Slacker. I just realized it's been over 3 years since updating my Match.com profile. As a 33 year old man who's spent the majority of the last 10 years being single, you get used to being lonely. I've sampled a few different flavors, and taken a few test drives, been in love, and in hate. And I've come to the realization that women are godly creatures, confusing, and worthy of praise as long as you find the right deity. The right description of myself should be guaranteed to increase wetness for some Divine being. Here's my renovated biography:
Columbus.craigslist.org>For Sale>Free
"Don't wait, act now, this amazing offer won't last long. Up for grabs is one slightly used, but broken in old soul. This innocent looking baby face is a masterful disguise for the high mileage, and daily wear and tear on these aged bones. I am weakened at the bends, but not yet broken. Most of my time is spent between perfecting my functioning alcoholism, avid masturbation, and moonlighting as a nudist superhero. I have a snaggletooth, sometimes sleep wearing slippers, and love animals. I am circumcised, skilled with nunchucks, and a generous lover. I am honest, almost to a fault. I have an affinity for short haired brunettes, and a magnetism to those, lightly "touched" by hysteria. I am currently working on a genetic code to shrink humans by 97% to breed a master race of seahorse jockeys, and on a rainy Saturday afternoon it would not be unlikely to find me picketing alongside amputees against the discrimination of the Hokey Pokey. If you feel like you could keep up on this roller coaster to greatness, find me on facebook, I'd love to have a partner in crime."
Does this narrative make me sound too picky?
1.15.2012
1.06.2012
God's Punchlines
Close your eyes and picture this(don't actually close your eyes, keep reading).
Imagine a colorless world. A playground, packed with children, all with hair, skin, and eyes the purest white you've ever seen. Innocent, and eagerly awaiting their turn on the slide, a dark tunnel ready to deliver these precious angels to anxiously awaiting parents in maternity wards all over the world. God, in whatever form you envision him, is sitting at the top. There is a pair of scissors and an endless box of straws beside him. He pulls out a single straw and cuts it into three uneven pieces. A group of children, excited and nervous step forward. God holds out his fist, and in front of him holds the three straws, all evenly as not to reveal their sizes.
"Go ahead, don't be afraid", his baritone voice gives a calming effect. The first child inches forward and pulls a medium straw from the giant stone hands. "Good choice" the voice booms. God lays his hand on the boy's shoulder, turning his skin a golden bronze, hair black, and eyes brown. He shuffles the boy forward and directs him into the darkness.
Next, a girl approaches, chances slimming, but still hopeful. Her frail hand grabs a straw. Hesitant and wavering, she pulls the long straw and gives a shining grin of relief. "Excellent" God says in an approving tone. He pats her on the head, ruffling the long locks that turn to a sunshine yellow, and eyes vivid blue. No need for direction, the girl runs and springs head first into the chute.
The last boy, defeated before he even got a chance, trudges up to his Maker. Dejected and demoralized, he pulls the short straw, knowing what looms. A swift pat on the back lurches the boy forward, turning his hair a luminous shade of copper orange, eyes green, and skin a shade even lighter than the purest white you tried to imagine. "Better luck next time kid", the voice gives the most genuine laugh in the history of laughter, as the boy fades into oblivion.
gin·ger/ˈjinjər/
1. Noun: A hot fragrant spice made from the rhizome of a plant. It is chopped or powdered for cooking, preserved in syrup, or candied.
2. Verb: To treat or flavor with ginger
3. Adj: A derogatory term for any supposed human bearing reddish/orange hair. Genetically inferior and lacking the melanin necessary to sustain long periods in the sunlight, these mythical beasts are normally shamed into lives of ridicule and seclusion.
The word "Ginger" is the "N word" of our generation. Twenty-five years from now school children will be given detention for being overheard in class saying "ginga please", only to defend themselves with, "I'm allowed to say it, one of my best friends is ginger". If humans as a species ate their young, gingers would be a mother's first meal post-birth, to spare them a life of mockery and humiliation.
Disclaimer: This author does not promote the discrimination of any person or persons, unless they really deserve it.
Imagine a colorless world. A playground, packed with children, all with hair, skin, and eyes the purest white you've ever seen. Innocent, and eagerly awaiting their turn on the slide, a dark tunnel ready to deliver these precious angels to anxiously awaiting parents in maternity wards all over the world. God, in whatever form you envision him, is sitting at the top. There is a pair of scissors and an endless box of straws beside him. He pulls out a single straw and cuts it into three uneven pieces. A group of children, excited and nervous step forward. God holds out his fist, and in front of him holds the three straws, all evenly as not to reveal their sizes.
"Go ahead, don't be afraid", his baritone voice gives a calming effect. The first child inches forward and pulls a medium straw from the giant stone hands. "Good choice" the voice booms. God lays his hand on the boy's shoulder, turning his skin a golden bronze, hair black, and eyes brown. He shuffles the boy forward and directs him into the darkness.
Next, a girl approaches, chances slimming, but still hopeful. Her frail hand grabs a straw. Hesitant and wavering, she pulls the long straw and gives a shining grin of relief. "Excellent" God says in an approving tone. He pats her on the head, ruffling the long locks that turn to a sunshine yellow, and eyes vivid blue. No need for direction, the girl runs and springs head first into the chute.
The last boy, defeated before he even got a chance, trudges up to his Maker. Dejected and demoralized, he pulls the short straw, knowing what looms. A swift pat on the back lurches the boy forward, turning his hair a luminous shade of copper orange, eyes green, and skin a shade even lighter than the purest white you tried to imagine. "Better luck next time kid", the voice gives the most genuine laugh in the history of laughter, as the boy fades into oblivion.
gin·ger/ˈjinjər/
1. Noun: A hot fragrant spice made from the rhizome of a plant. It is chopped or powdered for cooking, preserved in syrup, or candied.
2. Verb: To treat or flavor with ginger
3. Adj: A derogatory term for any supposed human bearing reddish/orange hair. Genetically inferior and lacking the melanin necessary to sustain long periods in the sunlight, these mythical beasts are normally shamed into lives of ridicule and seclusion.
The word "Ginger" is the "N word" of our generation. Twenty-five years from now school children will be given detention for being overheard in class saying "ginga please", only to defend themselves with, "I'm allowed to say it, one of my best friends is ginger". If humans as a species ate their young, gingers would be a mother's first meal post-birth, to spare them a life of mockery and humiliation.
Disclaimer: This author does not promote the discrimination of any person or persons, unless they really deserve it.
1.05.2012
Death is worth every penny.
Staring ahead, behind the wheel of your car you ask yourself, "is today going to be the day?" You've lived a charmed life. Cheated death at every corner. Every tractor trailer changing lanes in front of you on the highway, every walk outside in a thunderstorm, even the chicken pox you had at age 7 would've been a death sentence 150 years ago. Today you welcome the dangers, fearlessly inviting the dance with the grim reaper. You reject the phobias of a mortal man. "I am invincible". This existential meditation plays out in a millisecond of thought until a muffled voice interrupts your focus, "if your screen's correct that'll be $6.91, please pull around".
1.03.2012
The Perils of Manscaping.
The average male body contains roughly a gallon and a half of blood, accounting for 12lbs of total body weight. On that Saturday afternoon, I joined a weight loss program that I pictured in bold red letters on the cover of Women's Health magazine's May issue, "Look great in that bikini, shed those last 2lbs in 2 minutes!"
There's a rush of pride that overcomes all men naked in front of a bathroom mirror. Gut sucked in more than usual, triceps slightly flexed, while leaning over the sink so the light accentuates the outline of distant relatives to what used to be pectoral muscles, and hides the small stretch marks, slightly discolored in the crease of the armpit. In the most primitive sense, what woman could possibly resist? And when she saw me tonight on our 6 month anniversary, knowing the forethought that went into my grooming adventure, she had to be overwhelmed with desire and appreciation.
Lukewarm water puddling in the sink, the new disposable razor lays on the white porcelain like it were resting on a satin pillow. The mp3 player attached to a docking station switches to Otis Redding, prophetically setting the mood for the impending slow dance. "Do I need a razor or lawn mower for this job?". I cleverly grin at my reflection, as if I just made the crowd at Madison Square Garden piss their pants in laughter. The extensive debate of plastic razor over beard trimmers plays out one last time. "You've shaved your face for years, just follow the grain and you can throw it away when you're done", "but it is fairly thick, and let's be honest, if it weren't for those bottom 2 ribs you'd have your face down there all the time anyway". The razor seemed more sanitary.
The artistic side of me pictured the creative ways I could style and shape my manhood's mane: the landing strip, the Superman triangle, my initials, her initials, the soul patch that when standing on my hands would look like Hitler with a droopy nose? "Why am I standing on my hands?" I thought. This was a vital and important decision, as manscaping, when done correctly, was like looking in a rear view mirror. "Objects may appear larger than they really are".
"You've been in there a while, is everything okay?" she yelled from the bedroom. "Just walkin the dog" I said. Our own little inside joke that would take on new meaning when she realized later what I was really doing.
The shaving gel was unfamiliar and crisp like the hands of the Asian doctor in 7th grade that prodded, checking for a hernia in my first physical. "This isn't so bad" I thought to myself as I took those first few swipes. "It's actually kind of soothing, and this revitalizing additive might actually have a placebo effect and make me more youthful tonight". Distracting thoughts as my legs inched farther and farther apart. "Is that a new mole or has it always been under...", my eyes expand and eyebrows raise as I feel a slight twinge.
People who survive traumatic situations always use the phrase, "my life flashed before my eyes", and until then I never truly understood how accurate that was. In a matter of 30 seconds my thought process changed from, "shit, i need to get a cloth", to "it's less than a quarter inch cut, how is there this much blood", to "Oh God! I wish I'd paid more attention in my Jr. High anatomy class. Was this going to diminish all future erections? Would this blood regenerate or was there a reservoir that I'd just depleted valuable resources from?", confirming that blood loss in one head does affect the other.
As I lay bleeding on the icy tile, consciousness became a drifting luxury, half from the blood loss, half from the sight of my own blood, and 100% because of the sight of my own blood loss from my genitals. Before the blackout I managed to unlock the bathroom door and rustle around making enough noise to draw attention. The last memory I recall is the sight of pure fear and worry on the most beautiful face I'd ever seen.
Fading glimpses of paramedics asking for blood type and medical history, and the tight grip of my savior locked onto my hand filled that carriage ride to my local emergency room. The doctors made the decision for me to go fully clean shaven, to sterilize the area for my two stitches. Laying there, during the transfusion, I heard the sweet words that solidified my love for the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. The paper of my hospital gown crinkled as she leaned in and whispered in my ear, "next time you're thinking of walking the dog, tell me and I'll hold your balls out of the way".
There's a rush of pride that overcomes all men naked in front of a bathroom mirror. Gut sucked in more than usual, triceps slightly flexed, while leaning over the sink so the light accentuates the outline of distant relatives to what used to be pectoral muscles, and hides the small stretch marks, slightly discolored in the crease of the armpit. In the most primitive sense, what woman could possibly resist? And when she saw me tonight on our 6 month anniversary, knowing the forethought that went into my grooming adventure, she had to be overwhelmed with desire and appreciation.
Lukewarm water puddling in the sink, the new disposable razor lays on the white porcelain like it were resting on a satin pillow. The mp3 player attached to a docking station switches to Otis Redding, prophetically setting the mood for the impending slow dance. "Do I need a razor or lawn mower for this job?". I cleverly grin at my reflection, as if I just made the crowd at Madison Square Garden piss their pants in laughter. The extensive debate of plastic razor over beard trimmers plays out one last time. "You've shaved your face for years, just follow the grain and you can throw it away when you're done", "but it is fairly thick, and let's be honest, if it weren't for those bottom 2 ribs you'd have your face down there all the time anyway". The razor seemed more sanitary.
The artistic side of me pictured the creative ways I could style and shape my manhood's mane: the landing strip, the Superman triangle, my initials, her initials, the soul patch that when standing on my hands would look like Hitler with a droopy nose? "Why am I standing on my hands?" I thought. This was a vital and important decision, as manscaping, when done correctly, was like looking in a rear view mirror. "Objects may appear larger than they really are".
"You've been in there a while, is everything okay?" she yelled from the bedroom. "Just walkin the dog" I said. Our own little inside joke that would take on new meaning when she realized later what I was really doing.
The shaving gel was unfamiliar and crisp like the hands of the Asian doctor in 7th grade that prodded, checking for a hernia in my first physical. "This isn't so bad" I thought to myself as I took those first few swipes. "It's actually kind of soothing, and this revitalizing additive might actually have a placebo effect and make me more youthful tonight". Distracting thoughts as my legs inched farther and farther apart. "Is that a new mole or has it always been under...", my eyes expand and eyebrows raise as I feel a slight twinge.
People who survive traumatic situations always use the phrase, "my life flashed before my eyes", and until then I never truly understood how accurate that was. In a matter of 30 seconds my thought process changed from, "shit, i need to get a cloth", to "it's less than a quarter inch cut, how is there this much blood", to "Oh God! I wish I'd paid more attention in my Jr. High anatomy class. Was this going to diminish all future erections? Would this blood regenerate or was there a reservoir that I'd just depleted valuable resources from?", confirming that blood loss in one head does affect the other.
As I lay bleeding on the icy tile, consciousness became a drifting luxury, half from the blood loss, half from the sight of my own blood, and 100% because of the sight of my own blood loss from my genitals. Before the blackout I managed to unlock the bathroom door and rustle around making enough noise to draw attention. The last memory I recall is the sight of pure fear and worry on the most beautiful face I'd ever seen.
Fading glimpses of paramedics asking for blood type and medical history, and the tight grip of my savior locked onto my hand filled that carriage ride to my local emergency room. The doctors made the decision for me to go fully clean shaven, to sterilize the area for my two stitches. Laying there, during the transfusion, I heard the sweet words that solidified my love for the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. The paper of my hospital gown crinkled as she leaned in and whispered in my ear, "next time you're thinking of walking the dog, tell me and I'll hold your balls out of the way".
1.01.2012
I will tell you in another life, when we are both cats.
Cats. That one word can encapsulate an entire novel of arrogance, entitlement, indifference, and disdain usually reserved for autobiographies of 16th century nobility. Haughty isn't a strong enough adjective to assign these lofty creatures. We coddle, pamper, and indulge every fleeting pass hoping our attention will be acknowledged and affection will be returned. In some religions, reincarnation is the passing of the soul to a being greater than the life before. One can only assume if Utopia exists, that is surely where cats transcend, as anything else would be a demotion. I fear death a little less thinking I may be awarded rebirth as a 40 year old single woman's "Not Mr. Right, but Mr. Right Meow".
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