Testing

Is this thing still on?

This can't be normal...

Could someone out there please explain how in God’s green earth I got a splinter on the tip of my dick?

Did I get wasted and cornhole Pinocchio? Did I accidentally mistake a 2x4 for the lotion I usually use to jack off? Do I need to check if my girlfriend has been using a plywood diaphragm? Seriously, what the hell happened?

Change of Address

After I deleted Law & Alcoholism , some porn spammers stole my URL. I've set up a "Greatest Hits" blog with the best 30 or so posts from the past 2 ½ years at http://tortofcockblocking.blogspot.com, so update your links.

Fuck it,

Legally Intoxicated

Ok, so here I am. I’m a third-year law student looking for a job. I’d really like to clerk, and I’d really like to do it for a federal judge. I’d really like to move to another state, which this helps me to do. But part of me wants a bit of the status, too, and some of the other things that go along with that position. I have to be honest enough with myself to admit it.

There are two problems, really. The first is that I don’t come from a big-name school. I’ve done extremely well, with some straight-A semesters and some very close to it. I’m in the top 5 of my class. I’ve done all the law review things, competitions, clubs—basically everything I could get my hands on. And still, I think people, judges or firms, look at my school on my application and toss it in the circular file. I feel like it would get a second look if I went to Harvard, even if my rank (percentage-wise) weren’t anywhere near what it’s at. That’s unbelievably frustrating.

The second problem is that it isn’t who you know—it’s who knows you. I’m entering a whole new world, here, and it’s completely foreign to me. Something they don’t tell you about law jobs: often, there’s a point where your resume stops and your contacts begin. Sure, good grades can get your foot in the door (sometimes—see above), but usually you aren’t getting through it without someone standing beside you to say, “He’s with me.” I’m a first-generation college graduate, for Christ sake. My family never thought I would go to graduate school, and especially that I would ever be this successful. It’s aggravating to have clawed your way up from nothing and be stopped. Sometimes I feel like Scarface has stepped into my Horatio Alger book—and here’s his little friend.

Not that I feel entitled to get any particular job, mind you. I think they need to be earned. If that requires starting low and working hard, that’s fine with me. But it’s the fact that it takes more than talent, more than ability, and more than smarts. It takes somebody on high to give you that extra push. And if you don’t have that person, well, that’s just too bad.

Of course, maybe I’m making too much of it. Perhaps my dislike of this system is simply a factor of not growing up in it. Do I lack social competence? Do I dislike this world just because I’m not good at finding my way around it? Maybe so—but we should ask ourselves what kind of world we want. When we tell our children how to be successful, do we tell little Suzy that the best way to get what one wants in life is to parasitically latch onto other people and get them to pull strings for one’s benefit? No. We tell her to work hard, and get good grades.

How hypocritical of us.

Freak of Nature

I'm watching football and I keep seeing that online matchmaking commercial - the one where the guy says you really can find a girl who likes to watch football - is it eHarmony?

I guess I'd have to admit that I'd like to find someone with whom to share some things. I like my freedom, my independence, but I do get lonely at times. I don't want to get married right now, but I do want to be "special" to someone. I just can't seem to find the right person. And, unfortunately, for the first time in at least NINE years, I found someone I really like but I don't think the feeling is mutual. Sigh.

But I won't do the online thing. Haven't done match, yahoo, or eHarmony. I can't figure out exactly what keeps me from throwing together a profile and just "seeing how it goes." I will admit to a bit of a preconceived notion, though. I want to find a man who wants to find a "girlfriend," a person that would be a good 'fit' for him. That said, I just can't imagine such a man spending time on one of those websites. Just knowing he was out there, browsing profiles, tweaking his own, would make me suspect he had a problem, a major malfunction of some kind. So not fair of me, but there it is. And perhaps the men who engage in online dating are thinking the same sorts of things about the women who do the same. Seems like a no win situation, I guess.

A question

Why do guys care so much that a girl's panties and bra match?

Mary Juana and Al Cahol make a strange couple. Sometimes they fight like rabid dogs. Other times, they just lay down and make sweet love . the problem is, I don't know what kind of relationship they're having tonight. I can predict whether a preseason bet on the Cardinals to win the Superbowl is good. But that's just because I'm not an idiot. Figuring out what the foreign substances coursing through my nervous system right now are doing to me sucks.

Sometimes I think I'm smarter when I'm high. Tonight is not one of those nights. There's a fog of cotton blocking my brain.

I didn't really have a point here. I'm just getting it out of my system.

DUI

In some ways, I actually enjoy the thrill of driving drunk. I am usually extra-careful when I do it, and I have never been pulled over or hit anything. I think I like the challenge of driving well enough not to get caught, like how kleptomaniacs must feel walking out of a Target. I realize this is horrible, but that's how I feel.

Details Please

Can anyone please explain to me how this vibrator (The Cone) works?

I must be a total idiot because I watched the video on the website and I still don't get it!

not cool

There's nothing worse than taking a shit while you have a hemorrhoid that's flaring up.

What are the chances?

That I'm the only attorney in the country, or the world, sitting at her desk listening to LL Cool J's "Doin' It," doing Kegel exercises, in desperate need of a cold shower...or something?

Can you believe he's still single?

A sex-starved man has the same right to rape a woman as a famished man does to steal a sandwich:

How could a man's relative 'need' for sex with a particular woman ever exceed her need not to be raped, anyway?

Quite easily from the man's perspective. This is considerably different from our sandwich problem. Men and women both need to eat and share the same outlook on who should get the sandwich. But why should the man care about a pain inflicted on the woman he doesn't feel, and that indeed provides him with pleasure? Several reasons, actually - protecting paternity, protecting his female relatives, who share his genese [sic], and probably others that don't come to mind. So the men collectively agree not to rape women for their own benefit, and without consulting the women on the terms of their repreive [sic]. And to make that rule stronger, we cloak it in religion, honor, and other bullshit, which most people, like you, are taken in by.

(h/t)

Fiction

Every night before I fall to sleep I tell myself that tomorrow, the next day, is going to be the one where I stop drinking. I’m going to put the bottle of vodka down and I’m going to step away and never come back. I know it’s not a healthy way to deal with things in my life. But every morning, every morning I go right back to the bottle. There’s vodka in everything. Vodka in the coffee. Vodka in the Dr. Pepper. Vodka in the orange juice. Vodka in the vodka. I keep vodka in the trunk of my car. There’s vodka in my glove box. There’s vodka in my laptop bag. There’s vodka in my flask which remains in my pocket at all times. There are at least three full bottles of vodka underneath my bed. I refuse to count the empty ones.

I want to stop, but I don’t want to stop. I enjoy drinking too much to stop. I don’t think I’m dependent on alcohol, but to tell you the truth, I have no idea. I’ve never stopped drinking long enough for any withdrawal symptoms to show. Maybe I am dependent and I don’t even know it. I’ve never tried to stop drinking. At this point, I don’t know if it’s because I’m scared I won’t be able to stop, or if I’m scared because I will.

I wonder if anyone has noticed that I drink all the time. It’s not that I care if they haven’t, I’m just curious if people can tell. There’s no odor of alcohol that follows me around like a cloud over my head. I’m never falling down drunk at nine in the morning. Years of alcohol use have left me with an insanely high tolerance. Most days I don’t begin feeling drunk until ten or eleven at night. A slight warmth crawls over my body between two and four. Gradually, the feeling gets stronger until I’m happy.

Everyone asks heavy drinkers why they do it. Should I care that nobody asks me? Because I don’t. But in case you wondered, here’s why I do it. I drink because it makes me happy. It makes me stop focusing my inadequacies. It makes me stop thinking about my failures. It makes me stop focusing on the mistakes I’ve made in the past. It keeps me from dreading the mistakes I’ll make in the future. It makes me forget about loved ones I’ve lost. It keeps me from dwelling on the loved ones I haven’t yet met.

Every day I drink all day. Slugs from the bottle here and there. Mixing it into whatever drink I have. I wake up and I’m nervous about what the following day will be bring. By noon, I realize that I don’t care. Every night I end up at a bar. I have a rotation. I don’t want anyone to notice that I’m at one place every single night. I have a mental list of twenty to twenty-five bars. I refuse to visit any of the bars more than once every three weeks.

Eventually I find my way to a cab. The cab drives me back to my empty white-walled apartment. I throw the cabbie a ten and I stumble upstairs. My mind is going three hundred miles an hour and nothing stays still. I rarely make it to my bed. Most nights I collapse on the couch, vodka bottle in hand, only to wake up in the same position six hours later. But I remember, every night before I go to sleep, while I’m staring at the ceiling wondering what I’ve done with my life, I tell myself that tomorrow, the next day, is going to be the one where I stop drinking. I’m going to put the bottle of vodka down and I’m going to step away and never come back.

And for some reason, every night, every single night, I believe myself.

A sign you may blog too much.

BF: I had a horrible nightmare last night.

Me: Really? What was it about?

BF: Well, you had died. And I had to blog about it on this really irritatingly slow data transfer device.