20nothing.com

I do not have a domesticated cell in my entire body. In fact, I would not be surprised to find the molecules which make up my physical body are completely disorganized and basically thrown into a formation like dirty-laundry-under-bed.
My mother tried, oh how she tried, to make me give a shit. Throughout my entire adolescence she threatened to “take away privileges” or “not drive me to school” if my room was unclean.
“Then it looks like I’m not going to school today, doesn’t it?”
It seemed to me then, and still does now, that becoming a grown up who Gives A Shit was a punishment and so instead of unpacking the dishwasher for my allowance, I studied the virtue of staying a child forever. Said mother hopes that, pretty soon, I will finally graduate from the PhDrunk.
When I packed my backpack with all my belongings (shoes and a puppet) and jetted off to my own apartment in LA, I was suddenly in a position of having work out how to be one of those domesticated adult things.
“How does one mop a floor?” I asked Mother over Skype one day.
“How does a girl who graduated from three university degrees not know how to do the simple things in life?”
She is right and it was a keen observation. I could write you a philosophy thesis in about nine hours so long as Jack Daniels is in the room. But finding out colors and whites need to be separated for laundry was, like, a scientific discovery for me in the vein of Big Bang Theory.

It is said that our personalities are established in the first ten years of life, which fucking terrifies me. I can’t imagine what I was doing from infancy to tween for “this” to be the end result.
By the time I had reached of-adult-age, my ten year old self was stubbornly in place and the date listed on my birth certificate had absolutely no influence in the decisions I made. And it still doesn’t. Other people went out and got jobs/bought houses/got married/adopted a cat. I enrolled in a university degree and again/and again/and made it my mission to only sleep with boys who have a totally different letter after their generation. Yes, life is great, thanks for asking.

The day I moved into my own apartment, I had to go to Target and buy a pillow to save me from sleeping on just a mattress. I had nothing and did not prepare anything else because I had no idea what to expect. I just figured that I would work it out and within the week own a couch, dinning table, microwave and bar (OK, so I knew enough to know that every house should have one of those to make it a home). A week later, it was still just me, the pillow, the shoes and the puppet.
“You’re going to need something to sit on,” my mother coaxed me.
She was right and it was a keen observation, so one particularly hungover Saturday, I laid on my pillow and Goggled “beanbags” for five hours.
About a week later, two boxes arrived from BeanBagsRUs.com or whatever it was I had StumbledUpon. I unpacked them and was met with two raisin-esque black things that did not look like something I would need to ever sit on.
“I’ll deal with it later,” I thought and went back to sitting on the kitchen counter with my laptop and scotch, working.
I looked over to the beanbags in between sips and realized that they were expanding at a speed similar to Heidi Montag’s bust line. By the end of my work day/scotch bottle, my entire lounge room was filled with Beanbag.
“Oh, this is awkward,” I admitted as a sat on the only space left available. The toilet.

But after a shaky start, the beanbags became the loves of my life, the pride of the studio and the most expansive part of my life objective. Which does make me feel bad for admitting, because while I do love the toaster oven, but it just does not provide me with the same sustenance as the beanbags do.
“I need to have sex on one of those,” I have told any guest who has come into my apartment and, for some reason, still wonder why my neighbors hate me.
It was an added bonus and total coincidence, really, that one of the bags looked like something bought at Pleasure Chest and had the perfect dimensions for [my favorite position].
I always declared I would get a couch eventually, but figured it would be a long time in the future when I worked out where they are sold, someone gifted me one or similar. My fear, really, was that acquiring a couch would mean that I, suddenly, gave a shit and had succumbed to being an adult.
So when I was interrupted while actually working (writing, not fucking) on the biggest beanbag and offered a neighbors couch, I had a moment of panic. It was kind of like when Neo has to decide which pill to take. If I took the couch, everything as I knew it would change and no longer exist. I must remember to tell my mother that chairs aren’t just things one sits their ass on. They are also glorified existential crises’. Filled with beans.
The issue, for me, was that the big beanbag would have to go in a “It’s not me, it’s you” manner. I felt like a cold hearted bitch for just abandoning something that had been so kind to me. Seriously, “My goal in life is to have sex on my beanbag” is the worlds greatest pick-up line with a ninety percent success rate. Try it. In fact, if you need a beanbag, I am giving one away…

“My goal in life is to have sex on my couch,” just does not have the same ring to it.
It’s like, “OK, sweetheart, do you want some vanilla to add to that exceptionally boring life you lead?”
There is nothing exotic about an erotic session on a couch. I’ve had sex on a couch before. I have sex on millions of couches before. Pfft, I’ve probably had sex on yours. But, because I am a big kid now, I have to get used to what it is like trying seduce someone without the aid of a beanbag. It sucks. I was only just getting my head around seducing people who aren’t students and who have adult lives. I think I was right. Being a grownup majorly sucks.
However, as I do love a challenge, I accepted the couch and all the responsibility that comes with it. I am yet to find any success but, I figure, someone in the world will like it.
So…umm….this is awkward…Do you want to have sex on a couch?

I can read maps but I can’t read calendars. It steams from, basically, the reality that my life is one big Saturday and I just don’t need to look at the days on a daily basis.
I do my work on God’s day and I drink scotch for breakfast if I feel like it and, somehow, it all balances out and I get to the dentist on time when I need to go. Planners are not for people like me.
There is a book in existence called, “Why Women Can’t Read Maps & Men Can’t Ask For Directions”, which, admittedly, sounds like the sequel to The Karma Sutra but is supposedly a sociological and biological look at male and female habits. I, obviously, didn’t pay too much attention to it because I can use GPS to get Us to a bar and I have met many a boy who has asked for directions straight out my door. I have no idea what the author managed to fill the other three hundred pages with.
Calendars are, definitely, my struggle but I am not too proud to say that I have no idea or care for how many days each month has. And I have no intention of finding out because it is a nice little surprise when I hear “It is the 31st!”. To me, that is a rarity and, I think, only happens once every four years. Or so.
An ignorance to dates, incidentally, also works in maintaining my goal age of twenty-one. As far as I am concerned, that is exactly how old I am down to the hour.

Once upon a time I can’t recall, I was sleeping with a guy who would respond to my Booty Texts at really odd hours.
While drunk I would write something brilliantly witty like, “kwj klsjd mvsi jskdf,” and hope like Hell he understood what I meant. Always, the next day, he would respond, “Are you still up for it?” at any time between when I awoke to when I retired for nap time – which I have been told is between the hours of eleven AM and twelve thirty PM.
“Um, no. I am in Whole Foods,” I would respond. “Next time?”
Eventually we both ran out of time so there was no next time and I had to concede we were not meant to be together because we would never be horny in the same place at the same time. Admittedly, I occasionally thought of ditching my organic dino nuggets and sprinting home to shot some bourbon and then respond but, basically, I could never be bothered as I may be the one person in the world who is not turned on while in a grocery store.
As much as I love sex, it is a rarity that I am excited for it in the middle of the day, unless I am working. Because that means I am never up for sex in the middle of the day, the times when it happens I have to wonder what magic was wielded for someone to get me naked when I, really, should be doing something productive like watching “Seinfeld” or plotting my plans to take over North Korea.

My Girl Friend recently enjoyed a Tuesday afternoon sexvitation and I was shocked. I had no “Tuesday” really existed.
“He just drove over on his way home from work,” she told me.
“Work?”
“This thing that grown-ups do…I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
I gathered that after leaving some kind of building, he got in his car, drove to her house, took off his clothes and did what most people go to a bar to try and achieve.
“That is brilliant!” I admitted. “I need to get me some of that!”
Suddenly, my life became about days, not Saturday’s, and I was fixated on the idea of having sex at a time when people were doing other things, like pottery or Sudoko. Admittedly, it meant that I no longer had time to go out and get dino nuggets, but, like, we all make sacrifices to achieve our goals.
When I then realized that I was invited to have sex at 10.45 on a Tuesday morning I was excited because, usually, I have cigarettes for breakfast so I felt very adventurous for my willingness to try something else on the menu.
To many college students, such a time frame is not unusual, sure. But, even when I was studying, I had absolutely no regard for clocks and would sit in the library until my pajamas started to smell and I knew it was time to leave, shower and then return for more mental masturbation with Plato.

When you’re wasted, in a bar, in the early hours of the afternoon/evening/night/morning, it is very easy to bring up sex.
“So, do you want to fuck?”
But when you have just finished eating Corn Flakes and “Ellen” still hasn’t finished her weekly morning time slot, it is a lot harder.
“So, do you want to fuck?” sounds like the most wrong thing you can say when birds are still chirping outside your window. You have to get creative. Which is hard. Because the someone special may not be so keen if He sees that you put bourbon on aforementioned cereal.
I found myself blabbering on about politics, philosophy and religion, which, really, just took me back to the days of library pajama dates with dead Greek men, and that wasn’t even hot the first time.
“This is something to remember,” I said to myself. “And you really must start studying the art of mid-morning seduction instead of studying George Castanza. If you ever want to get laid again, of course.”

I always thought that I was spontaneous because I didn’t wear a watch. But it turns out, I read that wrong. It is a weird feeling to realize that you are actually obsessed with time based on when you have sex. It makes grocery shopping a really, really hard chore to complete.
As someone who has frequently eaten pizza for breakfast and Rice Bubbles for dinner purely out of laziness, it did feel productive to put in the effort and have sex in the morning. It made me wonder why no one has, actually, written a book about such virtues. Because, just like so many other things, I found that sex at the beginning of the day is better. And the waking hours much more bearable.
I always wondered what it would take to turn me into a morning person.

There are some people on this planet who are different to you and me. They are practically from another planet. They are an aberration of nature. They should be put in a test tube and studied.
You know the type I am referring to, right?
Yes, exactly – Them.
Those people who wear white and don’t spill on it. Those people who actually do their hair in the morning and by nine o’clock at night still look so amazing, all they have to do is change into high heels to be restaurant-ready. Those people who look like they were made by Mattel.
I don’t like those people. I fucking despise them.
And, after many years of attempting, have finally come to terms with the fact I will never join their ranks and be one of them. So, if nothing else, it means I will never truly resent myself.
I have tried everything. I tried not wearing white. That didn’t work. Scotch stains show up on other colors too, even black. I tried brushing my hair but felt indignant of the two hours of my life I will never get back as a result. And I tried to walk like an ironing board, save actually buying one, but my clothes still looked like I had rolled out of a gutter and straight into a job interview.
I don’t know how Those People do it. The best answer I have thought up, via many hours spent theorizing while trying to untangle my laundry to find a white shirt with no evidence of bleach, is that they are the aliens walking among us. Because, lets be real, they can’t possibly be human. No fucking way.
You show me someone who doesn’t spill their breakfast scotch and I will show you a Martian.

You can tell a lot about a person by the clothes they wear.
For example, I live in a building with a communal washer and dryer, and one day I had to remove a neighbors load to start my own. While taking T-shirts and jeans out of the washer, I was met with bondage outfits. Some assless chaps, a a studded neck band, you know the drill(?). I found out everything I needed to know about Him and decided it would be in my favor to start going to a laundromat. Or just not doing laundry in general. Whatever was easier.
When I was little, I would find outfits I loved to wear and then refuse to take them off for days and never want them washed. My dad would always say, “Hygiene is not just a tall girl,” and force me to bathe. As an adult, my own laundry is, basically, the physicalization of my own life. Messy and a pile of shit in the corner.
I take comfort not in the pile of jeans on my floor, but in the fact that my inability to look like a functioning human being started when I was knee high to a stiletto boot.
I was born with it.

As I have aged (physically more than mentally) I have become a little better at managing my appearance. Which is good, I think. I now bathe daily, for example, and on my own accord. Coinciding with this is an increasing want to cleanse my actual life (that thing which exists outside of my lipgloss shade). It is maturity – it won’t happen overnight, but it will happen – that motivates such.
I figure, if I can’t look like I don’t spill all over my shirt, I can at least look like I don’t shit all over my life. When I was younger (both physically and mentally), I justified other peoples behavior and bad character traits by focusing on the few good ones evidenced (see, ex-boyfriends, extended family, other peoples children). But now? Well, there may be knots in my unbrushed hair but my Blackberry contacts list is fucking silky smooth.

Recently, my life has been messy and I have not been able to work out why.
At first, I thought it was because I have an inability (and lack of utensils) to sweep my lounge room floor. But, then, I thought more about it and realized that I had clogged my life with people I don’t really like, as if my existence was just like my pores.
“This has to change!” I said to myself during a rare mirror encounter.
I decided to be Proactive and cleans both my face and mind and everything wrong with both. Blackheads and dickheads had to go.
Obviously, I started with people first. They are easier to get rid of. Ever tried to eradicate blackheads from the crevasse within your nose? Sucks, doesn’t it? Deleting a phone number is a much better feeling of release and liberation.
If any small children I know, albeit very distantly and/or randomly, had Blackberry’s, iPhones of Facebook accounts, I would have started my mission with them. Because I really don’t like children. In a way, I felt like Slobodan Milosevic or Hitler because I was being very ruthless in my deleting of acquaintances and was willing to cut out woman and baby thing. But since the baby friends don’t have BBM, I had to ignore their existence completely (OK!) and move on to the people I dislike because they actually do affect my life is some way. Friends and acquaintances (“people I have seen naked”, whatever you want to call them) who no longer brought joy to or highlighted my world had to, basically, leave it. I deleted numbers like they were going out of style. I felt like Linda Evangelista.

It is weird to me that we spend so much time focusing on our outward appearance but very little time beautifying our actual life. For example, one can get botox, a boob job or become a brunette within a matter of hours. I could, literally, open my outlined eyes and see a totally new reflection in a mirror just by writing a check. But no one can do that with the inside and there is not yet a way to get a new liver or, instantly, a new personality.
Human beings tend to work from the outside in, which is sad, really. Because, as I recently discovered, it is much more liberating to concentrate on the real you – what is really on the inside – so that the outside is seen by people who understand it and think it beautiful no matter what the imperfection.
Sure, we still attempt to hind blemishes like we try to forget mistakes, but the superficial aspect of life has so much more meaning if the meaningful is considered first. Just like the scotch stain is easy to disguise if you turn the white shirt inside out.

My landlord replaced my refrigerator and I was really excited about it, which terrified me. It meant I was either growing up or totally giving up on life, both horrible options.
I called Landlord one morning after opening my freezer and finding all of my Dino Nuggets totally frozen over, making my kitchen appear as a to-scale recreation of the Ice Age, complete with fossilized Brontosauruses. He arrived at my apartment, took one look at the fridge (contents: dino nuggets, four different kinds of cheese, diet coke, chocolate in the shape of a frog) and concluded that it would just be easier to replace the bastard instead of trying to fix anything.
“I like your decorations,” he said, looking to my bar of empty scotch bottles that sit above my sink. I put them there to remind myself that there is good in the world every time I want to kill myself while doing the dishes.
“Thank you.”
“Do you ever have any that are full?”
I gave him a chocolate frog and sent him on his way.

Airlines claim that adulthood starts at the age of twelve. This excited me greatly when I was a tween, as it meant that I could finally emancipate myself from the clutches of my parents, jump on an airplane and go climb trees in a totally exotic locale.
Unfortunately, however, the reality was not as romantic as United Airlines made it out to be, and even as an “adult” I still needed my parents permission to travel. And their money to pay for the ticket. Basically, I was only classed as a mature member of society when it came time to pay the bill.
Which is ironic. Because every other bill my parents have had to pay for me stems from my inability to grow up.
Now, when I travel, thirteen years into my flying adulthood, I don’t even try to hide the fact that I would prefer to be climbing trees and dressing my Barbie Doll like a total slut before taking her to the playground. I get drunk and revert back to infancy by crying because I am hungry and contemplate the logistics of peeing myself save going to the airplane bathroom.
They are just so far away, you know?

If I had a dollar for every time I was suffering from jet lag and decided to get drunk, I would be able to pay for my own airline ticket.
I tell my parents this whenever they enquire into the possibility of me getting a real job.
“Um, I have one, duh.”
“Alcoholic is not a registered profession.”
“But imagine if it was! There could be a union and everything!”
When I arrived back in Los Angeles in May, I was exhausted after an epic Ben-Hur-Esque trip across the Pacific Ocean and knew that I just had to stay away until a reasonable evening hour.
But, by four o’clock, I decided to scratch that idea and, instead, buy a bottle of Jack Daniels and drink the entire thing.
By nine o’clock, I took my show on the road and drank Jack Daniels at a bar.
By two o’clock, LA Boy Friend was removing me from the various people I was straddling and carried me out of the bar.
“I am not even drunk!” I reportedly cried.
Upon returning to Los Angeles this time around, I decided to be smarter.
I waited twenty-four hours to drink my body weight in alcohol and act like a child.
By five o’clock, I was so thirsty, I ordered as many drinks as a I possibly could.
“Sweetheart, when you see this glass get a little empty, bring another one.”
It is a perfect way to ensure that your glass is always half full, an attitude I like to have incase my refrigerator decides to break or I set my toaster oven on fire. It makes me feel better about being of-adult-age but evidencing absolutely no mature behavior.
By midnight, apparently I was dropped back at my apartment, where I tried to make a meal of dino nuggets but became distracted by singing Celine Dion songs into my hairbrush, much like one would do if they were, like, twelve years old and sober.
When I woke up the following morning, face-planted on my bed still holding the aforementioned hairbrush, I decided that I really needed to start making more mature decisions.
No more traveling, for example. That will solve the drinking-while-jet-lagged problem, for sure.

I think that there are many different kinds of drunk. Those who try to simplify them into just “good” and “bad” are obviously incredibly inexperienced.
For me, there are not only genres, but there are sub-genres, and jet-lagged-drinking is a category all of its own.
Like, for example, on airplanes, I am not only [usually] the drunkest person with a passport, but I am also a total hoot. My general hilarity totally makes up for the babies screaming. So that is “good”, [I think].
But, then, there is being so exhausted, every drink consumed goes straight to a brain that isn’t exactly present. It’s a double negative, really. One that not only makes you act like a child, but also like an idiot. If I ever need to impart advice onto a child of some description (like, if I end up stealing one or am stuck in an elevator with one or similar), it would be, “Turn off your phone while jet-lag-drinking.”
I think Confucius said a similar thing.
Because, if I had a dollar for every casual-sex relationship I destroyed by jet-lag-drunkingly booty texting, I would have enough money to pay my own phone bill.

Forty-eight hours after I had landed back in Los Angeles, drunk an entire bars worth of bourbon and turned on my fridge (yeah, I forgot to do that for a while), I sat down to a meal of dino nuggets, my plate half full with an orgy of Brontosauruses.
My phone wasn’t making any noise, despite my using all energy to will someone to call it, and I started to wonder why.
“Who wouldn’t want to call me?” I thought while mixing up dinosaurs with the occasional chocolate frog.
Is it because as an adult I get drunk on airplanes, roll down the aisle and crawl to customs?
Is it because I arrive home, drunk, and do a one-girl-karaoke performance of “Because You Loved Me”?
I found my phone and realized that it was turned off.
Apparently, I am mature enough to do that when surrounded by empty bottles.

I failed high school science and accepted the fact that the only time I would ever willingly be in the same room as the periodic table ever again was if I gave a blow job to a doctor.
So, when a Portuguese Surfer had realized that he put the wrong kind of gas in the car and was subsequently trying to suck it out through a flimsy four-foot-long straw, I thought, “Maybe He knows more about physics than I do.”
For about five minutes, I siphoned through my very elementary knowledge of physics, but, eventually had to declare, “The diesel ins’t going to start moving in a north west direction merely due to contact with plastic. I think we are going to have to come up with a new solution if I am going to make it to the airport on time.”
Ninety minutes later, the Fiat stalled into Lisbon, with the driver desperate for gum to mute his fossil-fuel breath and me fearful that I would have to give a blow job or two just to be allowed on the fucking plane.
Unfortunately, the woman at the check-in counter was not interested in my offer and denied my plight to catch my flight.

I love traveling but hate airports, which really does become a problem. I detest them more than the average person and have received many suspicious looks when walking through customs declaring, “I almost get why so many people want to blow these fucking things up.”
So, when I am stuck in one because a Portuguese Surfer tried to make diesel jello shots at nine o’clock in the morning, I, basically, want to kill myself.
I realized that I had, roughly, five hours to kill before boarding a plane to continue my boredom for another three, which sucked no matter how many strangers said it didn’t in a different language. So suggested to use it as a time to relax, but as I had just left a picturesque ocean, the concrete flooring apparently favored by Portuguese interior designers was not exactly having the soothing affect they may have been striving for. Two hours into what later became knows as, “Ish Gotsh Drunksh Atsh Thesh Airportsh,” I found a bar to drink my mood either better or dead.
It should be noted that I have a love/hate relationship with airport bars and they really only add to my resentment at the end of the day, because as far as I am concerned, their drink prices are the only things that are criminal within the four walls.
But, sometimes, you have to get over yourself.

The only alcohol I don’t drink is FGin as I am convinced it could run a car. I try and steer clear of ingesting anything within the gasoline family and, despite my very limited knowledge of the elements, think I have been quite successful over the past twenty-give years. However, because Portugal [now] exists as a reason for me to seriously contemplate hanging myself, gin wasn’t only the most economical poison I had to choose from at the bar, it was basically the only.
“We don’t have Jack Daniels,” a bar tender, who obviously wished he was Spanish, declared.
“Johnnie Walker?”
“No.”
“Jim Beam?”
“No.”
“Glenfiddich?”
“No.”
“I can’t believe I am about to ask this. Southern Comfort?”
“No.”
“Do you serve anything dark that will eventually kill all of my braincells and leave me in out-patient car rambling about the moment I started calling Jack, John?”
“No.”
The ‘bar’ had a wide selection of gin, vodka and a beer which looked exactly the same as it would leaving your body. So, I cried. I wasn’t even ashamed. I hadn’t so must as hinted at emotion, only logic, while the Portuguese Surfer was drinking gin out of a car and so I had a certain amount of pride that I was able to contain it all for when I had to drink it out of a glass.
In years time, when a nurse is wiping my ass or similar, and I am suffering from verbal diarrhea regarding how I got to such a state, I predict I will remember the fact I had to drink gasoline just to keep myself going and not the fact that my driver tried to do the same.
But I can accept that. The concept of ‘tragedy‘ is very subjective.

I continued drinking while flying over The Shit Hole and France until I reached my final destination, London. If someone has a better solution of what to do while thirty thousand feet in the air, I would like to hear it.
Air Duct Tape, or whatever they called themselves to ignite emotion from the passengers at their mercy, did serve Scotch and Bourbon. It improved my mood in theory. I decided that I could accept the possibility of Air Pray going down into Lyon like a fucking dart so long as I was medicated with my poison of choice.
I drank four (plastic) tumblers of Johnnie Walker in three hours, and as one is supposed to guestimate double the affect while at attitude, I accepted I had ingested about ninety drinks. Go me. Aside: I also failed math.

Customs is another reason why I hate airports. I understand their purpose – to keep the Portuguese in Portugal – but detest the invasive questions asked by the fat fuck with no power in life outside of his little booth. I imagine that these dudes failed more than science.
Of course, I was beyond drunk when I arrived at my Fat Fuck’s throne, so that really became a problem.
“I have to decide whether I will let you into the country,” he said in that horrible English accent that makes you want to claw out your eyes with a bread knife, while reading my passport like it was a book. “You have done a lot of traveling.”
“Ish theresh ash limitsh?”
Why are you coming into the U.K?”
“To claim back Buckingham Palace.”
Customs officials don’t have a sense of humor. That, really, must be noted.

While waiting for my bag, my hangover kicked in and I started crying again. I blamed the gin. And, of course, Portugal.
I had been held up so long in customs, where I was once again contemplating offering an exhale of blow jobs (see footnote #1), couldn’t see my chic vintage yet absolutely un-fucking-functional suitcase, and started to wonder if I really needed the clothes I had packed while accepting the fact that the Air Diesel man I had dealt with [yelled at] may have donated my beloved skinny jeans and newly acquired Pinocchio puppet to Portuguese people with the body and mental capacity of an eight-year-old boy.
I asked many British airport ‘workers’ where my bad could have been and became even more hysterical when the emotion in their response did not match my own.
“If I had a bomb in it, you would care. Just because you can’t fit in to mini shorts…”
In years time, when news breaks that I have been shot dead in an airport, at least try and act surprised.

I arrived at my Best Friend In The World’s house eight hours late, hungover, with a chic vintage suitcase weighting eighteen kilograms I had to fucking carry, feeling like I had completely failed at life.
In the sporadic opportunities we had to communicate, as my Blackberry hated traveling as much as I was beginning to, She had lured me to her London flat with the promise of alcohol.
“ have Jack Daniels. I will pour it directly down your throat.”
“Brilliant. I have a throat.”
But she wasn’t home when I arrived and no matter how loudly I hit the wall or how desperately I screamed her name, there was no response and the door between me and deep-throating Jack Daniels stayed locked.
So, I cried.
I cried because I should have ridden a donkey to the airport.
I cried because the gin in my stomach was all, “mwahahahaha.”
I cried because the Fat Fuck at customs was mean to me.
I cried because I had bought a suitcase without wheels and then filled it with puppets.
I cried because I didn’t have a phone and had dragged eighteen kilograms across a busy London street to find out that the pay-phone was broken.
And, I cried because after such a long separation, I would have to go back to calling him, “Mr Daniels.”
But, most of all, I smoked one million cigarettes because, the truth is, I would love traveling even more if the airports just accepted them.

Footnote #1: Anyone else think that is a perfect collective term for them?

My left eyeball quit my left eye socket and I didn’t know why. I was showing it pretty things, as I was in Paris, so I thought it would have been happy with me. Not, like, giving me gross little presents and taking away my vision, forcing me to run into the pillars of the Eiffel Tower instead of admiring the fucking thing from afar.
My eye was all, “Nope. Sorry. Seen it. I’m out of business for now. Here, have some goo.”
By the time I had more gross goo than I knew what to do with, I was feeling my way through cobbled streets to adhere the one solution my mother had given me.
“Buy an eyepatch,” she said.
As my vanity quit me long before my eye handed in its resignation, I was like, “OK. But it’s your Christmas card picture I am going to fuck up. Arrr.”
It was while looking at the Arc De Triomphe, through one eye and adjusting my pirate costume, that I conceded, “Paris really is the most romantic city in the world.”

It is really hard to pick up guys when you are wearing an eyepatch.
Dolce & Gabbana are both like, “Yo, Nautical fashion is totally cool, yar?” But, to be honest, I had more success in my “miss-matched Converse All-Stars” years or that whole “I should have black hair!” brain fart of an idea than I did while trying to hit on Parisian’s while looking like Jack Sparrow. It also didn’t help that I was with my parents. Nothing, really, acts as a better cock block than a Dad standing next to his little girl who is dressed like a pirate. You may as well stand in front of a Hugo Boss model casting call, holding a sign that reads, “I am a retard”, and see what happens.
My dad, once upon a time, threatened boys, with, “Whatever you do to her, I will do to you.”
“Oh yeah?” I always imagined the dude thinking. “Are you going to leave at five o’clock tomorrow morning too?”
He thought the threat worked. But it didn’t. It was the least of my problems.

When I was twelve years old, I got braces and glasses in the same week.
My dad walked in to my bedroom hours after the metal had been put on my teeth and I could finally see clearly and inquired as to why I was crying.
“I am ugly,” I sobbed.
“Don’t say that,” he encouraged. “You have a brilliant personality.”
“Oh my god, I’m hideous!” I wailed.
He told me that the whole experience was “character building” and that I would look back on it fondly. Months later, when I made all of the popular boys laugh due to some witticism I had expressed outside math class, I started to get more attention despite the fact I looked like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
“OK, I am going to have to make them laugh,” I told myself. “That is the only way You are ever going to get laid.”
From my perspective, eyepatch and all, every single sexual experience I have ever had has been based on my personality. Of course, I could be wrong. But I just simply don’t rely on physical aspects and, instead, laugh, rationalize or beg someone into my bed.
I think I may have a joke for every cup size I lack.

It doesn’t take much to convince me to fuck a hot person. Like, Jack Daniels share holders aren’t retiring on my bar tabs after a pretty boy has been all, “I’m open for business now.”
But as I have gotten older, and my own physical features have begun to show signs that they are not as nimble as they once were, I have started to focus my eyes on things other than appearance. And, I have noticed, that there are thousands, maybe even millions, of hot guys in the world, but finding someone with character is significantly harder.
Once upon a brain fart, I dated a guy who was convinced he was a pirate. He even kept his real personality in a treasure chest, locked away with a key and everything.
To explain why he was breaking up with me, he said, “You know I am a pirate.”
“OK,” I conceded. “But you’re really going to have to expand on this now. Because, like, you don’t even have a boat.”
I couldn’t see it clearly at the time, of course, but what he was teaching me was a valuable lesson and months later I realized that if I continued to equate pretty with perfect, all I was ever going to be was Fucked. And not in the good way. Someone with good character would not say something so stupid, I rationalized, so I laughed at him, stopped begging him to reconsider and let him sail off into the sunset to be

While wearing an eye patch, surrounded by beautiful Europeans, I felt exactly how I did when I was a little adolescent. The vanity quickly returned and poured out of me at the same rate goo was falling out of my eye.
To make it worse, I didn’t even know any jokes in French. It is really hard to pick up guys when you can’t even translate, “I am a retard.” So I didn’t even bother trying.
But, eventually, I remembered that I no longer judge guys based on their appearance (unless, ironically, I am really, really drunk) and like when I was a brunette wearing two different shoes, there are some people who do the same for me. Just because Parisian’s didn’t understand me, doesn’t mean there aren’t people who can’t see me clearly.
It means that, no matter how ugly I can appear on the outside, I can at least close my eye and know that, on the inside, I am not.
Hopefully, people have the same attitude when viewing my mothers Christmas card.

The life of a smoker is a hard one. Aside from the looming death that hangs over us like a cloud of black smoke, there is the reason we started in the first place – usually some form of anxiety – which still exists under the bandaid and cloud of a Marlboro. To make it worse, there is the ever-increasing judgement from non-smokers, the people who pollute the air with their opinion with more frequency than a Marlboro entires the atmosphere. Because of them, smokers can no longer enjoy their medication on airplanes, in restaurants, in bars, in bed and, sometimes, even, outside.
“That is really disturbing me,” I have been told while laying on a beach, some ten meters away from a person whose mere existence really disturbed me. So, such has always been my retort.
“Now that we are equal, why don’t you return to your towel and continue to roll around like a rotisserie pig, like a visual crime against my eyes, and I will stay over here and passively attempt to shorten your life?”
Exhale.
It is why I am so thankful that Paris still exists. You can smoke everywhere in Paris. Once, I lit up at a gas station and extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray provided. Apparently, French fuel isn’t flammable.

Smokers suffer from judgement more than any other addict and I will remain convinced of that until there are “No Heroin” signs in airports, in restaurants, in bars, in bed and outside. Sure, it is difficult to buy heroin, cocaine, love or whatever your drug of choice is, but once acquired, the application and experience is (relatively) invisible. Smokers, however, have a proverbial flag they wave and set alight themselves for attention. It makes some people refuse to sit near, talk to or, even, fuck us. The judgement has very real repercussions.

One of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, has written thousands of words as an ode to his drug of choice. For him, and me, discovering the art of smoking meant a medication for OCD, as all anxiety could be channelled into finding the next cigarette and our hands were now always occupied. Alternatives could be, like, Xanax or public masturbation, both of which sound great on paper but actually have the possibility of judgement of a totally different nature. The latter being, you know, legal.
Sedaris, the man who has influenced every area of my life, aside from sexuality, recently wrote an essay for The New Yorker detailing his experiences in airports, those places where cigarettes are like bombs and shouldn’t be mentioned once indoors let alone revealed. He wrote about the availability of people to judge while in the confines of an airplanes house, as folk from all walks of life somehow manage to fly and, suddenly, you find yourself standing in a line between a sixteen-year-old father of three and African witch doctor, desperate for some nicotine to curb the visual excitement.
Airports are the one place in the world where smokers really do accept their fate while giving something else a chance to prematurely kill them. It is the one place We fit in because there are no flags to enlighten people that We are a disturbance. And, so, we can actually (finally) be equal enough to judge in a way non-smokers do in every other locale.
We exhale.

Last year, while waiting in line to purchase an American Airlines ticket to London, I saw an Amish woman with an iPhone, and subsequently wondered whether she had downloaded the iAmconfused application. Another time, I think I was at JFK airport in New York, I saw a dude listening to a full-sized boom box thing and wondered why he hadn’t discovered anything compact and made by Apple.
Like Sedaris, I have seen teenage parents, tribal leaders, whole families wearing fanny packs, aristocrats complete with monocles and Muslim’s. And, like Sedaris, I try not to judge. But I do. Because I have nothing else to channel all of my anxiety into.
In between all of the people, I have always noticed very anxious and sweaty people making everyone else nervous but all they want to obviously do is light up a Marlboro but can’t. Because that is what would offend some people. So they stand by the terrorist suspects just to look inconspicuous.

I went through a phase of only wanting to sleep with or date smokers. It, probably, coincided with my momentary desire to live in Paris.
I dated a non-smoker for over two years. It almost became the cancer that killed our relationship. After sex, I would look all nervous, anxious and sweaty. He would think it had something to do with love. I knew it was because I wanted a cigarette. I quit non-smokers very quickly.
As a proud smoker, I have done my research and found the three best cigarettes in existence. The Post Gym. The Post Meal. And, The Post Sex. The first two can be done individually, but try as I might, I can’t get the Post Masturbation Cigarette to retain any of the flavor that exhaling nicotine after an orgasm brought on by another person in the room/against the wall has.
My plan worked perfectly for a while. But, then, I realized smokers are a dying breed. And, aside from the looming cloud of death, many had quit after succumbing to the brutal judgement that someone like me (Hi!) will die trying to ignore.
Suddenly, I was like, “How many hot smokers are there left in the world?” And then it became, like, “How many smokers are there left in the world?”
I knew I had three options.
To move to France and revel in men who can’t speak English. A totally viable option for many reasons.
To be celibate and kill myself.
To quit smoking.
Like non-smokers, none of this was attractive to me. I wanted to smoke, have sex and revel in the post-coital nicotine haze without judgement. I had already conceded that The Mile High Club would never live up to my expectations by default, so I felt like I had given up enough.
I realized, I would have to start fucking those non-smoking people and just deal with the judgement of lighting up after I had lit their fire.

It is said that what doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger. This is true about everything except smoking. And, maybe, stepping on a land mine.
My plan is, however, to apply this concept to sex and enlighten myself by doing The Other White Meat.
My options are to not judge Them for liking their lungs and focus on all of the other good qualities. Like having a pulse. Or, I can find someone who won’t judge me and, thus, have the ultimate match.
It is hard to have absolutely no judgement of people. I insist upon it but realize that it is virtually impossible. But like how the airport is place that equalizes everyone in their absurdness, the bedroom/up against the wall is the place where judgement needs to go up in flames so that everyone can just exhale and relax.
Otherwise, you’re just the smoker judging the non-smoker, bringing how similar we all are to everyone’s attention.

I became a staunch atheist at around the age of nine, coincidentally the same age I really mastered the skill of reading.
However, as half of me came from an ill-practicing Catholic family, I was forced to be Christened into the church and take my first communion. I didn’t object. I wanted to survey the fine bread and wine selection. And, as I didn’t believe in Hell, I had no fear of being sent there if I didn’t go to God’s ‘Hood every fucking Sunday and reasoned that, in the event that I was wrong and was actually made from dirt and two people Doing It in the Middle East, I would prefer to be in Hell anyway. It is where most of my friends will be, see.
But I don’t think that my mother got the memo on what it is to be a practicing Catholic. This is evidenced in many areas of her life, most notably when she sent me into the all-white-communion-affair wearing a tartan skirt, boots and a navy blazer. I looked like a nine-year-old bagpipe player.
“And, after the prayer, this little girl in the kooky get-up will be entertaining us with a Scottish Fling.”
There is, in my house in Australia, a picture of thirty other children all looking like little fairies dressed only in white and me in the middle smiling, completely oblivious to my original sin.
My mother was all, “I’ll dress you in what I want and I will do what I want.”
It is further evidence for just how far removed from the Catholic church the woman really is.

My mother worships her house. My brother and I call it the third child.
It isn’t allowed to look lived in, everything matches and this almost makes it an architectural physicalization of her. The only mishap is the fact that the house has a kitchen. While it was being designed, she desperately tried to convince the architect to just put a microwave in a cupboard somewhere and use the extra space for wine storage.
“We need a kitchen for re-sale value,” my father convinced her. But after thirty years together, he knows better than to eat her food and made a point to tell her that the need for a stove and all that other crap was not an invitation for her to actually cook. “The oven will be just as decorative as those silver sticks guests are supposed to think are trees upon entering through the front door.”
She didn’t know how to work the oven, or the microwave, for the first six months after she moved in and her main concern for re-sale was whether the property sat in close proximity to restaurants. It does.
On many occasions, the entire family has had to remind Her that people are aware they live in the house, and so it is OK for there to be evidence of that so, you know, comfortable chairs that don’t stick up into your ass would be quite welcomed.
“No,” she says. “I will dress my house how I want and I will do what I want.”
This is a woman who once told me, “I don’t have to be rational,” and so, sometimes, I think she just may fit in to Vatican City if she ever decided to sell the house and move.

Recently, my mother went to Rome and declared it to be the most horrible place she has ever been to.
Considering she has spent time in Bali, Thailand and my bedroom, I had to enquire as to why.
“The buildings are old,” she said. “And smelly.”
My father then walked her over to the Pope’s ‘Hood, where she noted the colorful outfits of the Cardinals and concluded, quite quickly, that she was on to something by dressing me as an Ompa Lumpa when I had to give myself up to the church’s mumbo jumbo.
I spent days wondering how any person on the planet could put their own house on a higher pedestal of architectural beauty than, like, the Colosseum and Saint Peter’s Basilica. Even as a staunch atheist, I can admire the brilliance of the buildings, so I could not understand her logic at all. Until I thought up the possibility that, maybe, neither buildings housed a kitchen and they had her at, “Close Proximity To Restaurants.”

When in her own house, my mother hangs out of the windows or chills out by the clothesline to talk to “her” gay neighbors.
Just like the women in Rome do.
When she discovered that there were homosexuals living just fifty feet away, evidenced by the g-strings and netted shirts they had hanging on their own clothesline, the re-sale price of the house immediately went up and she damned going through with the idea of a kitchen because now she was definitely never selling. She became fast friends with “The Boys” and they have celebrated every Christmas with us at our house ever since, which is probably bittersweet for them. Who wants to celebrate the birthday of someone who is all, “Umm. Sodomy? No.”
My mother, however, thinks it is a “hoot” and even went to a gay bar with them on one occasion.
“What should I wear?” she asked me while she was getting ready.
“A tartan skirt and a blazer.”
There is a photo of her, somewhere, looking very out of place standing amongst a group of fairies.

Next week, I am meeting my mother in Paris. My parents have been cruising through Europe for the better part of three weeks because my brother currently lives in England and they missed him.
Just like how my mother ignores every rule, regulation and rationality, I have dismissed the fact that she has never been to my house in Los Angeles or that I too lived in England and I only ever received phone calls at four o’clock in the morning to yell at me for making expensive international phone calls, with absolutely no sense of irony.
When traveling to the most beautiful places in the world, with one of the people you love and admire more than anyone else of the planet, normal human beings want to witness the beauty of historical monuments together.
But not my mother.
I woke up to a text message from her saying, “I just bought a blazer in Venice while your dad looked around that Square place. You and I need to go to The Gap together in Paris.”

Once upon a drunken decision, I was sleeping with a guy.
Just like how all good fairy tales start.
It was during a time in my life (“weekdays”) when I was drinking a lot of alcohol. Usually, by about three o’clock in the morning, I would decide that it was time to leave and get naked, hopefully in that order, so I would text the dude I was sporadically fucking.
I would wait until about, hmm…three-oh-six for a reply, and then I would be like, “Mr Cab Driver, can you please take me home? And do you mind stopping at 7/11? I need to buy some AA batteries…”
At around one o’clock the following day, my phone would be all, “Duun Duun Duuuuun.”
“I’m ready/Let’s go/I’ll come to your house,” is a quick sample in the array of responses I received. As I said, it was a time in my life (“weekends”) when I was drinking a lot and if there were more than seven days in a week he would have received more texts.
It was a game of numbers.
The messages always arrived in my inbox when I was doing something that didn’t involve alcohol, as I don’t [usually] drink at midday. I would be in the gym, in Whole Foods or, like, you know, working and so I rarely responded.
“The ship sailed, sweetheart,” I did want to say one time. “You’re about…nine hours too late and about ten times too boring for me to consider this a good idea while sober.”
It wasn’t that I refused to change my schedule for sex. Truth be known, I would fling off the back of a treadmill and land in a bed if someone was willing to do cardio in it with me. It was that I couldn’t get my mind around the delayed booty call text. Until now.

I have Booty Called and/or Text many, many people. Like, some nations don’t have the same population number as my Blackberry contacts list.
As it is, purely, a game of numbers, I have never noticed if someone has not responded because, well, someone else has. I’m not [usually] thinking about math while my legs are in the air. But when someone has responded the following day, I have had to stop dead in my tracks in the Dino Nugget Aisle at the grocery store and be like, “Really? Now? Really?”
One time, a mother was pushing along a Baby Thing in a carriage, doing a food shop that involved cheeses I can’t spell or pronounce when my phone went, “Duun Dunn Duuuuun” like Blackberry is the soundtrack to my life.
The Booty Dude was like, “Come to my house in fifteen minutes if you are still up for it.”
I loved that he bothered to add “still”. It meant that even he acknowledged the slim fucking chance I had of dismissing the Nuggets and trekking all the way into…Los Feliz. As this was happening, the Baby Thing started screaming, probably because she saw my life as her future, and I decided right then and there that I was never going to have sex again. It obviously wasn’t too hard not to. Other peoples children are, literally, the worlds greatest contraception. There should be public service announcements about it. I threw some AA batteries into my basket, went straight to the ice-cream aisle and decided to never, ever Booty Call someone in the middle of the day in case the reality of sex screamed at them also and desperation hung around longer than the Energizer Bunny.

There is so much about sex that does not work in our favor, it is wonder how human beings got past, like, 000000000000001BC.
Sex produces Baby Things. That was the first mistake, right there.
Female orgasms are as necessary as, like, butter on toast. Cool if its there, but we can all get over it if it isn’t. The future of the species doesn’t depend on a girl enjoying sex.
And, then, just trying to get someone to fuck you is so God Damn hard, whenever you see someone with an actual Baby Thing you almost want to go up to them in the Fresh Produce Section and say, “So how did you get him to respond immediately?”
Occasionally, I meet girls who have a proverbial litter of guys waiting until the sun sets so they can get them naked and leave, hopefully in that order. I wonder if they use their Blackberry Contacts List or, like, the Yellow Pages, because in my experience, and most girls that I know, finding a guy to fuck is as hard as finding the G-Spot.
Fucking near impossible.

Straight guys are the only group of people who, apparently, have to work at getting laid.
It is why they will put up with the bullshit of [some] girls, why they will acknowledge texts at bed time and why they will respond to them in the middle of the damn day.
Gay guys have sex without speaking. AT&T must hate that.
Girls can, apparently, just say, “I’m ready/Let’s go/I’ll come to your house,” and its on like Donkey Kong.
But straight guys exist in a totally different paradigm full of expectations and alcohol-budgets that are so unique, stand-up comics make whole careers out of mocking them.
I don’t dispute, even for a second, that straight men do have it tough. If I had to buy a drink for every person I wanted to see naked, I would be sharing a cell with Lindsay Lohan right now.
It only serves to highlight how hard it is, really, for any person to get laid. And that it is too easy to say that it is a gender issue. Because I am a girl. And I have tested every single method available on how to scream for sex. I mean, I can ask very directly and the best I will get is a reason to stay in Whole Foods. Or I can be cryptic and the best I will get is a phone call from his girlfriend asking me to shut the fuck up while I say, “I’m sorry, who?”

Once upon a time, I wonder if sex was easy.
I have heard all of the hype about The Sixties and that if you remember it, you weren’t getting laid or something like that. Just like I have heard how easy it is to get sex now.
There is this idea that girls just have to ask for it. That it is that easy. That we are that easy. Or that boys are that easy. But truth be told, it isn’t. There are these things called standards.
And, with them, we are all just a straight guy standing in a bar buying drinks for every girl because it is numbers game. And we are desperate.
Or we are a gay guy at the gym, taking down the phone number of a fat dude we won’t message at any applicable time of life.
But, without standards, we are really just like a modern person without a phone. They aren’t exactly necessary, but without them we are just buying butter for our toast with no interruptions.
It is just like alcohol, really. With it, we are sending booty texts at three o’clock in the morning. And, without it, we are regretting it while writing about it some twelve hours later.

Albert Einstein is my “type” of guy. He never brushed his hair, he couldn’t exactly speak English and he didn’t hold down a real job.
Had I been alive, and Austrian, during Bertie’s time, I am sure I would have completely fallen for him. Or, if he was around now, the same would probably happen.
I imagine that we would meet at a bar, purely because I don’t really meet people any other way, and I would wow him with my very (see footnote #1) elementary knowledge of Relativity. I kind of did this once before, at a bar, with a MIT physicist, who I had at “Yeah, I read ‘A Brief History Of Time’ while sitting on the toilet, it was interesting.”
What I think would be interesting about dating Einstein is not the typical things one ponders. I haven’t spent a lot of time theorizing his performance in bed or whether E=MC2 was also the equation of his girth. What does cross my mind, however, is how good he would be at communicating.
Would he be a Call The Next Day type of a guy?
Or, would he be that guy who waits about a week and then arrives back in your life with an invitation for Round Two like Round One was, actually, yesterday?
What I think would suck is when you questioned him over it.
“Time is relative, sweetheart,” he would say in some intelligent Terminator-esque accent.
Personally, I sense him being a Round Two type of dude and, hence, why he is my type of a guy.

If I believed in God, I would have to wonder if I was his little toy, the practice human who kind of went awry, like I was made in the pre-gaming to that seven day binge of creationism or something.
But, as I don’t believe in any kind of creator outside of Mattel, I just have to conclude that I am the universes little relative joke. Because I get the opposite of what I want and time only seems fast to me when I am eating or having sex, the two occasions I would like it to slow down just a wee bit so I can savor the moment instead of dreaming about it during that four hundred hour work day.
But the most frustrating part about being the Big Bang Punch Line is that if I like a boy, he doesn’t like me and if a boy likes me, I don’t like him, so nothing can ever happen. It is kind of like Dating According To Nihilism.
I have questioned, many times over, whether this idea is simply relative to my perception and, in fact, none of them like me at all. The constant contact from people I don’t care for could, actually, be in direct relation to cell phone companies introducing Unlimited Texting Plans and have no baring on their interest in me whatsoever. But, because my glass is always half full of scotch, I conclude that at least three of them have thought, “Yeah, she is doable” and put in the effort to press their opposable thumbs onto little buttons.

I have a theory. Well, actually, I have an infinite number of theories, most of which are essentially unfalsifiable (Hello, Freud, fancy seeing you here), but I have a theory none the less.
Perhaps I could prove some of them if my education on quantum physics was not in direct relation to my metabolism.
This theory in particular ponders the possibility that we receive more contact if we don’t like someone than if we do lurve them.
I started to compile evidence in about 335BC when I had a crush on Alexander The Great and he said he would call but never did. It has been pretty much rinse and repeat since then and, I swear, every time an Indian telemarketer is on the other end of the line I think for a split-second that Ghandi is finally making contact.
However, such an idea was far too simple (if only a little embellished) for me and so I started to expand on it and incorporate Einstein’s theory of relativity.
The way I now see it, if you like a guy, every second that he is not bombarding you with attention, feels like a week. And if you don’t like a guy, every week that he is bombarding you, feels like a second.
None of it is in any way in relation to attraction, but merely, your perception of time.

When I really like a guy, which happens at about the same rate as Haley’s Comet, I just want to be with him, listening to what he has to say and watching what he has to do. Not like a stalker. I have Facebook for that. Just in a very basic human way of interaction.
As a consummate observer, being privy to the world in which my crush lives in is like understanding how the universe works.
But when it hasn’t gotten to that stage yet – the point where, like, Bertie and I would be, like, solving equations and shit together on a chalkboard everyday, like, I was his version of, like, Will Hunting – so all you have is cell phone communication, seconds can feel like lightyears when he doesn’t respond and so you have to ponder if you are allowed to text because, like, Who Sent The Last One?
Then, every time your phone even makes the slightest of murmurs, you’re go, “YES!” only to find out that it is your fucking best friend calling again or the battery is almost dead. You find yourself yelling at your handbag because, what you would really like to do is yell at him and say, “CALL ME!”. But you know that, relatively speaking, that won’t make you too attractive.
I have even been known to ponder, “Is it broken? Is my phone broken?” before the theory disproved when T-Mobile texts to remind me to pay the fucking bill.

In the olden days, it must have been really easy.
All you had was a man on a horse delivering letters. So you knew to wait about six or seven years in between contact. And if He went to that much effort, and no doubt expense, he must have wanted to do you.
But in this day, when the theory of relativity has been well established, we have to understand that perception plays a huge role.
Also, we must remind ourselves that the guy who texts us, who we don’t actually like and no equation make us subtract our clothes, is also wondering why time moves so slowly.
I often wonder why I go for the type of guy who never messages me back. I theorize the possibility that God is sitting on a cloud, with a Bud Light or something, watching me like I am an episode of “Two And A Half Men”.
But, then I remember, that ‘type’ has nothing to do with it.
If I like him, I wanted him to contact me ten minutes ago.

Footnote #1: very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, times infinity.