but the other part revels in being able to get away with throwing on jeans and a hoody. The deciding factor in how I dress is that it takes me 15 minutes to buy jeans and hoodies for a year. If I wanted to look nice it would take up entirely more of my life than I’m willing to part with. When I’m wandering around the men’s section, all I can think about is all the vastly more important and constructive things I could be doing with my time: like…videogames…starting fires…cheese-eating competitions…you know, stuff that really helps make the world a better place.

I guess I’ll just have to marry a woman who’s willing to dress me. In the meantime, I’ll just continue to approach shopping the way married women approach sex: bored, distracted, and praying for a speedy conclusion.

Jerking-Off For Jesus

The whole goal of sex, in my humble opinion, should be the enjoyment of the other person. I mean, let’s be honest, as a man (and therefore a chronic masturbator), the whole thrill of the experience is from the other person. The fact that you don’t know what’s next and that they don’t know exactly all the right spots to hit. I mean, if the point of sex were simply to get myself off, I’d be better off doing it myself. Hey, if God didn’t want us to masturbate, he would have made our arms shorter. I’m proud to admit that I do God’s work on a regular basis.

Any man who says he doesn’t masturbate is either lying, in a relationship where sex is plentiful, or edgier than Rodney King at a Police Charity Ball. I mean once I held out for a month without doing it. If you think I’m angry and crazy now…let’s just say I went through a span of a few days where I developed an irrational hatred of the Dutch. I’m really not sure why.

One of my friends, a Muslim, maintains a “list” of places or people that he refuses to deal with. He fasts every day of Ramadan: from sunrise to sunset, no food, no liquid. The amusing part is watching his list triple in size every Ramadan.

“Did you see that waitress look at me when I ordered water??? She thinks I’m a cheapskate. Fuck her. Fuck this place!”

“Dude, she didn’t do anything.”

“No, fuck that! I’m not going to be treated like a third-class citizen! They’re on the list now. I’m never coming back!”

It’s like this just about every single night. The man has blacklisted HOSPITALS. By the end of Ramadan I’m always shocked that places exist that he hasn’t placed on his list.

Masturbation is vital to the peace and harmony of the planet. I was probably twice as crazy as my friend was when I quit masturbating. Can you imagine if all the people in the world quit?

“What the fuck did you say to me Pakistan? Fuck you! I will BOMB you, bitch!”

Do you want to know why so much of the Middle East is in turmoil? Two words: sexual frustration. Seriously, if the fundamentalists beat their dicks half as hard as they beat up on everyone else, each other, or the Jews, we could probably cut war in half.

Masturbation is the single biggest deterrent to violence, crime, and voting republican. Every time some one jerks off, it’s assured that they’re not starting a fight, stealing from the poor box, or publishing racist pamphlets. If you don’t believe me, try it yourself! I like to do it anytime I get mad and think I might punch someone. What do you do, count to ten? Ha!

So my brothers and sisters, I urge you to do the world a favor, drop your hands, close your eyes, and rub one out for God, yourself, and World Peace. Halleluiah!

Epilogue To "Six Words"

I’m really not sure how I can possibly top yesterday’s blog. I had been thinking about writing a post on that incident for a while, but decided it would be too weird. When I finally broke down and wrote it, it made for a great story…but I’m not sure how to follow that one up.

Let’s see…I guess I should answer a few questions that were posed to me, regarding the story:

1. I’m happy to report no lingering problems with my equipment. Though it took about a week before I could pee without flinching. I tell you, there’s nothing like horrible, agonizing pain and trip to the E.R. to make someone a little gun shy. All is well now, however. In fact, the whole incident had an unexpected bonus. You know those penis pills that appear all over the TV and Internet? The ones that promise to increase size? Well, they work by increasing a man’s blood flow, which in turn stretches out the ligaments. My allergic reaction caused a whole lot of blood to rush to the area. However good those pills are, I’m sure they’re not life-threatening. Meaning I experienced a growth spurt that I’m sure is not offered from any of those pills.
2. The allergic reaction was NOT caused by cheap, or bizarre, low-level condoms. A few months later I ran into a similar (though not hospitalizing) incident. It seems that a fairly large portion of the population, both men and women have the same allergy. Gives a whole new meaning to what we define as “safe sex,” doesn’t it?

Here’s an interesting side note to the story. About two months after the incident, my parents confronted me asking, “Were you in the hospital?”

“Huh?”

It seems that when they submitted me I had given my medical card which had my parent’s address on it…so naturally they sent the bill along with the results to the veneral disease tests they ran to my parents.

I love my parents, but there are few nightmares more horrifying to me than a conversation between my parents and I, which begins with:

“So I was fucking this girl until early hours of the morning. Anyway, finally when I got up to piss, I noticed how swollen my cock was.”

Yeah, given a choice between living the story and recounting it to my parents, I might have to prep the E.R. and go buy some spermicide. At any rate, I told them that I had been submitted for an allergic reaction…to sunflower seeds. Hey, it was the first thing that popped into my head!

Unfortunately, it appears that they had already gone ahead and opened the bill that hospital sent. While they didn’t contradict my story, they had definitely seen the section where the hospital had indicated all the diseases I was tested for. So now I’m fairly certain they think I was rushed to the hospital for some sort of bizarre sexual ailment. I can tell, because now they ask me about “the kind of girls I go out with” and tell me how there’s “no shame in waiting for the right girl.”

Let me explain something to you about my parents: I have never so much as smoked a joint, but my mother (who STILL smokes weed, I might add) is absolutely convinced I’m a drug-addict. Personally, I think it’s just one case of that paranoia kicking in.

At this point, my parents are convinced I’m a crack-smoking, sexual deviant. Since they never believe me anyway, I’ve given up trying to convince them otherwise, and am now thinking I might actually start fucking with them. I’m seriously considering leaving a dildo, used syringes, and a catalogue for mail-order brides in clear view on the passenger seat of my car.