Portrait of an Old White #1

16 Feb

Louis-Francois_Bertin

After a brief trip to a museum this past weekend, it has come to my attention that most galleries are filled with portraits of old whites. I’m no art critic, but I am rather well versed in Old Whites, so this revelation inspired me to develop advanced criteria in judging these paintings to the best of my abilities.

Pose – He is hunched and close lipped. He appears very sickly and has chosen for some reason to splay his hands in an uninviting manner, as if he intends to play a creepy piano piece on his knees.

Color – The most prominent use of color in this piece is of course the old white of the subject, however, due to what looks to be the early stages of jaundice, the subject takes on a slight yellow hue, which detracts from the overall piece.

Strokemanship – I have no qualms with the brushstrokes here guys. This is par for the neoclassic course, but the background color reminds me of the bland topes and off whites used in some yearbook photos. In fact, this painting might very well represent that. One can easily imagine a disgruntled and jowly professor of metallurgy limping into a stale classroom and demanding everyone turn to page 22 of their textbooks.

Grade A+ While one may find technical holes in this piece, or even say it lacks inspiration or a certain je ne sais quoi, the very important fact remains that the subject is an old white, and everyone can see that.

Rivets and Reservations

28 Oct

magic castle

Magic is meant to inspire awe. It should suspend your disbelief and make you question all that is true in the world. At the Magic Castle in Hollywood they achieve these results in stupefying fashion. I’m rendered speechless not by any sleight of hand, but rather a wardrobe slight from one of the most inept managers upholding the silliest dress code ever created.

One must be invited by a member of the castle to enjoy the entertainment. This part of the journey is almost charming if you consider e-mailing random magicians and pretending to have seen their act in order to get an invite a good use of your time. I finally secure an invite through a friend of a friend and set up the date.

magicianThe evening is a surprise for my lady who mentioned in passing months earlier she wanted to go really badly. (Shout out to myself for remembering that) We arrive early at the valet. I take one step out of the car and the valet asks if I have read the dress code. I am confused because I’m dressed like a motherfucking GQ model, I reply yes; in fact I read it twice. He cringes and says I cannot come in dressed like that. Dressed like what? The poster boy for welldressedman.com? No, he informs me they will not be able to accept my pants. I am unaware my pants sent in an application, but just to clarify why will my pants not be accepted here? Here is a brief excerpt of how the next 5 minutes went.

On the left.

On the left.

“Well sir, they are denim-like.”

“What? But they aren’t denim.”

“Yes, but they are denim-like. They have rivets”

“What did you just say to me?”

He gets the manager who comes out and also informs me my pants will not be accepted.

“I am sorry to inform you we cannot accept your pants. They are denim-like.”

“But they aren’t denim! They are cotton twill. It’s a completely different weave! I don’t understand what the problem is?”

“Well they have rivets.”

“If one more person says fucking rivets…”

I look over at my date, she can see things are getting out of hand, and to be honest if she was not with me I would have told the guy to fuck off and left. There is nowhere in the dress code that states pants can’t have rivets. Have a look for yourself. There is, however, a few things that they do accept that I think will give you a good idea of what kind of institution this place is.

DRESS CODE FOR EVENING GUESTS:

MEN:

  • Think business attire.
  • Men must be in coat and tie (standard or bow tie)
  • Exceptions to the “tie rule” are: turtlenecks (that can be folded over), bolo ties, ascots, jeweled collars, ruffled collars and banded collars.
  • Military Dress (no fatigues), ethnic and/or religious attire will also be allowed.
  • No zippered jackets, outdoor jackets, polo shirts, t-shirts, denim (or colored denim), shorts, sandals, flip flops, sneakers or sneaker-like shoes are allowed.
  • Leather jackets (with buttons) and leather pants are allowed.
  • No casual attire will be allowed.

turtleneckTwo very important things to note on this list: Turtlenecks (that can be folded over) and leather jackets (with buttons) and leather pants ARE allowed, but god forbid your H&M twill pants have a couple rivets on them so help you Jesus and the divine power! I repeat. TURTLENECKS….THEN IN PARENTHESIS (THAT CAN BE FOLDED OVER!) End of discussion.

After calming down a tad, I ask what the solution is. He first displays a bit of competence and says he will go check if there are some pants I can borrow. Fine. This kind gesture is quickly destroyed when he comes back out and tells me in a sarcastic tone that they need to be taken to the cleaners because, “You don’t even want to know what happened to them.” Did someone shit in them? It’s shit isn’t it? No? Can I put them on past my knees? Then let me in to this goddamn castle!

soiled pantsHis second managerial gem is to suggest I go back home and change pants. It’s 6 pm in LA on a weekday. Kindly go fuck yourself. The final solution is to go to H&M down the road and buy new pants. I swallowed my pride like a porn star and set off to buy a new pair, while my date waits inside.

I lumber down the hill in my suit, neck sweat on full blast when I get a call from my girl. They don’t have my reservation for dinner. After some guidance on my part and some master sleuthing on his behalf, he determines the reservation is under my name. Yes, of course it is….I don’t even know what to say to that. That’s not the first name you check? I ask if I may return to my quest to buy new pants. He assures me we are on for the 8 PM dinner and show. Wonderful.

fatpantsI will give everybody one guess what happens when I get to the H&M. They only have denim pants in the entire store, riveted up the wazoo. I almost collapse in frustration, but keep it together long enough to ask the salesmen if I can buy his slacks. He contemplates calling the police, but ultimately mentions that they may have one pair by the mannequin. I slowly walk over to the pale hipster and find a pair of black dress pants discarded by the window. I pray to Hedi Slimane I can at least pull them up around my formidable thighs. 34/32’s. They won’t zip up, but they will do just fine for a night of magic.

I return to the Magic Castle with my mismatched dress slacks, a sweaty mess with my evil no good cotton twill denim-like riveted pants in hand. I lock them in my car and finally enter the hallowed mansion. After one beer my anger subsides and I enjoy the night of talented magicians. Despite the hoop jumping, I will be back, and when I do I will be in a bedazzled tuxedo with rivets, and a turtleneck that doesn’t fold over.

We Drink From the Head. We Are One. Consume.

17 Sep

After Pat badly shanked his dirty Callahan 4 into the shrubs for what he swore was the last time, he proclaimed two things: One, he was rusty. He quickly qualified his first statement by adding the reason for his severe slices were the two weeks he spent in Reno. Pat attended a rib and BBQ festival in addition to taking his boat on various Nevada lakes. We were about halfway thru 18 holes and conversation had been strictly reserved for cussing at your ball, swearing at the pock marked greens, and eternally damning your irons. I found this an appropriate time to chime in and relate to my sweaty, foul-mouthed friend.

fat golfer

“You know I was in Reno as well, I went to Burning Man.”

“What!? What did you do that for? Burning Man is just one big orgy, that’s all.”

“Have you been?” I asked.

“Hell no.”

“Well you know it’s not JUST an orgy right?

Pat dropped another ball he found in the ditch and put his formidable pudge behind his approach shot. As he waddled back to his cart, cursing how hot it was, he muttered, “Well, if it ain’t an orgy, what is it then!?”

packed truck  Surveying the contents of my two packed bags, one might assume a long-weekend camping trip to Joshua Tree. Take a step back, however, and you begin to admire the menagerie tightly trucker knotted into the bed of the rented Dodge Ram 1500. 40 pre-made burritos, 70 gallons of water, glow sticks, oriental rugs and drop crotch pants, and that’s just one section of the truck. I felt like I was preparing for an earthquake at a Deadmau5 show in Abu Dhabi.

In the weeks leading up to Burning Man, my friends who had been seemed more concerned with how many wacky clothes and Middle Eastern themed chotchkies I could get my hands on, after all this year’s theme was Caravansaryingaarny… Those who had never been seemed more worried about my survival, general well being and if I would come back a changed man, like in the irreparable mental damage kind of way. I found myself defending Burning Man before I even stepped foot on the playa. Pat and everyone else like him thought they had it all figured out. Drugs, orgies and taking uncomfortable poops in unfavorable conditions, and they’re right! But it’s so much more.

man writing in journal  I came to Burning Man armed with three freshly purchased moleskins in hopes of dazzling myself and others by carving out some kind of important meaning from all this desert debauchery. I left with only two pages filled. One page had a crude drawing of a lizard man sticking out his razor sharp tongue at the sun, and the other was just a bullet point list, which stated the following:

  • Robot Heart Sunrise
  • Red Sun from Abayoyo as Skydivers fall
  • Giant Hummus, I mean Hammock
  • Dream Recorder
  • Dead Guy in Ball Pit
  • Talking to God and Timeshares in Jacksonville
  • Honk Music
  • Trash Fence No Water!
  • Jumanji Bowling Team
  • Thin D Collective Dust Tours
  • Drugs Have a Reason/Embrace Burn
  • LED Balls, Gotta Collect ‘Em All
  • Center Camp Zombies
  • That Damn Octopus and Those Frickin’ Teacups
  • Consume!

Those who have been may share similar tales, but more likely they have a completely different list of bullet points. My notebook’s pages stayed relatively empty because going into Burning Man looking for meaning or some transformative experience is a bit like fishing out a small piece of cracked eggshell from a bowl of yolk. I prefer to look at Burning Man like a Madlib where various part-time authors come together for one week every year to write a very silly story together.

embrace burn  The playa still carries some “default” world annoyances like lines, theft etc… but the beautiful aspects of humanity tend to shine thru more brightly. Where else do 30,000 people stand in voluntary silence and watch an intricately designed temple twist and burn in the desert dusk? Where else can you bicycle block by block and be met with genuine smiles and thought provoking conversations that aren’t some screenwriter’s utopian view of the future? Most importantly, where can the Pat’s of the world camp next to a group sex geodesic dome, and never step foot inside but still have an amazing time?

As we turned in our carts to the pro shop and started to put away our clubs it occurred to me I never gave Pat an answer. It would be difficult to convince him of all the amazing experiences that await him and anyone who chooses to make the brave journey in the little time I had left. Pat closed the mammoth door to his truck, and thru the cracked window I blurted, “ You’re right Pat. It is an orgy, but there are ribs too.”

Male Wedding Planner

6 Aug

No Squares in the Cocaine Room

28 Jul

imagesThe first 5 minutes at a house party where you don’t know anyone are crucial. You want to choose a smile that conveys a warm, non-threatening nature while maintaining a certain edge, which lets people know you are a mysterious sex machine. I often botch this look and produce an undesirable result, something in between medicated and the forced smile you use watching your friend in a terrible play. Despite my facial blunders, I still carry enough confidence from years of house partying to navigate with authority. You may catch me euro two stepping in the living room asking a girl what her go-to move is. Or maybe I’m in the kitchen, whipping up a terrible cocktail talking sport with the resident bro. I may even brazenly strike upstairs to use the host’s private bathroom. With all my bravado one might assume there is no party situation that fazes me. Wrong. One element of modern adult partying remains, which, can freeze, even the boldest attendee. The cocaine room.

bouncerThe door opens and shuts quickly. Pretty little creatures shuffle in and out giggling with wide eyes. You can only catch a glimpse for secrecy is paramount. Except that everyone in the fucking party knows what’s going on in that room! Yet you wouldn’t dare step foot inside without an invitation or an 8 ball. Like its exclusionary predecessors, the cocaine room creates jealousy, curiosity, and resentment and ultimately divides. Even if you don’t do drugs, you’re left to wonder what exactly is going on in there. Who is in there and why were they chosen? Clearly those with the cocaine are the prized guests, but what do you have to do, or wear or say to be one of the coke advisors that get the nod?

I’ve always found it fascinating that people, especially in the privacy of a home, are paranoid about people watching them do drugs. No one bats an eye at a dude chugging a beer, even if we know that will lead him down a dark path to becoming a drunk asshole. Often people have no problem telling you they are high once it’s in their system, but god forbid you should see them do a bump off the keys to their Honda.

seats takenI made the mistake of entering unannounced one time and it was the worst. It’s like a combination of the “seat’s taken” bus scene in Forrest Gump and the first day at your High School cafeteria. There were no Jennys with hearts of gold in this room, just attractive weirdoes who wanted me to leave.

Forgetting My Ex’s Number

23 Jul

gotyeSome day I’m going to forget my ex girlfriend’s phone number. I’m just going to wake up one morning and hit the alarm and in that moment realize that I’m not sure whether the last four digits were 7062 or 3062. This will be such an achievement, the only instance in my life where being forgetful actually helps me out.

Thanks to my iPhone, I never have to remember a goddamn thing. I only know four other peoples’ numbers off the top of my head: My mom, dad, brother, and sister. She’s the fifth. Not even family! We’re talking about some coveted brain space here which she has no right to occupy. I mean I deleted that girl off my phone over three years ago to make a statement – I want that coveted brain space back – a new number for that fifth spot. There are so many better numbers for me to have memorized: my license plate, my buddy Matt, 20 digits of pi, that bomb Ramen restaurant for takeout or how about ANY of my credit cards! I’d even settle for that stupid three digit security code on the back of my visa card that I can never ever ever trust myself to get right.

numbersHer phone number isn’t even easy to remember! It’s got no flow, no repetition, no character, no gravitas. It’s fucking boring, obnoxious really. As opposed to my number, which has a double repeat and closes with double zeros. My number rocks, tons of people know it. And yeah I know it’s sounding like I’m not over this girl, I know it appears to be leaning that way but I am. It’s just some of my brain synapses apparently aren’t and it’s pissing me off.

Seriously I can’t wait for that forgetful morning, and also for those dreams to go away. The dreams where I’m supposed to meet her *and* my current girlfriend in a restaurant then I start panicking because they’re going to know that I double booked them and then I wake up. Grow up brain! You’re supposed to help me out here, not offer up dreams with clear interpretations for my life. Stop pulling this crap.

ramenLast week I was filling out forms for my car insurance company – I had to walk all the way downstairs and out to my garage to double-check my license plate number. It was really hot outside. Look I don’t want to forget we were ever together, it’s just there’s more useful things for my brain to be focusing on. I know I can’t potentially fuck my credit card number when we both run into each other at a mutual friend’s birthday, but it’d be nice not to have to pull out my wallet to read off my security code every time I order delivery from Silverlake ramen.

Classes I Should Have Taken

4 Mar

college jeapordyRecently I watched a college edition of Jeopardy. Everyone knows College Jeopardy is for pussies, but we all need victories no matter how petty, so I made sure the idiot from Dartmouth heard my condescending screams thru the TV. I performed admirably, but as the three awkward students shook Trebek’s hand at the end of the game I was left to wonder; how smart am I? It’s a hard thing to measure in your adult life. I’m not in class anymore, there are no scantrons or blue books to test what knowledge I do have, and to be honest some days I wonder if the information I learn is really all that important.

am i smart?If I wanted to impress you I would sit you down and tell you all about the spread of Islam, specifically how it related to Spain’s early history and how there was a beautiful yet controversial period called the convivencia in which Jews, Muslims and Christians all lived together in relative harmony until the crusades, church and the reconquista squashed it all. I could confidently mumble my way through the definition of what a quasar is, and might even be able to tell you what Boo Radley really represents in To Kill a Mockingbird. These are facts and theories that are not my own that I can spit out at a moments notice. When repeated properly to a willing audience, they provide a thin veneer of what many of us consider to be education and intelligence. I, however, am not so sure of this.

college andyI graduated from a 4-year institution with modest accolades. I never pushed myself too hard, nor did I allow myself to fall behind. Let me be clear before I continue that I would not trade those 4 years for anything (maybe a jetpack with unlimited fuel) because I met the most amazing people and had unforgettable experiences. Some would argue that socialization, learning how to behave in a pack, and thus becoming a quality citizen is the true objective of College, and if that is the case then College was a great success for me. I am more concerned with the education we receive from 4-year institutions in the U.S. and specifically the classes we are offered.

My sophomore year I chose to take a class called Earth Science and the Cinema. Yes, you read that correctly. We would watch clips of popular disaster movies like Twister, Armageddon and Deep Impact and then do simple math problems to prove why these disasters as portrayed in the movies would never happen that way. It satisfied my quantitative requirement as well as my penchant for shitty disaster movies. It was all very funny back then, and in many ways still is, but it’s also very sad. It’s sad students had the option to waste 6 weeks like this, it’s sad the university wasn’t more creative or progressive in their offerings, and in times of intellectual doubt, and we all have those times, I can’t help but think back to Earth Science and the Cinema and wonder what the hell I was doing.

college burYou can point to many reasons why these problems exist. Institutional bureaucracy is hard to deal with. Things don’t change with the snap of a finger. For me, College came too early. I wasn’t ready to be smart and seek out my own education. Maybe I would have been better served taking time off and traveling or working, or completing my general education requirements at a community college for a fraction of the cost. I chose to major in history early on because it was the class I didn’t fall asleep in during high school. Many other students pick their classes based on their friends, sleep and or drinking schedules. These choices don’t matter a whole lot when you exist within the colligate bubble, but what problems do they potentially create once you graduate? I may not want to trade those 4 years I spent for anything, but if I were creating classes to best aid students in “the real world,” I would do things a little different. The following is a mock syllabus of a course I’d like to call #Realworldshit (You know, to appeal to the youth or whatever).

Week 1 – Graphic Design

• A skill that allows you to call yourself an artist while getting paid? Awesome. Sometimes the freelance life can be stressful, but as long as there are movies, concerts, companies, ads etc… Graphic designers will be in demand. Go torrent Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop and lets get started.

Week 2- Web Design

• Similar to week 1, but this week will focus on HTML, basic coding and maybe some looks into Ruby design and app development. Kids are on their phone and apps all the time; let’s make their appsurd ideas a reality.

Week 3 – Tax Returns and The IRS

• These guys aren’t just bad guys and assholes in movies? What!? Yup, they exist and want your W-2’s, A-1’s, and G-6’s. I made up the last two, but maybe you don’t know that I did. Some basic financial knowledge goes a long way.

Week 4 – Car Maintenance

• You don’t need to be a grease monkey, but checking your own oil, jumping your car and changing a tire are all things you should have in your carsenal (sorry). Plus girls get super wet when you can do car things.

Week 5 – Actually Learn A Language

• Juan and Pablo sit at a café: Juan: Hola Pablo, como estas?—Eff this shit. You will never learn anything this way. I think studying abroad should be mandatory. It’s the best way to learn a language, learn about yourself and meet hot foreign people in the process.

Week 6 – Ping Pong

• It’s just a great game.

grad with debtMaybe one week for each of these is too short, maybe they deserve their own semesters, or even majors, but I can guarantee the world at large does not care how many times you can use the word ‘hegemony’ in a sentence. There is no premium placed on the general knowledge of anything, in fact, life can be quite specific and often rewards those who seek out its niches. We need to take responsibility for our education. I still don’t know whether I am smart, but I know damn well I don’t crush at Jeopardy because I took Earth Science and the Cinema.

Are Millenials Shitheads or Just Kinda Alright?

13 Feb

It seems like every month a new article comes out in a high profile publication either taking a huge crap on my generation or taking a smaller, more polite crap while at the same time reassuring our parents that we’ll get it together soon.

time millenialThe NY Times fired two shots, “Millennial Searchers” and “Embracing the Millenials Mindset at Work,” wherein the latter essentially paints us as a bunch of over-educated, under qualified status seekers who need constant encouragement, gold stars and magical hand jobs from unicorns to be useful employees. Slate asks, “Why can’t Millenials Grow Up?” The Atlantic wants to know, if Millenials are the “Greatest Generation or the Most Narcissistic?” And even Buzzfeed, that never ending nonsense machine churns out their shitty opinion in Pulitzer prize winning pieces like,”19 facts we learned about Millenials in 2013“

student millenialsTo my knowledge, none of the authors of these pieces are in my age group, which is evident in the length and detail of each article. (Don’t they know we got ADD and only watch the YouTubes!?) They give us gaudy statistics, colorful pie charts, and interview disappointed millenials who studied for too long and now find themselves stuck in entry level jobs paying off heaps of debt. Boo fucking hoo. I’m never sure what the point of any of these articles is. Life is sad and frustrating, but there is hope? We’re terrible, ungrateful shitgoats who should respect our elders and go die in a corner somewhere? No wait, we are insightful, emotionally intelligent, tech savvy dreamers who hold the key to the future if somehow we could just get out of our parent’s basement? Thanks 50 year old journalist mom of two, without your intensely accurate analysis of what it’s like to be a fledgling 20 something, how would anyone ever know how to interact with us? I get it; we’re a real mixed bag,

need a job meillenialThere is nothing inherently bad about our generation; we are merely products of our surroundings. If Tinder was around in the early 20th century, your grandfather would have never gone off to be a war hero, he would be in his Model T trying to get fresh with Eloise May or whatever girls were named back then. Hemingway would be the most subscribed to YouTuber as he belligerently vlogged his tales of bravery and breast fondling. None of us are going to write the next great American novel or build miles of interstate to connect the country, but we might create an app that makes it safer to send dick and titty pics and get offered a billion dollars for it.

Hello MillenialIt’s hard to blame us for being ambitious yet distracted when faced with these realities. Our successes and failures cannot be measured in the same way as previous generations, but I assure you older folks and self-deprecating millenials that cool shit is happening. You may not achieve all you want as quickly as it takes to swipe to your next match on Tinder, but ideas are important. The founder of SnapChat was laughed at for his idea at Stanford Business School, but he charged forward and followed through. I don’t think it will alter history, but it altered his life, made an impact on people and realized a dream of his, which is all we can really hope for. I don’t necessarily want you to make an app, but we all have great ideas that go to waste. Kindly forget the naysayers, charge forward and follow through. You may be shitheads to them, but you’re all right with me.

Early Bird Gets the Sex

5 Feb

early birdIt’s 2:15 AM. You double click your keys to unlock your modest midsize sedan. You try to focus your vision thru the slightly fogged windshield. Your last call whiskey soda put you .05 over the legal limit. A date, lover, girlfriend, hussy plops into the passenger seat and tells you to turn on the heat. You are holding in farts.

You arrive at her two-bedroom apartment. You wonder if her roommate is finer than her. It’s quarter to 3 because parking is terrible. Her living area smells of pomelo and citrus, but don’t second-guess why you know this. Her room is surprisingly messy. Everything you thought about girls being cleaner than guys is an illusion now. You kiss her. You have to poop.

In her most seductive voice, she asks you to fuck her. You hold in a burp as the night’s dinner is still clashing with the Jameson and IPA. You silently oblige, and unhook your belt, while you take one last look over at the nightstand. 3:30 AM. You tell your insides to shut the hell up and cooperate. You imagine your dick as Thor, conqueror of women and worlds, able to shoot lightning from its tip and render mortals and gossips speechless. Your abs hurt from clenching.

hot duvetShe falls asleep because it is her bed and she is in familiar territory. You are overheating because she has a duvet cover and too many pillows. You try to stick one leg out in an attempt to counter balance the temperature, but alas the covers are too well insulated. You drift in and out of consciousness, stomach still unsettled, your arm trapped under her dead weight. Big spoon problems.

At first light, you sneak out to the adjacent bathroom. You hope for a fan, if there is no fan or it’s not loud enough, you put on Two Chainz Pandora radio at mid to high volume to mask the trombonery. You aim for speed, but without the velocity to stain porcelain. It is uncomfortable and the reading material is sub-par. You wonder why you held it for so long. As you put back on your clothes and tell her goodbye, you start to question many things.

On the car ride home you think how much easier it would have been to just take a crap at her apartment and then resumed activity. You wonder why it’s so taboo to poo. You also consider not staying out until closing time, which not only cuts down on drink costs, but also maximizes energy and agility. You wonder if you are getting lame or smart. You decide it’s a combination of the two and happily accept your fate.

Between Beer Pong and Babies

13 Jan

It’s hard to party in your late 20’s. You’re too old for clubs, too tired from work, and too bored for bars. House parties would be fun if more people danced, and dinner parties would be awesome if there weren’t babies there. Yes, human babies. This is starting to happen in my life and I’m not down.

Babies are the new age beer pong. They are both the unnecessary focal point of a party. Beer pong in the wrong hands, and in the wrong environment is poison. The game has a bro tractor beam, which would be great if all the terrible people at a party were somehow sucked into vortex and rendered speechless the rest of the night, but this is not the case. Good people are sucked into the vortex as well, and so they stand there with hands in pockets muttering, “who’s got next?” The competitors at the table are a complete mess and are elevated to momentary celebrity status as the pong-less peasants hang on their every word, “Lemme get a re-rack bitch!” Lolz. Classic.

beer pongBabies are harder to hate so passionately. They can sometimes be funny for like a minute. Otherwise, they are the worst guests ever. They cry, scream, slobber and fall asleep everywhere. Imagine you invite an adult to your house, and he or she shows up crying, spits everywhere on your floor, makes a couple incomprehensible noises while flailing his limbs and then passes out. You might laugh for a second, but ultimately I would hope you call 911 and never talk to them again. You would ask this person to leave, and so I am asking babies to kindly leave.

babyBabies are also huge cockblocks. Everything they do in public is applauded and cheered. They are the party show-off you can’t call a dick, cause everyone will call you a dick for calling a baby a dick. Baby dick. There is no competing and it frustrates me to no end.

So I remain in purgatory. I’m too cripplingly self-aware to throw balls in cups of shitty beer, and too immature to start a family, but I still want to party. If you are ever bored, shoot me a text sometime and we can kick it in limbo together until our moms tell us they really, really want grandkids.