Somewhere in between (50 shades of SHUT THE FUCK UP)

Somewhere in between (50 shades of SHUT THE FUCK UP)

I like telling girls they’re pretty. I’m just that kinda asshole.
But just to be completely thorough…
I don’t tell pretty boys they’re pretty, well, cuz from one dude to another, it’s actually kind of an insult. Unless the dude is gay and reeaallyy trying to be pretty, or if he’s not gay and dressed in drag,  you know, still trying to be pretty, then…I dunno, I’d probably call him pretty (for the sake of making sure EVERYONE is included, cuz, you know, everyone needs to be recognized and given a trophy for their participation in humanity)

no…seriously…none of us asked for this. We should just take a second and recognize that.

PLUS I only insult people through dry, subliminal snarkery. Unless, of course, they deserve to be called an “incompetent fuck-stick” to their face. Then maybe I’ll make an exception.

But, yeah, no. I LOVE telling pretty girls they’re pretty. Randomly. Anywhere.

Now on to the even sexier stuff.
I think I’m about to blow your mind, hold on to your butts. (Or you know, maybe I’m not and it’s only my moderate narcissism coming out to play. Whatever, here it goes)

I’m an inclusive dater…
As opposed to an EXclusive dater.
With me so far?

Inclusive dating. Go ahead, roll your eyes, I’ll wait…
Now shut up and pay attention, cuz I’m the one with the microphone and you wiLL LISTEN TO EVERY DAMN WORD I HAVE TO SAY.

I feel like, on some level, I have to make up for all the douchebag dudes who don’t know how to treat women. So, naturally, I want to show as many women as I ‘vibe with’ (that’s what the kids are saying nowadays) that it’s ok to vibe with multiple people. As long as both parties are honest. It’s not ok to lead someone into thinking that you want to be more than friends or more than booty-buddies (the British say that, I think).

Some would call my dating lifestyle ‘polyamorous’ which is totally a thing, but I think that I tread somewhere juuuusssttt below that, only because I don’t call the girls I’m ‘dating’ (I also use that word loosely cuz it means different things to different people) my ‘girlfriend.’
Also multiple ‘girlfriends’ sounds like an exhausting predicament.
I’m dating. We’re dating. Everyone’s dating. (K maybe not everyone, but dating doesn’t sound like a word anymore).

I think calling someone a “girlfriend/boyfriend” traditionally implies exclusivity. You’re both ‘courting.’ A societal ritual that no one has participated in since 1949. It’s whatever, (my decade references are not to scale).
To the best of my knowledge, the way people ‘court’ each other, nowadays, goes something like this: they meet, they decide to spend more time with each other, they see if they have physical chemistry to match their established mental/emotional chemistry.

someone feels something stronger than the other but is too insecure or unsure about how the other person feels to ask or open any kind of honest, vulnerable, dialogue so they go day in and day out feeling these things and never finding the courage to express them, and now they’re having sex and sex is awesome, and fun sometimes… or maybe that’s the only sex they’re getting and they don’t want to go through another 6-month-long-sexless slump so they put up with the idle small talk that is generated through countless text messages and social media blathering just to be able to see the other naked, again.
So, either, you’ll both realize down the line (probably later rather than sooner) that you can’t stand the thought of each other or you’ll fall out of contact. Whether intentionally or not, sometimes it makes no difference.

ta da. courting.

I think EVERYONE should ‘date.’ Get out there, experience people. Know people intimately. It’s ok to do this. The whole preconceived notion of “sluttiness” is a farce and I hate it. Experience what you want to experience and anyone who wants to tell you how to live your life can fuck themselves in the face.

The idea that one person can (and should) only be with one person at any time sucks. So you’re supposed to, what, either get married, settle down or break up in a flurry of pesky emotions and energy leeching apathy (that doesn’t make sense, but it’s fuckin’ poetic, aight? [pronounced eye-t]).
I’ve come to terms with how I feel about serial monogamy, and I’m not sorry when I anounce that it’s just not for me, not at this stage in the ballgame, anyway. The girl who locks that portion of me down has to be my own embodiment of Aphrodite (if you don’t know who that is, read a book).
UNTIL THEN, I will date
What that means is I need to:
1) Be completely honest and forthcoming with every woman I get involved with by letting them know that if they wanna do this thing, they gotta share. Sharing is ok.
2) Not get jealous. Never been an issue. But if someone I’ve been out with is also going out with other people as I am or have the potential to be, that needs to be a thing that I’m ok with. It’s part of the deal.
3) Communicate effectively. Going back to number 1. No half truths or lies. I need to be able to open a dialogue about EVERYTHING regarding the terms of the dating endeavor.
4) [Think of more guidelines to make myself seem credible]

Unless I can totally just keep it simple. Which, I believe, in all cases, is the best policy. comma, comma, comma splice.

Here’s MY proposition. If you’ve read this far you can’t stop now. Ready? It’s easy…

Quit fuckin’ bitchin’

Sure, finding someone that fits all your precisely unobtainable, incomprehensibly high standards while also finding you, yourself (a person who should hold him or herself to an equally high standard) completely tolerable, is difficult. But guess what, statistically, there are at LEAST 3 billion other versions of the opposite sex floating around this world. That’s a lotta beans in a one bag (do people even fuckin say that?)
What I’m saying is don’t lose hope. You can’t. Actually. I can’t anyway, I’m currently operating on hope and a sickening amount of caffeine.

So do me a favor, quit whining. Suck it up. Learn how to be single. Love yourself. Enjoy spending time with yourself. Fuck, even enjoy having sex with yourself (Cuz if YOU don’t who ELSE is gonna…shit, and that’s just off the top of my head)

Shit, man, I can’t think of anything else and I’ve been working on this post for like, 3 mutherfuckin’ weeks.

I’ll have more to say on it, I’m sure. But until then,

Cheers, beautiful people,



Really? (A rambling about realness, kinda)

Really? (A rambling about realness, kinda)

I’m over saying that my posts will not be Safe in a Work environment. They aren’t and they will continue to not be. If you have a problem take it up with my manager. If you can find him…
No, seriously he owes me money…
No, seriously seriously you think someone put me up to this? Ha! I waste my time on my own accord

I’ve realized something as I transfer the weird shit that flows through my mind onto the pages of my journal. I realize that, nowadays, the success of my generation (the godforFUCKINGsaken MILLENNIAL GENERATION) [millennial: a word I would probably never ever spell correctly if it weren’t for SpellCheck] is based on how much attention one can accrue on the interwebs. LITERALLY (used as ‘literally’ and not a ‘figuratively’…cuz my generation FUCKED that up too) winning popularity contests on an interface where people only see the projection that YOU want them to see is a way to make a stupid amount of money…which, I guess is all anyone cares about.

It sucks. It fuckin’ sucks.
But it is what it is. And I try to accept that.
While I’m convinced that the internet will fail society at one point or another in the future and the whole of everything will crumple into crumbly ashes and there will be a mass panic because EVERYTHING will be solely dependent upon the functioning of an online world.
It is not this day, and (unfortunately) I believe I will be gone from this world before that ever happens.
But there will be a day when someone with a machete is going to fight someone with a sharpened piece of industrial rebar for a can of Bush’s Smoked Baked Beans in a world riddled with nuclear fallout and fuckin’ giant ants ‘n shit.

We’re getting off topic (is there a topic?)

No. No, there isn’t.

There’s this weird thing that happens within the realm of online dating (speaking of interfaces that suck) where, as a guy, I run into these fake profiles. Now, I don’t know if this happens to girls (it shouldn’t cuz they shouldn’t have to put up with something like this considering the shit they ALREADY have to put up with from guys who don’t know how to be a humanfuckingbeing) but these fake profiles have pictures of girls that are either ACTUALLY the girl who is talking or have been stolen (cuz hey, everything on the internet is free, right?) I will express my interest through a ‘like’ a match will occur, and wouldn’t ya fuckin believe it, she’ll message me first.

Red flag, cuz most girls don’t do that. I dunno, something about pretending not be interested and playing a game called “to get hard” or some shit. (props to those who get that joke. Even MORE props to the people who experienced a spurt of dyslexia and actually read it as “hard to get”)

This cute girl will say something utterly intoxicating…like, “Hi.” the smart ones will anyway. (The dumb ones will, kick it off with something like “Hey I’m in town for two days here’s my hotel and my number, I’m horny. [they’re not. they’re not horny])  Then I’ll respond with something clever and dashing like “Hello.” Then we’ll jump right into the stimulating meat of the conversation and she’ll make a move by asking “What are you looking for on here?” and I’ll give her an answer about how I actually like dating girls and hooking-up, while fun sometimes, (can’t lie) is just to fill a fix and is ultimately unfulfilling…like a bag of pop-rocks.

That’s when she comes on strong with something like “I need you to help me blahblahblahblah my boyfriend has erectile dysfunction and I still love him but we can’t fuck so I need someone to fuck me blahblahblahblah discreetly blahblah tinder is giving my phone a virus and I don’t want him to find out here’s my email blahblahblah or better yet visit my website blahblah (some opposite-of-low-key cam-girl website that will destroy my computer’s hard drive with a flick of its daddy issues [sorry, that was kinda mean {I’m not}]). I’m sitting there like “What kind of a poor, insecure, shell of some flabby, oxford-wearing, sweat-stained, rolling-rock drinking, fantasy-football playing, 40-something, still living in his parent’s basement mother-FUCKER do you think I am?
how FUCKING stupid, do you think I am?

stoopid…sometimes I am, but when it comes to common sense, I’ve gotta pretty stable cheshire cat’s head on my shoulders…get it?

But, fuck man, I’m not a sucker.And if there’s ANYTHING that ACTUALLY grinds my gears, it’s when people TRY to pull a tactless fast-one on me. Whether or not these cam girls are real, I can appreciate their persistence in “the hustle,” but you’re dealing with the wrong shmuck and you’re too fuckin’ pretty to get paid to be treated like you may or may not be.

but what the fuck do I know?

cheers, beautiful people,

The Adventures of Captain Save-A-Ho vol. I

The Adventures of Captain Save-A-Ho vol. I

I think (I think) every decent man has had to play this role AT LEAST once in his young manhood. There’s something very primal that is programmed in the good ones that pounds his chest and speaks in a gravely tone “urgh, female need help, I have ability to help, I HELP FEMALE, BE HERO OF NIGHT!…ALL WILL TREMBLE AT HEROCITY!”

This role I affectionately refer to as Captain Save-A-Ho.

I can’t take credit for coining the term but I will most definitely take credit for making use of the title and contributing to its character. It’s a role I’ve had to play on more than one occasion. Not saying that I like playing the role or even that I hate it. I see it as a necessity. A time to act and to take action! to preserve the life and to remedy poor decision making for Hos far and wide! Mostly it’s just a waste of time but if I don’t at least offer to help, I will be going against everything I believe in. And GAWD FORBID my STARK MORAL CODE is compromised! Whatever shall I do?

I dunno, I guess I’ll just keep on or whatthefuckever.

As always, this post will Not be Safe For Work

Ugh…so THIS bitch…

Ok, lemme start over. Context is needed

I’m an Uber driver as well as a bouncer because when I’m not getting paid to write, I GUESS I need to make money one way or another so I can be self-sufficient ‘n shit.

I usually do my driving at night. Living in L.A. provides daily tests of one’s patience with regards to traffic. And more people need rides at night and the early morning. That PLUS no sun? I’m stoked. Anyways, I’m cruising around Midcity when I get the call. I show up to my location and as I’m waiting for my pick-up, I get a call from the orderer of the Uber.

Not the person’s address I’ve arrived at. Oh. Good?

The guy tells me that he’s ordered this ride for a girl who should be coming out in a second and asks me to ask her to call him when they’re on the way.

Fantastic. It’s 3:30am I am now the booty call mediator. I’m feeling SUPER excited about this ride now. NOT ONLY am I NOT having sex, but I am explicitly aware of someone who is…which is a pointless thing to think about if you take into account the amount of people in the world and how many of them are bangin’ at any given moment…think about it.

ok stop. I’m telling a story.

So the girl in question comes bouncing down her driveway, presumably incredibly excited about getting laid in the wee hours of the morning, and hops in the front seat. And She’s adorable. So not only am I the booty call mediator…but some dude is going to get to see this little breath of fresh air naked…and I don’t…*sigh* sometimes it’s not fair. We exchange names and she says she’s ready to go

Yeah, no, I can’t remember her name.

We start off on our merry way and, I shit you not, at the end of her street she says to me, “wait, what the fuck am I doing?”

This, friends, is what addicts refer to as a “moment of clarity.”

She says she’s still relatively fucked-up and shows me the spiderweb of a crack that splinters the entire screen of a phone that she allegedly bought 2 days prior. She also says she has no idea who this dude is or when she met him or how he got her number. Much less her address.

I fill her in on her situation and tell her that I’m still going to drive the trip (it’s only 10 minutes) but whether or not she gets out is up to her. I also tell her, after she’s filled me in on just how unfamiliar she is with this dude, that there is ONLY one thing that ANY guy who’s still awake at 3:30am wants.


SEX, people, c’mon! The prospect of literally being INSIDE a woman’s body.

And she doesn’t believe me. Trust me, I was surprised at how much convincing it took to convince her that all this dude wanted to do was fuck. Which should’ve been my (1..2..3..4..) like, FIFTH red flag that this ride was doomed to begin with.

She makes the decision that she is NOT going to to go over to this dude’s house and I’m like “aight, we’re goin’ back…hungry?” she’s like “yaaaasssss, let’s get jack in the box”

So we do, on the drive to Jack and then back to her house she receives text after text after text from this dude asking her where she is, when she’s getting there in the form of “hey-I reallyreallyreallyreallyreally wanna bang” desperation messages. Until he starts calling.

This is where it starts to suck.

I finish the trip and complete it on my app like I said I would so she had time to make a decision and the poor shmuck wasn’t paying too much. Not 2 minutes after we turn around does she get a call from him asking her where she is.

“blahblahblah honey, baby, blah we’re 10 minutes away”

wait, what?

Another call: “blahblahblahblah sweetheart, honey, blah we’re actually lost.”

wait…oh my gawd that’s so mean. She’s openly fucking with this dude, and, I’ll admit, after the first couple calls I started to feel sorry for him…but then he. kept. calling.

She kept saying she was lost and on the way, and the cycle continued until we got back to the address I picked her up at. AND GUESS FUCKING WHAT. She’s locked herself out. No keys. No clue. No dignity.


Captain Save-A-Ho takes over (guys, it’s totally me) and recognizes this lost soul so he offers his roof and his couch to this girl. Long. story. short. I won’t bother with petty details. She stayed on my couch left before I woke up and I’m probably never going to see her again.

Totally ok with that.

Moral of this Captain Save-A-Ho episode is this:
Ladies, don’t be fuckin’ mean and lead dudes on, ESPECIALLY if they’re drunk and lookin’ to get laid. They’ll get over it. They’ll go home, feel lonely, jerk-off, feel INSTANTLY better, then pass out.
Gentlemen, DON”T BE A FUCKIN’ IDIOT, I KNOW IT”S DIFFICULT but unless you’re both drunk together going to the same place. AT THE SAME TIME. She’s NOT gonna come find you, her bed is more comfortable than you and ODDS ARE she’s too smart for you anyway. If, by some GAWDFORSAKEN MIRACLE she ACTUALLY wants you to order her an Uber or Lyft to pick her up and take you to her place, THERE”S SOMETHING CALLED GPS WE HAVE NOW IN THIS TECHNOLOGICAL AGE. GETTING LOST GOING FROM POINT A to POINT B is DAMN. NEAR. IMPOSSIBLE.
She’s not lost. You’re just stoopid. Stop calling. You’re not gonna get laid tonight. You’ll live.

I need a drink.

Cheers, beautiful people,



Be the Nice Guy (but don’t be THAT nice guy)

Be the Nice Guy (but don’t be THAT nice guy)

This post probably won’t be Safe for Work, as in NSFW. Get it? Fantastic.

Turns out writing is fuckin’ tough, man. It’s not like a job that you can just roll in, bleary eyed, and sit down, type your words, get paid and be done with it. There’s a leeeettle bit more to it, and I’m starting to discover that.

I mean, whatever, right? I’m gonna be honest, I really cannot see myself doing anything else…wait, what do you mean I’m not getting paid for this?

For this vocation to work-cuz, you know, that’s what it is, anyone in their right and proper mind wouldn’t CHOOSE this. But maybe we’re all mad here…

I guess what I’m REALLY trying to say is that I was REALLY stoked about opening up this little corner of the interwebs so I set my posting goal just a leeeettle (I really like that word) too high. So here it is, the final writing schedule Let’s see if we can consistently keep it to Wed-nes-days and Saturdays, eh?

SO whilst my upstairs neighbor’s children continue to STOMP their little feet across the ENTIRETY of the floor (MY ceiling) as fast as they fuckin’ can while SCREAMING ABSOLUTE NONSENSE at the TOP of their tiny, little lungs until they disorient themselves…I’ll be here, disgruntled, pumping out words.

Let’s talk about the “nice guy” shall we? Yes. Yes, let’s.

Here’s something for all the “nice guys” out there……MAN THE FUCK UP. sorry, I didn’t mean that…

Yes I did.

Ok, lemme take a step back. Because someone can go on and on and on and on…and on…about the phrase “Man the Fuck Up” there’s an incredibly classy, kind of old-fashioned website devoted to it called “The Art of Manliness” I recommend it, it’s one of my favorites. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about the “nice guys” out there.

In my opinion, (which may or may not mean anything considering the vastness of the multiverse) this Millennial day in age holds two types of “nice guys” the Nice-Guy Douchebags and the Nice-Guy Pansy. The difference, as it usually is, is how each conducts himself around whomever he’s attracted to.

The Nice-Guy Douchebag will conduct himself just like any other douchebag…in fact, now that I think of it, the Nice-Guy Douchebag is still just a douchebag; only after the assertion of his douchebaggery does he PROCLAIM (falsely) to be a “nice guy”

Example: A guy expresses interest in a person. That person is not interested rejected guy COMPLETELY overreacts. I only know this because I’ve seen it.

Girl: “Oh, I’m flattered, but no thank you…”
Guy: “w/e bitch, fuck u anyway ur so fuckin stuck up you had a chance with a NICE GUY like me, but w/e u fucked that up for urself lol”

Let’s just clear something up, I NEVER take “lol” seriously…never.

Secondly, yes, essentially that is what will happen. This weird phenomenon where dudes think it’s ok to bash a girl because he isn’t confident enough to take her rejection.

Fuck that, and fuck you, douche, go play lead guitar in your metal-core band.


NEXTLY, and FINALLY, (thank gawd) is the Nice-Guy Pansy. This is the “nice guy” who’s too mice for his own good. We’ve all met him, I guess think George McFly, Marty’s dad in Back to the Future…or…if you’ve committed the unthinkable and HAVE NEVER SEEN BACK TO THE FUTURE 1) watch it and 2) then I guess think of, oh I dunno, a cupcake that’s too sweet.

…what? you don’t eat cupcakes? Not even gluten-free. dairy free, pasture-raised, vegetarian carrot-cake cupcakes?

Then I, uh, I dunno…the door is that way…

but you get it, right? TOO nice. The flaw in THIS “nice guy” is that he’s a whiner. He’ll complain about lack of attention from girls or guys or whomever and he won’t know that it’s because everyone just wants to be his friend and almost no one wants to see him naked …except for that really sweet girl who works at the frozen yogurt shop. she might.

Anyways,  what I’m gettin’ at is that, if you HAD to choose one and only one, it is better to be the “nice guy” as opposed to the bad boy (this conclusion is purely based on the karma factor, in which I starkly believe) BUT the trick is, as it is with EVERYTHING, is that there has to be a balance. Balance the nice guy with the bad boy and you get someone who knows how to respect people, but you also get someone who knows and feels when that primal attraction kicks in. Find a balance. It’s better with both. You can be the nice guy and still not finish last.


If I Don’t Hear from You, I’m Assuming You’re Dead (A rant about the communication debacle)

If I Don’t Hear from You, I’m Assuming You’re Dead (A rant about the communication debacle)

I gotta be honest; definitely been droppin’ the ball with this consistency thing. I guess that’s life but I also I think I’ve been sick.

Like, physically. I already know I’m twisted in my head. That’s evident.

But I say I think I’ve been sick because I haven’t ACTUALLY been out of commission. My body has just been taking the necessary precautions to ensure that I do not, in fact, succumb to the day to day hazards of the human condition…

You know, germs ‘n shit

Or maybe I’ve been asking too much of myself. Too many days bitchin’ about shit is unhealthy…or is it the healthiest thing ever…? Fuck man, I don’t know. Anyways, if you haven’t guessed by now the language in this post will not be appropriate in a professional environment…once again, NOT the environment I wanna be in.

Alright, this one is layin’ in out on the proverbial clothesline and encompasses everyone involved.

If I call you, text you, email you, Instagram DM you, Snap you, Kik you or try to get a hold of you on any and every form of social media and/or communicatory (might be a word) platform and what I said warrants a response, and I don’t receive a response…

…you’re dead.

This is not to be confused with the phrase “you’re dead to me” because the latter specifically holds the notion that I, in fact, know you’re alive and choose not to acknowledge this detail.

No, I don’t get an answer within 12 hours of my initial outreaching, you’ve died, and the only possible way you can reanimate yourself is to contact me in some way, shape, or form.

Carrier pigeon is the preferred media.

For the sake of argument and keeping things interesting, we’ll remain within the dating realm (i.e. if some guy/girl is trying to get a hold of some other guy/girl in the interest of getting to know said guy/girl and also maybe, subliminally, to see the guy/girl in question without any clothes on).

It is unfortunately necessary sometimes (ok…most times) to distance yourself from someone who you no longer want to be affiliated with. And the only way to do that is to cut off communication completely. The most common way to do THAT is to LITERALLY not talk to the person…at all…on anything…ever. This means, no calls, texts, emails, snaps, DMs, chats, or kiks despite how much the other party might try to get into contact.

Like I said, most times this is unfortunately necessary even if you’ve told the person in question GENUINELY “Hey, I’m glad to have met you but I don’t think this is going to work out.” Sometimes you just don’t have chemistry and that’s TOTALLY ok.

I want to reiterate that (shh, listen): NOT HAVING CHEMISTRY WITH SOMEONE ELSE IS OK. You’re not supposed to. Jeezus..could you imagine? That’d be exhausting.

I understand, (since, it seems, we’re actually, talking about me this time around); I’m kind of a dork. I’m kind of a geek, and I’m DEFINITELY fuckin’ weird (I’m a creep I’m a weirdo what the fuck am I doin’ here).

I am not everyone’s cup of coffee. I mean, I could be the richest, boldest, darkest (HA!) smoothest roast of espresso bean this side of the western hemisphere…but there are still A LOT of girls who aren’t going to dig espresso (they can’t handle the ‘kick’ hashtag winkyface…[I’m a dork])

You could be INSANELY HOTT to one person and someone else still isn’t going to like the way your face looks, or they’re gonna think you’re too skinny, or too muscular, or any number of other things because people (myself included) are shallow, and superficial…at face value (see what I did there?) You could be the richest, smoothest, creamiest avocado of the bunch, and someone still isn’t going to like avocados (by the way, RUN, you don’t need that kind of negativity in your life).

There is one rule that I have with regards to trying to get a hold of someone, and that is the four strike rule (because three is too few and baseball is boring). You have four chances to try to connect or re-connect with someone before you move on (and If you have to move on, it’s ok, their loss). If you call, text, email, blah, blah, blah, or blah on 4 SEPARATE occasions without any type of response (regardless of the time that it took to receive that response) then let it go (NO!…STOP SINGING). Persistence is admirable, it shows a sincere desire to want to see someone, but OVER persistence equals creepiness. If someone doesn’t make an effort to communicate with you, then they don’t deserve your effort. It’s healthy to move on. Someone somewhere will DIG avocados.


Imma end on that note. We’ll resume THAT thought the next time around.

Cheers, Beautiful People,


Why do you DO that to yourself? (a rant about the age old question)

Why do you DO that to yourself? (a rant about the age old question)

I would like to start by stating that there is good crazy and there is bad crazy. Normalcy is an illusion. It’s also relative. There’s a thing that says “…blah blah blah…normal…blah blah…because what’s ‘normal’ for the spider is chaos for the fly.” Essentially it’s a proverb that says that “normalcy” is relative/subjective…

Am I already repeating myself? Shoot, prolly… I said it, I’ll say it again (and, you know, probably again) there is GOOD crazy and there is BAD crazy.


GOOD crazy will accidentally make eye contact with another driver sitting at a red light while belting out its favorite song and CONTINUE looking that person in the eye until the light turns green, regardless of the seething awkwardness that both parties feel.

There’s no such thing as an awkward situation, only awkward people. (I’m will reiterate that MANY times. Keep a tally. Cuz it’s true).

BAD crazy has the potential to be scary. Bad crazy will break into your apartment and take pictures of your empty bed, then TEXT the pictures in question to you wondering where you are and why you didn’t come home last night. Don’t ask me how I know this…ok ok ok, it happened to a friend of mine. BAD crazy will ALSO receive said texts, show me, get really scared…then decide that the only way to remedy the situation is to go to Disneyland with the person who broke into their apartment.

Good. Great. Fine. No, yeah, I’ll just go fuck myself.

Oh yeah, whatever you do, DO NOT use this post as a slide for your powerpoint presentation at work, as it is Not Safe For a Work environment. (NSFW)

“Why do you fuckin’ do that to yourself?” I’ve asked many times.

(By the way this rant was inspired by my insanely pretty roommate…I probably should’ve delivered that a little more tactfully. Only an IDIOT would admit something like that to everyone within the realm of the interwebs)…

Oh, wait.

Welp, can’t unsay it (I can, in fact, choose to go back and push the little ‘delete’ key until the words disappear) I CHOOSE NOT TO…HA! Anyways, if you’re reading, and you know who you are, cuz our other roommate is a dude, and I’m just not into dudes…

you’re pretty…there, sorry about not being sorry…moving on.

And I have had explicit permission from said pretty roommate that I may rant about the dealings in her life. So here’s to her and the awesome craziness that is so applicable to EVERYONE WHO WAS EVER INVOLVED WITH A CRAZY PERSON…EVER.

*re-composing hair slick* …almost lost my cool there.

One of the things that my pretty roommate tells me (well, told me. She no longer talks to the dude from my understanding) is that she’s got (had) this thing with this dude where they’ve kinda dated but not really (which means, essentially, that they’ve seen each other naked but not done too much else about it. I’ve been there. I get it.) on and off for two (count ’em, 2) years. (to my understanding, of course. I’m probably about 87% wrong regarding the accuracy of the details).

Either way, she continues to tell me how she’s bummed about how he’s not committing to her and how he’s seeing other girls as well as her but she doesn’t want that, and it’s getting to the point where she’s talking to him but he’s not responding. She then says [and I would LOVE to reiterate that she has given me her permission] “Yeah, he kinda pushes me to the point where I get a little crazy.”

And that’s ok, people do that to people. In fact, Britney Spears sang a song about it. If Britney said it, then it’s totally an actual thing. But why do you/would you/continue to…do that to yourself?

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard something like this either. I hear shit like this from most of my pretty friendgirls (as opposed to girlfriends cuz, well, I’m not gay), most of whom I’d so totally date the fuck out of, (wow, confession day today).

They tell me that they don’t understand why the guys they pick are losers/mean/hypocritical/psychopathic/manipulative/shitheads etc. (you know, mix ‘n match) and the only answer I can provide for them is:

“Well, because guys suck.” I would know. I’m a guy.

The only other form of advice I can give them (or anyone) is that you gotta find someone whose suckery is, well, somewhat endearing. To find someone who you can come up to at any given time and genuinely say “honey, it’s kinda cute when you do (thing) but it drives me nuts sometimes,” and their answer would/could/should go something like “Of course, babe, I didn’t even realize it.” And you communicate, and everyone is happy in their own crazy world of lunacy.

I’m tired of hearing about guys or girls being around guys or girls and saying OUT LOUD “I don’t know why I put up with it…”


Don’t put up with it. Choose (as I have chosen to bare my soul on this fateful Wed-nes-day) not to put up with it. You need neither that NEGATIVITY nor that SHIT in your life. And if you feel you are, as Steph Myer once said “hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with…(blahgadyblahgadyfucknblah)” [did I just reference fuckin’ Twilight?] then, I would advise you, strongly, and professionally and in any, way, shape, or form to step away from the situation. Life is too full of unforeseen and sometimes cripplingly stressful events to WILLINGLY PUT YOURSELF into a situation of that negative variety.

The ability to step away, no matter how difficult, speaks a magnitude about someone’s self-confidence. Which is one of very few things you are ALLOWED to have in this life.

So be confident [Atreyu] don’t put up with the shit that drives you to bad crazy.

Bad crazy stalks people. Bad crazy is the naked tweaker running against on-coming traffic waving a massive, wobbly, neon-green, double-sided dildo above his head, valiantly demanding a trial-by-combat to each Prius as it hums passed him at 73 miles per gallon.

Try to un-see that.

Be good crazy. Good crazy drives down to San Diego from Simi Valley just for a burrito. Good crazy is loud at all the right times. Good crazy kisses EVERYONE. Good crazy will accept you for exactly who you are, know why? Cuz we’re all mad here (reference mic-drop).

*POP…feedback, people upset, baby crying, security called, yelled at by the sound guy for dropping his equipment*


As always, if you wanna talk about things or just bitch at me for being wrong, leave me a comment…then, you know, subscribe anyway cuz deep down you like what I have to say about shit.

Cheers, beautiful people,


C’mon, man. (a rant about online dating from a straight guy. One of many I’m sure)

C’mon, man. (a rant about online dating from a straight guy. One of many I’m sure)

So Imma stick to posting on Mundaiz (Mondays), Wed-nez-daez (Wednesdays [show me someone who doesn’t sound it out when they’re typing]) and Saterdayz (Saturdays). Because consistency is key. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the third rule of the major five.

It goes 1)Safety First 2) then Teamwork 3) Consistency 4) Communication 5) & Consideration…don’t ask, I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.

and communication is the key to any good relationship so if none of those days work for you…suck it up and read it another time, it’s not going anywhere.

THAT being said, I would like to give my very first forewarning to the beautiful people reading these words. This post is Not Safe For Work ([NSFW for the computer layman] almost none of them will be). There will be language in the genuine-ist of forms. If I offend you, I’m sorry…no, I’m not. Bueno. *Deep Breath*

Holy FUCKING shit.

Goodness FUCKING Gracious

Jiminey FUCKING Christmas

or (for all my atheists out there) Jesus FUCKING Christ (& being raised a Christian, it still stung my fingers to type it…huh)

Gentlemen. boys. boys. boys. Come. On. Man, We’re so much better than this (are we?). Yes, yes we fuckin’ are…

…now you’re supposed to ask “but wait…what?” *sigh* Lemme lay it down for ya.

We as the Millennial generation have been hashtag blessed with the wonderful apparatus known as the internet (there’s a joke in there about great power needing great responsibility…fukt THAT up). With this platform, the very primal, still daunting, activity of DATING has been made much EASIER. One does not even have to venture from one’s double bed to enter into the “dating scene.” The internet has its own dating spectrum to optimize convenience and opportunity, both of which it does SPECTACULARLY. I’m not going to get into the details but I’m fairly positive that there are hundreds of sites that are dedicated to finding each specific dating niche and making it easier for the people that identify themselves in that niche to meet each other and indulge in…well, one another I guess.

And Gentlemen, my fellow straight guys, we’re failing…to some…mythologically EPIC degree.

I cannot speak for the other sexualities and genders other than mine, but from what I’ve witnessed and what I’ve heard about the conquests of straight guys attempting (barely) to woo the straight women of the world through the interwebs has been less than admirable. Cringe-worthy is the term.

Now, I am not trying to bag on anyone’s “game.” I’m not saying pick-up lines don’t work. Too many times have I heard “blahblahblah…I knew it was a line. We’re going out on Saturday.” Whatever. The men (I use THAT word lightly) to whom I am pointing the proverbial finger are those whose attempts at verbal seduction chip away at my faith in my side of the species.

Just wait, I have examples.

I was a Tinderer…then I deleted the app…theeeen  I downloaded it again…then I got discouraged (left swipe)…theeeen I got lonely (right swipe) and I’ve been on it ever since. [I won’t say how UNCANNILY similar that sequence is to a few high school ‘couples’  I had the privilege of knowing] Point is, I Tinder. I won’t lie, I enjoy it. And I’ve met a couple very nice ladies who have given me the pleasure of their company (unintentional horn-toot).

A friend of mine who is, in fact, a pretty girl, also indulges in the occasional Tinder escapade. I’m not saying that men’s online dating exploits are easier or more difficult than women’s, but there is one aspect where we as men are failing .

The first message.

Just to get it outta the way, I LOVE it when a girl messages me first. I think it shows that she’s a strong independent woman who don’t need no man…or whatever. Anyways, it’s usually not creepy either, I LOVE it. Shit, I’ll even respond if it’s just “hello” as boring as that may be, it still shows initiative and I like that.

In the Tinder corner of the interwebs it is customary (I guess) for the man to send the first message. Which is completely understandable. Sending the first message to a girl that I’ve matched with would, among other things, show the ability to take the reins. On a very primal level, that’s attractive to women (tha fuck do I know?).

Here’s where we (men) are wrong.

My pretty friend who I told you about matched with this dude the other day, and wouldn’t you know it, the guy had the stones to message her first. His message is word-for-word as follows:

“Hey what’s up? You’re really hot. Not gonna lie, I would love to have sex with you.”


My VERY first thought upon reading this poor attempt at seduction was “Oh, at least he used the proper form of ‘you’re’

But this, my friends, is the ‘R’ rated equivalent of “Hello.”

C’mon man. Let’s break it down, shall we?

“Hey what’s up”: Probably my LEAST favorite phrase in the English phrase book. It’s a greeting, fine. But where do you go after that?…you know what it is? It’s small talk. It means nothing. It’s something you can say to someone where only the worst people would give you a response. I would not want to talk to those people. If someone asks me “Hey what’s up” with the intention of starting a conversation my answer is “No, ask me something else.” Next.

“You’re really hot”: Proper ‘you’re’ form for the win! but…uh…duh. If you didn’t already think that you wouldn’t’ve swiped right. UNLESS (and I’m unfortunately guilty of this too, it was a dark time) you’re participating in a ‘speed round’ where you swipe right no matter who it is until your likes run out. This dude lucked out either way. Still too obvious of a statement. To his credit, again (silver lining, amirite?) he didn’t just stop there. Some unfortunate souls have been known to spout “your hott” and expect an answer from that grammatically incorrect pile of douchebaggery. Let’s finish this.

“I would love to have sex with you.” uh……DUH…fucking DUH. You’re male, she’s female. Your genetically predisposed conglomeration of cells sends a message to your brain that ultimately translates to “PRESERVE THE SPECIES.” And how do humans do that?

The Stork.

But the Stork only comes if you have awesome sex. To my knowledge anyway. There’s a lot of paperwork that needs to be signed, address changes, you have to make an appointment MONTHS in advance. It’s a whole thing….

I get it. I get it. To my friend’s credit she very tactfully provided an answer to the effect of “a lot of people do.” To which he replied “Yeah but they can’t fuck you like I can.”

Nice, bro. *slow clap* totally awesome. Don’t you have Health 201 homework to finish?

Because only some asshole with pubescent-high-school-grade brain waves would be STOOPID enough to think THAT LINE would actually work. Maybe, just maybe, if you take her out, show interest in her as a person and not just some…ugghh we’ll get into that later…QUIT BEING A FUCKIN’ DOUCHE. *smack*

It bums me out to think that my cohorts on this side of the species have the potential to be so utterly selfish. Then again, the more I think about the situation, the more I’m impressed by my friends cool, sophisticated responses in the face of such douchebaggery, the more I get to thinking “well, there’ve gotta be more girls like that out there who don’t put up with bullshit.”

And I guess if there are, and they’re denying the “hey-what’s-uppers” of the world. That leaves a lot of openings for the other guys. The guys who will ask you if you like coffee or tea, or if you prefer the book or the movie or how much money does it take for you to get on stage and sing “Love Shack” at karaoke together. If the universe is fair, and it is sometimes, they’ll both re-download the Tinder app.

And maybe, just maybe, they’ll both swipe right.

Cheers, beautiful people.