Giving Myself A Hand

I’m one of the world’s millions of single twenty-somethings.

I have no one to keep me company at night, no one to take out for dinner, no one to cuddle up to when it’s cold outside and just not warm enough inside.

But let it be known, I’m OK with that. Really.

See, I’m ok with that because, as you know, I have myself. Oh yes, that’s exactly what I mean.

I handle myself quite well, most of the time.

It’s just that, sometimes, even I’m not in the mood for it.

And while that shouldn’t be a problem, it turns out to be quite the predicament when I convince myself to suck it up and go for it. They do say it’s like pizza, right?

Most of the time it’s just fine, but every so often, it fails miserably.

Have you ever fallen asleep on yourself?

I have.

Yes, friends, I’m man enough to say that there are times in my life when even I don’t do it for me and I wake up the next morning with my pants around my ankles and severely confused.

More than once.

(Actually, a few times. For serious.)

Leaving My Mark

A few months back I was attending a gathering at the home of a quite well-known personality in town; his house is immediately recognizable to most passers-by, and thankfully for us, he was, at the time, in an entirely different country.

So there we were, a moderately-sized number of us, drinking over-priced wine that wasn’t ours and putting our feet on furniture that had likely never been sat upon by such a motley crew.

After a few glasses of wine I headed off to find the bathroom (third door on the right, roughly a football field’s length from the kitchen). After doing what one normally does in a bathroom, I contemplated while washing my hands:

The chances of me ever being in this house – this house – ever again are a million to one. I have to do something to leave my mark.

I stood in front of the over-sized mirror as I held the Egyptian cotton hand towel like a crying baby. There must be something I could do to conquer this territory!

But nothing came to me.

I considered taking an extremely large shit (nothing doing).

Perhaps I could quickly strip down and jump in the filling bath tub. (nothing doing).

And then it came to me:

I need to masturbate in this house.

That was it. There was no better way to (not so) symbolically consecrate the space as my own. No other act, save perhaps for killing a man with my bare hands (too suspect) would bring me the kind of satisfaction I had been craving.

And you know what? Now, when I walk up that famous street, with its stately old mansions that have seen famous faces come and go – I can turn to whomever I’m with and simply say, “There’s a part of me inside that building. Forever.”

God Loves Horse Porn (or, maybe it’s just me)

Originally Posted September 1, 2005

So with the advent of my new life as the author of a big-boy blog comes the inevitable reading of the other blogs that are out there.My findings are two-fold: Either you’re a coherent, semi-witty person who, like me, has a little to say about everything (or everything to say about little), or you’re really, really into porn.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of porn. I think it has its magical qualities and holds its rightful place in our society.

It’s just that I’m lost by those among us who use their blogs to show the world the benefits of bestiality and necrophilia. I’m not a particularly big fan of either sex with animals or dead people (although I do wonder what animals having sex with dead people would look like).

I do, though, have an odd interest in the people that choose to post pictures of this nature. Are they getting a cheap thrill out of showing others what it looks like to watch their wives doin’ the deed with the neighbor’s dog? Are there really that many horses surfing the internet saying, “Man! I’m sick of all this vanilla horse-sex. Where all the white women at?”

The abundance of the woman-horse sex pictures leads me to believe that there are.

And they’re horny.

I’m just as intrigued by the porn that is posted on blogs with the various Asian languages. (My minor in Linguistics has given me the tools necessary to decipher the funny shapes and lines as Asian-style writing. That and my frequent trips to Cozy Noodles) It’s times like these I wish I was a master of Asian languages.

I’m sure that the captions under the pictures of the man bangin’ the dead chick are quite amusing. Sadly, though, it’s a joke that only those on the Eastern side of the planet will understand.

It’s not all that often that I’m on the outside of a joke that one half of the planet is able to laugh at. It seems, though, that with the way the population is growing that it’s something I’m going to need to get used to.

I suppose this is one of those times where an imagination would come in handy. I’m sure that if I thought long enough I could decipher what’s actually happening.

If that didn’t work, I could create quite the dialogue between the two characters. That would be an advantage – you might think that sex between one live and one dead person would be, in reality, a monologue, but if I’m making up the script, why can’t they both talk? Perhaps we could see the soul of the dead person talking with little word balloons coming from heaven?

Well, I know what I’m doing this afternoon.