Clearly Erroneous

Testing

2007-10-31T22:54:00.000-04:00

Is this thing still on?

This can't be normal...

2006-11-11T18:22:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-27T18:09:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-13T14:35:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-08T14:34:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-04T12:50:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-09T03:31:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-03T13:36:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-24T19:53:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-19T15:30:00.000-04:00

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

What are the chances?

2006-07-14T15:08:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-07-05T23:53:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-30T08:49:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-06-03T13:13:00.000-04:00

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.

A Happy Mother's Day indeed

2006-05-16T00:38:00.000-04:00

Today's epiphany: many of those mystery bruises mom used to have every month or so when I was growing up probably came from rough sex.

Plan for your future!

2006-05-12T02:09:00.000-04:00

Thinking about it for the last hour or so, I've concluded there's about a 60% chance I'm going to kill myself by the end of the year. My heart says that's probably too low, but my head remembers reading that the depressed make more accurate self evaluations than most people. Then again, it's not because I'm depressed that I think I'm going to kill myself. I'm depressed because analyzed rationally, the most rewarding thing to do with my life is to end it. Since the depression came after the calculation I shouldn't put too much trust in the probability.

This post shouldn't be mistaken as a cry for help. Neither was telling my mom a this week that I'm thinking about doing it. After all, the only thing she could do would be to commit me, and having that stain on my social and legal record would push the necessity up to 100%. Then it would just be an issue of lying about recovery long enough to be released and acquire the means.

No, this post is more about refining that probability. In that regard, I find dwelling on the merits leads to a destructive loop that makes it seem a near certain outcome. Switching gears to think about practicalities like method and surrounding circumstances helps dispel some of that fog, as does writing it down.

Gun, of couse. Shotgun or pistol? I used to think the latter, but with sufficiently long arms the shotgun really wins on certainty and fast availability, and the increased mess is both pretty minor in the scheme of things and not really the direct problem of anyone I care about. With a pistol I'd worry too much about missing the brain stem and lingering too long.

Leave a letter, but keep it short and simple. If I go through with it, it will be for excellent reasons, and the worst reason of all is because you think you're sending a message to someone. If you think no one cares about you you're probably right to a very great degree. They're going to get over whatever minor pain you cause quicker than you or they can imagine, so don't delay that recovery with some maudlin parting shot. So a brief note to mom including, perhaps, a few lines to the rest of the family, and maybe a businesslike email to a few friends notifying them why you aren't returning any calls and where to find about the service, if they're so inclined. No obligation, naturally.

Possessions? I don't have any embarassing porn to dispose of, but I need to remember to delete any old love letter drafts lingering on the hard drive. Give nothing away. That's a big tipoff you need to avoid, and it's even more pathetic than leaving a bunch of overwrought letters. The obvious exception would appear to be pets. Perhaps the best compromise is to drop them off at the Humane Society for adoption and mention that fact in your note. Maybe someone you know will adopt them, maybe someone you don't, maybe no one and they'll be following you in short order, but at least you won't scare them with the noise or provide them with a tempting and distasteful snack.

The most important thing to do, however, is to have a plan. I find focusing on how you're going to die makes it seem slightly less necessary. It's thinking of the ever declining reasons you have to live that will push you over the edge.

Hmm. Let's call it 50/50.

Checkmate

2006-05-03T09:55:00.000-04:00

Back when I was a freshman, I got a credit card. Nobody taught me how credit cards work (and even if they did, I’m pretty irresponsible anyway) so I maxed it out on pizza and beer within a few months. I’ve never gotten around to actually paying it off, and it’s been passed from collection agency to collection agency without success. Now, however, I have to take care of it so I can actually pass Character & Fitness and get admitted to a goddamn bar.

Lucky for me, I’m days away from being a full-on lawyer and I think I have some leverage to get them to settle for even less than they usually would: there’s absolutely no way they can collect if they don’t. I’m invincible.

First off, the collections agency would have to sue me either here (where I go to law school), or my home state. I signed up for the credit card in my home state, and that was the only place I used it. Therefore, my home state is the only place I could be subject to specific in personam for claims arising out of the card, and I’d be subject to general in personam jurisdiction there anyway.

Further, while I’m not sure if there was a choice-of-law provision in the original credit card contract, under my home state’s law, it can only be enforced by the original creditor. This is particularly nice because under my home state’s statute of limitations, actions on debt must be brought within two years. That’s right two years. I’ve been in law school longer than that. So I win automatically.

The only other state I have sufficient contacts to be subject to general in personam jurisdiction is here. Getting sued here doesn’t make a difference, because this state’s choice of law rules would probably apply my home state’s rules, including statute of limitations. So again, I win automatically.

So basically, the only way I can lose is if I get personally served while I’m in another state with unfavorable choice of law rules and a long statute of limitations. And seriously, even if I was taking a roadtrip through a state with shitty law, how would they find out in enough time?

I love being a lawyer. Well, almost a lawyer.

Dazed & Confused

2006-04-20T21:28:00.000-04:00

You know that whole "get high on life" bullshit? Because I tried that a few times and I got a little buzz, but I got way higher rolling a huge blunt today.

Happy 420.

You wanna come over to my place? Okay. I'll be here with balls on.

2006-03-27T15:17:00.000-05:00

I had the biggest “What. The. Fuck?” night last week. It was one of the most random nights I have had in a very long time. You see, I went to the bar around six or so to hang out and watch basketball. By nine o’clock I was drunk. Not “crazy fucked up wasted,” but, just regular drunk.

Also in the bar were this random male (RM) and random female (RF). I was sitting near them, when the guy made some joke, I think I laughed and then made some comment in support of his joke, and I then ended up talking with RM and RF for a while. We were laughing, drinking, joking, watching TV, you know, your usual bar activities. It gets to be about ten or eleven and now I am wasted (not crazy wasted, just normal wasted). Now, RM and RF were, at this point, what I like to refer to as “fucking blitzed out of their minds.” At some point somebody makes a joke about smoking weed (it might have been me, it might have been RF, but I don’t remember). Then this conversations ensues:

RM: Dude, do you want to go get high?
Me: Uh, yeah.
RM: I’m serious. I have like an ounce of weed in my car. We can go get high in the car.
Me: I’m serious too. Let’s fucking go get high.
RM: (to RF) You want to come get high?
RF: But I have to (some lame excuse about not wanting to leave the bar right now)
Me: Well that’s fine. You stay right here, but him and I are about to go get high.
RM: Fuck yeah.
RF: Yeah, I’ll come smoke some weed too.

So we leave the bar and start walking to this guy’s car. Which is about five blocks away. With no cars parked next to it. On the street. Maybe 50 feet away from a street light. Of course, in everyone’s inebriated state, this fazes no one. So we get in the car and RM pulls what is at the very least an ounce of pot out of the glove box along with a bowl, packs the bowl, and fires it up. Mind you, at this point we are all too drunk to be seen in public, and adding weed to the mix is not the best idea – but we are all just drunk enough to think that smoking weed in a car parked on the street downtown is the best idea in the world.

And then RM rolls down all four windows and opens the sunroof. What could possibly be wrong with that? Of course, at the time, my train of thought went something like this: It’s probably not a good idea to open all the windows like that. On the other hand, it is getting pretty hot in here. Sweet, he opened the sunroof too. Now I feel great.

And then RM says, “Dude, is anyone watching for cars?” Now this is the first time anyone mentioned the possibility of cars driving by. Of course, we’re parked downtown so this is more than a simple “possibility.” In fact, no fewer than twenty cars have already driven down the street at this point and nobody has paid any attention and everyone has failed to care. So I answer him, “Nope.” And then I hit the bowl.

Sufficiently stoned, we head back to the bar to get more drunk. Everyone now reeks of alcohol and pot. The best idea would be to calmly walk back to bar in a way that does not draw attention to ourselves. The bad idea would be to start singing Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Da very loudly while skipping down the street while bike cops are riding by. Somehow in my fucked up haze, I have to foresight to tell RM and RF to shut the fuck up once the three cops start staring at us. Luckily we remain out of jail long enough to get back to the bar.

We arrive back at the bar and we start drinking again. At first I’m standing and watching the TV because I don’t have the ability to sit still. Out of nowhere I engage in a little bit of time travel when all of a sudden I’m sitting at the bar nursing a drink while staring blankly into space. I have lost a solid 45 minutes of time. At this point it’s around one in the morning and I make my one smart choice of the night when I realize that I need to get the fuck out of the bar otherwise I’m going to sit there and keep drinking until I am no longer conscious.

I leave the bar and stumble back to car. Then it’s decision time: do I climb in the driver’s seat and chance the drive home so that I can sleep at home, or do I climb in the back seat and sleep? I eventually get my body to pay attention to my brain and I get in the back seat, lie down, and promptly pass out. I woke up somewhere around 5:30 confused as to where I was and what exactly had happened to get me here. Slowly everything comes back to me and I get out of the car, and climb in the front.

About halfway home I realize that I’m still kind of drunk and my eyes are half closed because I’m still really tired and I’m still a little high. There is only one thing to do at a time like this. Stop at McDonald’s because I need some breakfast. I got my food, and once again drove off into the night. I made it home, went straight to my room, ate my food, and passed out while thinking, man, tonight was awesome.

Memorandum for The Uber-Annoying 1L:

2006-03-23T10:36:00.000-05:00

Please move your enormously fat ass out of my seat. Your class is over - now leave.

Nobody gives a good Goddamn about your frizzy hair and your excuses for why you missed class last week and the week before.

Get over yourself and get the fuck out.

Have a nice day.

The 22 y/o virgin

2006-03-20T22:16:00.000-05:00

It was summer, and I was home from school. Drunk in a bar one night, I started something with a local guy who was in his mid-30s. We got drunk and made out every weekend for a few weeks.

Finally, it was the end of summer, and I was going back to school. One night I was drunk, and things were getting particularly "hot and heavy." I knew we'd end up having sex. I whispered to him, "Be gentle. I'm a virgin."

Why? I don't know. Maybe so he'd be gentle. Maybe because in some kind of weird way I thought it was funny.

But certainly not because it was true.

I felt like maybe he put a little more effort into it, paid more attention than he might otherwise. And, the funniest part was afterwards, he asked "Are you ok? Are you sure?" After I assured him that I was alright he said, "I could tell you were a virgin. It was so tight."

Sure I was a virgin. 5 years earlier.

24 y/o virgin: part II

2006-03-18T22:22:00.000-05:00

I've been seeing the 24y/o/V for over 2 months now. I finally got oral sex from her on my birthday, and she said "i want to feel you in me", so I hungoverly at this point ask her "are you sure" she replies yes. In my post-drunk state I insist on lighting candles, you can't take a V-card without candles. So I light candles, grab a condom, and get on top.. Houston we have a problem.. now I've gone down on her before, but I dont really use my hands... she is tight, as in. I can't get it in tight, as in.. there's no way that I can even get 2 fingers in her, let alone my cock. So here I am, ontop of her, one hand on my cock trying to get it in, and we just start laughing and go to sleep... now the question.. how do I loosen her up? I don't think I can buy a series of 3 dildo's for her to "stretch herself out".. I actually like her, because otherwise I wouldn't have lit candles, or would have offered to do her anal instead.

Wilt Chamberlain was a penny stock

2006-03-16T09:27:00.000-05:00

Why do all gay men now refer to their significant other as a "partner"? Is there anyone out there not automatically substituting "boyfriend" and nullifying this transparent attempt at evasion?

Do polygamists with a senior wife have multiple classes of "shareholders"?

Planning

2006-03-06T16:43:00.000-05:00

Me: Do you have spring break plans?
Friend: Nothing yet.
Me: I have an idea for something to do.
Friend: What's that?
Me: I was thinking that we could get a bunch of alcohol and a bunch of weed and then spend the entire time drunk as hell and just stoned off our asses.
Friend: Sounds great to me.
Me: Awesome.

The Gayest Thing Ever

2006-02-26T20:06:00.000-05:00

I think I was propositioned by a gay guy last night, although I didn't realize it at the time. I was extremely creeped out because, after I gave him directions to a bar, he seemed to be trying extremely hard to convince me to go to an after-party with him (it was 4 AM and he just met me on the street). At the time, I just thought he wanted to steal my kidneys (I was very, very, very stoned). Upon further reflection and discussion with my girlfriend, he was probably coming on to me, which I didn't recogize because (1) I was stoned, (2) I have bad gaydar, and (3) frankly, I don't expect to be hit on by another guy.

I guess I should be flattered, but really I'm just plain weirded out. I can (sort-of) sympathize with all the women I've sketched out by trying to convince girls I've just met to come back to my place in the wee hours of the morning. On the other hand, and I don't want to come off as a homophobe, but there still seems to be something very different between propositioning a girl and another guy, especially on the street. I'm in favor of equal rights for gays (especially lesbians) - I just don't want to be hit on by something with a penis. Is that too much to ask?

You Call That a Break-Up?

2006-02-25T09:54:00.000-05:00

I could really use some help. Here's my problem: I obviously don't know how to guage how serious a relationship is.

First example, high school. There was this boy that I was totally completely infatuated with. I thought he was the hottest thing ever. We hung out a lot and talked on the phone a lot. We did stuff together alone and also with groups of friends (my friends, his friends). In our conversations, I might sometimes throw something a little flirty into the conversation, but I don't remember that he ever did the same. We definitely never kissed or even came close to it. We lost touch after high school, and I just recently found his email address and sent him a "Hey, just wondered what ever happened to you," email. We've emailed a few times back and forth since then. In one of the emails, I revealed my blog to him. I recently posted a story about a date on my blog and he emailed me to say, "Our date to (name of someplace we went on a date) was better, wasn't it?" I guess two parts of this are (1) he's flirting, isn't he? and (2) date? we went on a date? and all that time I thought we were just friends and maybe we went on a date???

Second example, college boyfriend. We were most likely dating. Or, at least, sleeping together consistently. But we were also spending time together when not sleeping together, so it wasn't a sex-only relationship. But I never really knew whether he considered me his "girlfriend" or whether we just sort of fooling around or friends-with-benefits. There was never a conversation about it, but things felt pretty casual. Again, I had the biggest thing for him (I may still even wonder if he's "the one," but I won't admit that, not even here). If there was any chance that he considered me his girlfriend, I would've liked to have known about it. It would have saved me hours and hours of worrying about it and driving my roommates crazy ("Do you think he really likes me?" "He's sleeping with you." "Yeah, but like, really likes me?" "I don't know.") Ultimately, we graduated and went to separate law schools and just sort of never saw each other again. Now, if I was his girlfriend, you'd think there would have either been some sort of breakup conversation ("This is sad, but we're not going to be seeing much of each other, so we might as well...") or a let's-plan-how-we-can-stay-together conversation ("I'm going to miss you, but we'll see each other at least once a month..."). No, we had neither, it just kind of ended. Which made me think there was never really anything there at all to begin with. We talk on the phone once in a while now, and during our last conversation he was saying that he has a girlfriend, they've been together a few months. I said, "That's a long time," hoping I'd get a sense of how serious their relationship was. And he said, "Yeah, it's definitely my longest relationship since you broke up with me." WTF??? First of all, thanks for finally letting me know we had a relationship - I had been wondering about that since YEARS AGO. Second of all, we broke up? Did I miss the conversation in which that happened? And third of all, I broke up with you??? Hope you weren't too heartbroken about it because that is absolutely completely impossible.

How do you think I reacted? Do you think I used it as the perfect opportunity to say, "Hey, I never broke up with you..." and see what he would say from there? No, instead I just said, "Oh well, that's nice." What is my problem?

Finally, third example, law school. I definitely underestimated this relationship. There was this guy that I went on a few dates with... maybe 5 or 6 dates over the course of two or three months? He was nice and everything, but I didn't think the chemistry was really there. I decided that I didn't really want to see him anymore. I didn't think the relationship had progressed to a point where it called for a serious break-up conversation. So, the next time he called to ask me on a date, I just kind of said, "Oh, I don't think I'm going to be able to. I'm sorry." He came over to my apartment crying. And wouldn't leave. Ultimately, he took the rest of the semester off of school for depression. I found out through classmates that he was in a hospital. Yes, I seriously underestimated that relationship.

I may also underestimate flirting or interest in general. There have been more than a few times recently when I've talked to a guy a few times, thinking there wasn't much to it, and then, eventually, someone else has said to me, "Oh, he's really into you." There's one lawyer who works in another office that calls me a lot, and we talk, and recently another guy in my office said, "Would you quit teasing him? He obviously wants you so bad." And I thought we were just being friendly. Although, now that I think about it, he does call me to ask completely stupid things. And then calls again to thank me for answering his stupid question. But I wouldn't have noticed this if it wasn't pointed out to me.

What am I missing? Are there certain clues I'm supposed to look for? Obviously I'm doing something wrong, and it means that at least twice in my life I may have missed out on guys I was really into just because there's something I'm just not getting. What am I doing wrong? Help!

Also, I still have an opportunity here to respond to the high school friend's email, since I just received it... what should I say?

24 y/o Virgin?

2006-02-24T10:30:00.000-05:00

I think I'm dating a virgin. She's 24, went to catholic highschool, never been in a serious relationship... what am I getting into here?

Valentine's Day Massacre

2006-02-15T19:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I got a valentine from a boy. I don't know about you, but I think it ranks up there in the stratosphere of "shittiest valentine ever sent to a girl." It's a bad poem written for and about another girl. He wrote it because she dumped him. He then romantically recycled as a Valentine to me. Try not to get to jealous.

"I would like to claim the poem written below was exclusively composed for you, but I am a lousy liar and you would see right through me. It was written a year or two ago on my annual bitter poem writing day. In any way, I hereby declare this poem yours(in an Elton John "Your Song" kind of way).

Pour some wine, light a candle and teach me the art
How to smile while you painfully rip out a heart.
To you, it seems, betrayal is the end of romance
And that knife in my back - is that yours, by any chance?
The pain, I am certain, will in time go away;
I'll have the scars to remind me, on Valentine's Day.

It's amazing, how gladly I did play the fool.
Had I been less naive, perchance you'd seem less cruel.
Still, I cannot help feeling somewhat empty inside,
Where my heart once beat, now, only echoes reside.
I know a heart's not easily given away;
Will you give me back mine, on Valentine's Day?

It's really quite sad, for you are one of a kind.
Your touch knocked me senseless, your kiss left me blind.
I was drawn to you like a moth to the flame,
Certain to be burnt, but drawn all the same.
Now that I've come to my senses, I kneel down and pray;
To be knocked senseless and blind again, on Valentine's Day.

Happy Valentine's Day and kind regards and much admiration, X."

Back off ladies, he's mine.

VD

2006-02-14T14:17:00.000-05:00

Don't you hate people who refer to Valentine's Day as VD and think they're being witty and original by noting the coincidence? Yeah, you're a regular Oscar Wilde.

Anyway, for Valentine's Day, I bent the girlfriend over the arm of the couch, we had rip-roaring unprotected sex standing up, and even managed not to stain the upholstery or rug. Through serendipity, both the girlfriend and the couch turned out to be the perfect height for angling matters. Second-best furniture investment I ever made. And the sofa was a pretty good buy, too.

Son of a gun

2006-02-14T10:13:00.000-05:00

The Cheney shooting story is pretty funny, and I really wish I could be a White House reporter for a day.

Scott, the VP didn't disclose this shooting at all and a third party only got around to it almost 24 hours later. Has Cheney shot anyone else we don't know about? No. Run over anyone with a car? No. Killed a hooker in a bout of autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong? No! How the fuck would you know, anyway? It's not like he told the White House this time.

I couldn't laugh that hard, though, because it all hit a little too close to home. Cheney nailed his friend near my hometown, and I realized while watching the Daily Show last night that Ed Helms was standing "in front of" the hospital where I'd been born. And, of course, hunting accidents are why I decided nine years ago to never speak to my father again.

I hadn't spoken to him much before that, though. Gone shortly after my parents were divorced at five, I saw him a couple of times a year before an ill fated semester living with him in the seventh grade. He was, and presumably still is, a nice guy who is randomly cruel and vicious to people he supposedly loves. I don't blame him for this. His father was deliberately cruel when his temper snapped, and his mother remains the most quitely yet softly vicious punisher of perceived enemies I've ever known, especially if you had the misfortune to be born without a dick.

Her grandsons, on the other hand, can piss on the carpet in front of her and get a smile over how charming we are. I'm the one that chooses not to exercise this privilege. Much. I'm too busy learning to control my own inheritance by being a nice guy who is deliberately cruel and vicious only to people who actually deserve it.

Anyway, my father deeply hates his parents, mostly, I thought, for the regular beatings my grandfather meted out with my grandmother's knowledge. Given that the old man liked to end arguments among the little grandkids by grabbing our hair and banging our heads together, usually in a parking lot right before I we went into a restaurant, I can well believe dad's worst horror stories, and can understand, if not approve, why when I was in grade school he apparently spent a few minutes slapping the old man around in revenge.

He never seemed to really consider how this vitriol towards his own dad would influence my own view of how the father-son relationship should function. Not that I want to kick the shit out of him. Dad ended up having six inches of height on his own father, and the crazy son of a bitch (heh) still has four on me. Physically I'll feel intimidated until he's stuck in a wheelchair, and while he was quite often verbally cruel and semi-frequently delivered some very hard spankings when I bullied my sister, there was nothing equating to child abuse that I hold a grudge over.

But the real reason I'd never want or dare to knock his ass down a few times is that the man is batshit crazy. I began to really understand this in high school over our briefly more frequent dinners. Every meal followed a pattern: he'd declaim how evil his parents were, declare he was "still sober" and regularly attending AA meetings, note that he'd also quite smoking, and then inevitably light up a cigarette at the end of the meal.

It didn't really help when my uncle (who blew his brains out two years ago) told me about dear old dad blowing away a car on a Houston freeway at 3 a.m. with most of the clip of a 9mm. It was justifiable, I suppose (a group of...excited young black men trying to run my aunt's Uhaul off the road for fun), and he aimed for the hood, but still. The coup de grace came years later when we met for dinner in Houston while I was in college.

He talked for a long time about his AA meetings, noted he'd quit smoking, and them moved on to his parents. He "had something to tell" me, if I were up to it. I lied, yes. To put a crazy load of shit briefly, he said my grandfather had tried to kill him on a hunting trip for insurance money when he was 14. Oh, that wasn't the crazy part. I could believe, albeit with great effort, that the old bastard would do something like that. But, you see, this was all part of a conspiracy. Not one, not two, and perhaps not merely three, but at least a few other sons of my grandfather's associates had been killed on hunting trips for the same reason, and there was a big coverup, but one day the truth would be known!

I smiled woodenly, waited for him to light his cigarette, left, and never came back. Well, almost. He inconveniently got a melanoma four years ago, and everyone in the family but me thought I'd be haunted by grief if he died and I hadn't visited him. He didn't die, but I wouldn't have grieved. I don't wish for his death, but when it comes the only thing I'll feel is relief.

2006-02-08T02:43:00.000-05:00

Let's say you have a girl that you were cool with before. And let's say that you hung out with her at some point when you were extremely drunk. And let's say that you see her again and she acts extremely awkward.

Assume that you are positive you did not have sex with her, or even touch her goodies. Why would she act so strange seeing her again?

Merchandise sanction--Swingline office stapler

2006-02-02T11:02:00.000-05:00

I don't know about you, but I'm a big fan of staplers. If you don't use one every day, you don't know what you're missing. My stapler is the means by which I keep my important papers together in a tidy pile. When you have messy papers all over your desk, you can start feeling overwhelmed. Staplers keep my life organized. Staplers are what I use when I hem my pleated khakis if I don't have access to a sewing machine. Once I stapled the hem of my casual top to the waistband of my underwear so my casual top wouldn't gap. Sometimes a cute belt isn't enough to keep your casual top tucked in.

This stapler is the best. I suppose you could say a stapler is a stapler, but this one's pretty good. You push down on the top of the stapler to dispense the staples. You put the items you want to staple in between the top and bottom arms of the stapler. Then you press down. If you want to remove the staple, you use a staple remover, another handy gadget. You can keep a stapler on your desk. You use that one for papers. You can keep a stapler in you kitchen. I use mine to staple similar recipes together. I keep one stapler on me at all times. It moves around the house with me. It even goes into the bathroom with me. I keep it in my fanny pack.

Have you ever noticed that most staplers are made out of metal? Most other things we make come in other materials. Is there something about staplers that make it necessary to make them out of metal?

I would write more but I have to go. My kitchen timer just went off. Blogging time is over. Time to go to Lowe's Home Improvement store. Maybe I'll find an even better stapler there, one with more bells and whistles.

Haiku

2006-02-02T01:11:00.000-05:00

Why elevator,
Do you smell like pee today?
It's only Wednesday.

Can we meet for dinner Sunday instead? I have an abortion on Saturday.

2006-01-29T17:15:00.000-05:00

Speaking of bad dates, here's a blast-from-the-past doozy:

1. On the way back from dinner, Guy answers his cell phone.
2. The phone call is from a distraught ex-girlfriend.
3. Guy talks with Ex for some time, using elliptical terminology that fails to conceal that Ex just found out she is pregnant and that it's his. Guy spends significant time calming her down.
4. Guy promises to take Ex to and pay for "an appointment."
5. Guy gets off his phone and breaks the date we planned for that weekend because he has to take his Ex to said appointment.

And yes, I went out with him again.

Dating Sucks (I)

2006-01-29T12:11:00.000-05:00

My date this week went fine. Dinner was good, if not a little comical. He ordered a salad for his entire dinner. I had salad and then a meal - a big serving of pasta full of cheese and other things that are bad for me. I decided long ago not to pretend to be someone I'm not on a date. I love to eat and I'm not ashamed of it. If my appetite is going to scare some guy off, better sooner than later.

Conversation was good, actually. Better than I expected, and covering topics with some substance, but not too stuffy. It also flowed relatively easily; stilted conversation can be so uncomfortable.

Then came the finale. He walked me to my car, which was nice of him. We'd already agreed that we'd like to go out again, maybe for dinner or a movie or maybe, at my suggestion, to a comedy club or a play. I thanked him again for dinner and went to give him a hug. He leaned in for a kiss. On my cheek. I think. I mean, I gave him my cheek because I thought that was where he was headed. But later I began to wonder if he'd actually gone for the lips and I just totally dissed him.

The problem is I'm not sure if I want to kiss him. We've now had: our first meeting at a party, where I arguably had a little too much wine; a get together for a 'drink' at a nice restaurant before his already scheduled dinner with friends; dinner. But I still don't know if I can actually do the deed with this guy. And my friend assures me that since he said he wants to take me back out, he undoubtedly wants to have sex with me. Sigh. I stared at him all through dinner, trying to determine if I could actually sleep with him. I'm no closer to a decision than I was before dinner.

He's at least 11 years older than me, but I've been attracted to older men before. I'm just not sure I'm attracted to this older man. He's handsome, smart, polite, sorta funny, financially secure, and I think he wants kids. Should I take my indecision as a sign that there isn't enough chemistry there? Or should I continue to date this guy, hoping for some sort of "sign" that will help me make up my mind?

Rant

2006-01-28T03:32:00.000-05:00

I kind of hate my grades. Now, it's not like I have bad grades - fuck, far from it. After this semester, it's at least numerically possible for me to break into the top 5% of my class. That doesn't mean I can't hate my grades.

I hate my grades because I feel like I fucking "have to live up to them." I'll admit, law school has been pretty fucking easy for me. Hell, law itself is pretty fucking easy for me. I can find "plain meaning" approaches to statutes that even the appellate judges I work for didn't see (not that they're not fucking brilliant, I'm just fucking good at statutory construction).

I'm good at this shit. Fuck, give me a fucking issue and I can get you to your goal on either side of the equation. I've done jack shit in classes and still gotten State Bar commendable grades. I didn't even fucking show up to 2/3 of a core class and got a fucking A+. I'm smart, whooobedeedoo.

I fucking hate everything associated with so-called legal brilliance. I didn't make Law Review - I don't know why, and really, I don't care. I admit, my writing as a 1L was fucking verbose; it's fucking painful to remind myself of it. However, making Law Review would have given me a better opportunity to write a better journal article. I mean, I mainly wanted an excuse to do a study of porn contracts, but whatever. I'm not brilliant - I'm just good at manipulating arguments. I mean, it's not fucking hard: just figure out where the kinks in the underlying logical proposition of a givien rule of law is, and fucking exploit it. Statutes are like fucking algebra equations - you just need to figure out where the variables are. Fuck.

I love law school and I hate law school. I love the intellectual curiosity that I first encountered. I hate the fact that I've been shoved into a fucking corner because I don't give a fuck about any kind of legal career per se. I mean, it's not like I wouldn't work for a big firm. Hell, I don't give a fuck who I actually work for - I just want to fucking write briefs. I mean, fuck, I can even do pre-founding common law research. I had a fucking case based on 1600's law, because I can make the non-rule 11 argument for ANYTHING.

Fuck. I'm going to bed.

You Make the Call

2006-01-22T19:46:00.000-05:00

I think when I get the urge the blog about my dating escapades, I'm gonna have to do it here. I'm too afraid someone will google my name and then find a story about themselves on my blog that they don't like. Or worse, that I'll drink too much and give them my url, forgetting momentarily what a supremely bad idea that is. Not that I plan to tell gory or personal secrets, but sometimes I just need to rant about things.... I'm not sure if this was why God created this blog, but if my dating stories aren't appropriate fodder for this space, I'm sure someone will write a whiny post about it.

I don't have much of a story this time, just a complaint. Or a request - to unknown men whom I will probably never date, but still. A man asked me out. He wants to take me to dinner. We played a little phone tag and when I caught up with him today he asked how my schedule looked this coming week. Luckily, I'd anticipated this question and I suggested Thursday evening. Thursday was great for him, he said...so where did I want to eat?

Sigh. I know he's just being nice. I realize that. But I prefer a man who has asked me out to suggest a place. Does this make me unusual? Perhaps. But if you want to take me out, it'd be nice to think you'd put at least 10 seconds of thought into where you might like to take me. We went back and forth for a minute, each with the "anywhere is fine" crap. He actually said, "I'm easy to please." Brother. Sensing this could go on forever, I suggested a restaurant halfway between his place and mine. It's a nice place, great atmosphere, live music on certain nights, etc...

Can you guess his reaction? "Oh? That place? Well, that's fine, but the food is sort of...you know...average." Ugh. Shoot me now. It was all I could do not to scream. I don't care that he doesn't think the food there is good - to each his own. But the whole point is IF YOU ASK ME TO SUGGEST A PLACE TO EAT AND YOU SAY ANYTHING IS FINE, DON'T SHOOT DOWN THE FIRST PLACE I NAME.

Naturally, I absolutely refused to suggest anything else and he eventually came up with something and I readily agreed. I'm gonna try to keep an open mind here, really, but I think I'm catching an anti-compatibility vibe.

Always asking, Always learning

2006-01-21T19:15:00.000-05:00

I got an e-mail with the subject line: Cum like a bison with Spermamax. How does a bison cum? Is it something to which I should aspire?

And the mustache rides are a quarter

2006-01-18T22:17:00.000-05:00

The Boy scored some free sandwiches last night. He handed me one. I noticed some writing on the wrapper.

Me: Did you write this?
Him: What?
Me: "MUFF."
Him: No.
Me: What kind of sandwich is this?
Him: I don't know.
Me: You don't know? And you still took it, even though it's marked MUFF sandwich?!
Him: I think it means muffaletta bread.
Me: Oh. I was just wondering if you were making some kind of commentary.

I'm sad to report that the muff sandwich was not good at all.

Which is worse?

2006-01-14T16:45:00.000-05:00

Never having dreams at all or having dreams and knowing for certain that you'll never achieve them?

He's not gay--his boyfriend is

2006-01-13T12:24:00.000-05:00

You know how some guys have names for their penises? My boyfriend doesn't have a name for his dick but he has named my tits "Jake and Heath of the Brokeback Mountain Range." Do you think this means he's bi--curious? I would put this on my own blog but I don't want to out him plus I don't want people to know I have a gay boyfriend.

Preexisting commitment

2006-01-12T21:41:00.000-05:00

My exes "Janice" and "Sidra" live within two minutes of one another in the same godforsaken sterile suburb of cheap townhouses where, though a main drag goes straight for over two miles with next to no traffic lights and no entering traffic, the strictly enforced speed limit is 35 mph. I made the mistake of introducing them to one another, and now they're fast friends who regularly conspire against me. They both have January birthdays, they're both going away for the second half of the month, they're both broke, so they conference-called me Sunday to schnor me into taking the two of them to dinner. The conversation was interminable.

Sidra: "How's Tuesday?"
Calvin: "I have a meeting Tuesday. Let's go Wednesday."
Janice: "Sidra can't do Wednesday. She has a date with her other ex, Ralph."
C: "So? Blow Ralph off. He just wants cheap sex anyway."
S: "But I want cheap sex."
C: "Jesus. Tell your boyfriend Keith to sleep with you already."
S: "He won't. He's against casual sex."
C: "So blow him, and he'll get used to the concept."
S: "No, I tried that, and he got really uncomfortable and freaked out."
C: "That's what you get for dating someone religious. So you're sleeping with Ralph instead? That makes your relationship with Keith much healthier."
S: "We agreed we'd see other people."
J: "So see Ralph first and then meet us."
C: "Just take a shower first. But Ralph will only need 5-5:20 anyway, and you can meet us at 7."
S: "Wednesday's out. Why can't you have dinner Friday night?"
C: "Friday's not an option."
S: "What are you doing Friday that's so important?"
C: "I'm going to be fucking [Susie Derkins] on top of a pile of cash."

([Susie Derkins] does sort of look like the real Susie Derkins, if I were to draw a cartoon of [Susie Derkins]. But she's a much better dresser and has a much better ass. That's a post for another day. And no birthday dinner got scheduled, though it took another half hour of haggling that I could've used for studying.)

'Cause Fuck 'Em, That's Why!

2006-01-12T21:34:00.000-05:00

Perhaps it violates the precious "spirit" of CE to reveal this, but I posted the little post that has caused so much hand-wringing. I didn't think it was any big secret, given (a) I like wordplay, and (b) I've mentioned the linked site before on BTQ. But I didn't post it here anonymously because I was afraid someone would pin it on me, or my Mother would be embarassed, or anything like that. It amused me, no one had posted anything here in a week (a fairly common state of affairs), and I figured, What the hell.

I love the irony of setting up a blog on the standard of "anything goes" and then whining when someone posts anything he or she wants. Of course I could have posted it at BTQ. That's the thing I always laugh about when I see someone quote the supposed CE Mission Statement: It's not like anything here couldn't be posted on the members' "home blogs." It's not like the Blog Police will yank your membership if you post your masturbation tales (more, more, more) on your own blog. Nor, for that matter, will anyone care if you post your poetry or cries for help or whatever this was at your regular blog (even if they're not true). I doubt all of those meet the previous author's standard of "entertaining or provocative." While my post wasn't the funniest thing ever (I was thinking it would get a C from Poon instead of a D, but we can agree to disagree, I hope), I still think it's as good or better than some of the dreck around here. (That doesn't necessarily include all the posts I just linked, of course, some of which I enjoyed. And I'm sure some readers liked it better than "provocative" pictures of sex dolls, or someone's whiny spiel about the girl who broke his heart.)

So, yeah, sure I could have posted that at BTQ. But I didn't want to. And no one was posting anything at CE. So I posted it here. And now I get boo-fucking-hoo "tsk-tsking" for it? My understanding since the day this place started was that the members could post whatever they wanted, for any reason (or no reason). If I (or anyone else) had veto power over everything posted here it would be a completely different place. I'm so sorry I strained your precious eyeballs by making them scan a few lines of text. I guess I should leave this place barren until I can think of something that makes it past the pre-screening committee.

Certain contributors clearly think this place is their "blog away from blog," even though of course every single CE post could go at their regular sites without anyone blinking. If the rest of you want to get so proprietary about the place, feel free to kick me out by changing the locks, or start a new blog without me. But as long as I'm a member in good standing here, I shall feel free to post anything I like, and you should feel free to ridicule or criticize it if you want.

That's the "spirit" of my CE.

--Milbarge

Quick reminder

2006-01-12T10:11:00.000-05:00

Behold:

Clearly Erroneous was created as a place for certain bloggers to post, under a (new) pseudonym, things that either don't belong on their own blog, or things that they would rather post under a different name. This site is an outlet; a release. It's like a handjob from a beautiful woman after you haven't been touched by a woman in four years. It's like a twelve pound crap after three weeks of constipation. It's like a double quarter pounder with cheese after living in Somalia. It's like a halter top and booty shorts after being Muslim.

I suppose it's possible the below post didn't "belong" on the author's own blog, inasmuch as that blog might be dedicated to not telling its readers to go drill a hole in their head and fuck themselves because he/she just doesn't care about being entertaining or provocative. Fair enough, and I suppose this did technically meet the letter of CE requirements.

It also, however, quite clearly violates the spirit. This was like a rimjob from a syphilitic homeless man. It was a dingleberry hardened to an impervious sphere that cannot be removed from your ass 'stache. It felt like being served pork rinds and a Natural Light at Le Bernardin. I ordered a tall, hot, blonde stripper with a dirty mind; I got Janet Reno.

Is it fair of me to criticize someone who tries to fill the vast void that has become Clearly Erroneous? Of course it is. I don't write much anymore because my heart is destroyed and therefore can't really be in anything I contribute. I assure you, were my brain similarly affected I'd be drooling in a corner, not cluttering this place up with Mr. Poon's D-list material.

Tsk, tsk.

Grades of Stupid

2006-01-12T00:21:00.000-05:00

There's dumb, there's Damon, and then there's damn dumb:

A man at an Abernathy Road apartment complex came up to an officer and requested the officer check his driver’s license to see if it were suspended.

The officer checked and found that the man was wanted by Fulton County for a failure to appear on a previous theft by conversion charge. He was taken to FC jail.

Which of the following is most likely to kill you while you sleep--

2006-01-05T19:08:00.000-05:00

A. Hummels

B. Snowbabies

C. Precious Moments

D. Velvet paintings of clowns

E. This thing

F. Marie Osmond and her gang of dolls

Winter white with a touch of the blues

2006-01-05T15:26:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up early. It was still dark out. I drank a glass of milk for breakfast. What kind of milk do you like? I drink skim milk but sometimes I treat myself to 2%. I only treat myself to it twice a year though, on my birthday and Independence Day. Sometimes I heat up my milk, but not often. That makes me sleepy.

Milk reminds me of snow and polar bears and light sprinklings of powdered sugar on pancakes made with fresh eggs and fresh cream. Fresh cream is white too. Well, it's cream colored, which is a little darker shade than stark white. I like the color white better than the color cream. It seems cleaner. What's your favorite color?

My grandma used to give me whole milk and cookies dusted with powdered sugar. She was a nice lady. She smelled of Youth Dew and discipline laced with love. She taught me everything I know about dairy products and socks. Egads, I love socks. I have a lot of socks.

Don't you hate it when one of your socks gets lost in the dryer? Sometimes I think there are little gnomes living under my dryer. My dryer is an old Whirlpool. It was a gift from a friend. Now my dryer is an old friend of mine. I think those dryer gnomes build houses out of my mismatched socks. They sew dressy outfits out of my fancier socks. They make their cleaning outfits from my everyday white socks.I bet my gnomes drink whole milk at Christmas.

A lot of my socks are white. What kind of socks do you have? Do you keep all your socks in the same drawer or do you have different drawers for different types of socks? I have a drawer for my party socks. I have a drawer for my gardening socks. I have two drawers of silly socks. I have a drawer that serves as a sock graveyard for socks that have holes. I can't bear to throw those socks out. My socks are like dear old friends too.

I'll have more later. I need to ruminate on this a little more.

Generalization of the day

2006-01-05T12:16:00.000-05:00

Women will never win the "war of the sexes" because females cannot and/or will not grasp the concept of sisterhood. Chicks think the successes of other chicks somehow diminish their own. They will support another broad only if she is uglier or fatter or dumber than they are. As soon as a sexier and/or smarter and/or thinner girl shows up, they go into attack mode. The ovary is a brutal organ it seems.

Hell hath no fury, etc.

2006-01-04T17:12:00.000-05:00

The first thread in the unravelling of the Abrahamoff scandal sweater came when Michael Scanlon allegedly dumped his fiancee.

Copious amounts, I tell you, copious

2006-01-02T11:42:00.000-05:00

She: So after the cat chewed through your iPod headphones you stopped going to the gym?
He: Yeah.
She: So how did you lose two pounds while you were here? We were eating out the whole time, plus you went through all the Christmas cookies.
He: And the bag of chips, the jar of salsa, half a thing of coconut bars, plus I snuck a few taquitos out of your freezer. It must've been all the sex.
She: Ooh. I should come out there and implement your workout program.
He: Plus think of the improved productivity from the time I save by not masturbating.
She: Well, does that count as saved time if you're just transferring effort to a companion?
He: I don't think you realize how much time I spend masturbating.

You can't kill the Rooster

2005-12-26T22:37:00.000-05:00

A pair of panties with a big red rooster on the hip caught my eye today. When I went to examine them more closely, I saw the words I DON'T DO and immediately thought COCK. Whoa, these panties really say I DON'T DO COCK?! What is this, a lesbian panty market? A new take on the chastity belt? A not-so-subtle "Not tonight; I have a headache" kind of hint?

Wait...there's another word. Ohhhhhhhh. I DON'T DO MORNINGS. Heh. I guess I don't either, since I can't read a simple sentence on some panties, but I still wouldn't emblazon that on my crotch with a big red cock on my hip. I liked my idea better anyway, because I bet the lesbian panty market could be greatly expanded. And, like I pointed out, they could be worn by non-lesbians on occasions when they wanted to get a certain message across. This could be my big break, people.

two half nuthins is a whole nuthin

2005-12-23T12:23:00.000-05:00

now i say, she's gotta mouth like an outboard motor. all the time puttputtputtputtputtbang! she sure is noisy and annoying without sayin nothin a'tall. that womans as subtle as a hand grenade in a barrel of oatmeal and about as sharp as a sack of wet mice. she can make more noise than a couple of skeletons throwing a fit on a tin roof and shes doin alot of choppin but no chips are flyin. shes more mixed up than a feather in a whirlwind,and son she's as cold as a nudist on an iceberg.no upper lip on the dame neither.

on another hand,now pay attention to me,i say pay attention to me boy,im not talkin just to hear my head roar. youre built too low. the fast ones go over your head and it seems ya got a hole in your glove.i keep pitchin em and you keep missin em. youre way off, i say youre way off this time, son. i say, every post is not about you, boy. youre about as sharp as a bowlin ball. if i was writin about you boy,i would say youre like a dead horse cuz you got no get up and go,son. a guilty conscience makes egotists of all of ya,& in your case,being a man, youre vain to the point of imbecility.

home for the holidays

2005-12-22T21:57:00.000-05:00

Is it wrong that I've been thinking about my little sister while I masturbate? She's almost eighteen and she's just my halfsister. Of course I've been masturbating to thoughts of her since she was fourteen.

Let's never come here again because it will never be as much fun.

2005-12-14T15:36:00.000-05:00

The other night I rented “Lost In Translation.” The back of the movie says: “Ms. Coppola’s film…contemplates the unexpected connections we make that might not last – yet stay with us forever.”

While the movie is so much more than that quote, that quote is the essence of the movie. Sometimes we connect with things; with people; with anything. But the point is, whatever connection you make it won’t last forever. However, even though that relationship or that person won’t be there forever, the connection – the effect of that connection – can still stay with you infinitely longer than the person does.

I have this problem a lot. But I’m getting to the point where I can finally move past it all. I’ve come to the realization that there are just some people in your life that, for whatever reason, come into your life for one day; for two days; for three weeks; for five months; for one year; for whenever; and then they leave, never to be seen or heard from again. But their effect on your life will stay with you forever. You can learn so much from one person in one day – if it’s the right person – than you can learn from yourself in your entire life.

Life is so much more than simply how you affect your own life. Life is how everyone else affects your life and how these people make your life different (or interesting; or happy; or lovely; or depressing; or sad; or beautiful; or horrible; or perfect). Once you realize that not everyone you meet (and not everyone that affects you in some major way) will be in your life forever (or even for a long time) you can finally move on.

The point of this is that you have to get what you can out of life. You have to take whatever the fuck you are given and squeeze the life (or meaning) out of it. Say you meet someone wonderful that you think you could spend a very long time with. You have no idea if this relationship (or whatever it is) will last, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter at all. Take whatever you can and gain whatever knowledge or life you can from it. Every person that you meet has something (no matter how small/big) to offer. You might only learn that you hate people like that person. You might learn that you can fall in love with people like that person. You might learn that you can fall in love at all. You might learn that you aren’t ready to fall in love. You might learn that love is real only in your imagination. You might learn any number of things.

But it doesn’t matter.

Everyone has something to offer. They can teach you your likes, your dislikes, your loves, and your hates. They can teach you (at least in some small way) more about who you really are.

No matter what you do and no matter who you meet, realize that they might be there only to teach you something about yourself. No matter how long (or short) of a time they are there, other people have the ability to change your life in ways that you never thought possible. All you can do is take the people that you meet at face value and get whatever you can out the encounter.

There is no rhyme or reason to life; there is no objective to achieve by meeting the people that you do. Just take life as it comes and take whatever lessons are available. In the past couple months I have learned that I am able to love; I’ve learned that a real relationship requires more than love; I’ve learned that love does not lead to a relationship and that relationships don’t require love.

A Question

2005-12-07T13:12:00.000-05:00

Why don't homeless people migrate south for the winter, like birds?

Fashion advice

2005-12-02T23:44:00.000-05:00

If you wear a suit while you go shopping alone at Target on a Friday night, you will get some funny looks.

If you then go to Fuddrucker's in a suit to eat dinner alone, you will get more of them.

Plan accordingly.

Merck, I need a depressant

2005-12-02T18:50:00.000-05:00

I have no idea why I'm not more miserable. Lacking any (ir)regular sex, though, I'd just as soon feel like climbing into a bottle. Perhaps one of my friends will make me cry if I ask rudely.

7th Floor Crew

2005-12-02T16:06:00.000-05:00

For the white folk out there who don't know... The U of Miami's football team put out a rap song about 2 years back, apparently it was "vulgar to women" despite the disclaimer at the beginning that says "Hi, this is Marvelous, This song, This song in its entirety, is not meant to disrespect any women in its entirety." Here are some my favorite lines..

"What's your name?"
Marvelous
"What you do"
Hold my nuts.
"How you do it"
With 2 hands and a smile.

She told you she met a guy who was nice and candid,
I think they call him T-Good or the big dick bandit.

She thought 5-2 was just my number and then she realized
You multiply that bitch up and you get my dick size.

We the boys from the penthouse suite, slangin that dick
If you ain't about a train then fuck you bitch.

CHORUS: If your ho only know that she was getting fucked on the 7th flo.
If that bitch only knew, that she was gettin muddied by the whole damn crew.

Informal Poll: Friends and Lovers

2005-12-01T17:46:00.000-05:00

1. If friends of the opposite sex (or same sex for homosexuals, you get the picture...) agree to have a physical relationship and then remain friends after, will it work? What are the odds?

2. When one has the distinct feeling one is being played but decides to participate for one's own personal gratification and resolves not become emotionally involved, if that resolve breaks down has that person still been played?

I'm alive

2005-11-24T18:45:00.000-05:00

I give minor thanks that I didn't shoot myself this year. It was probably the right decision.

I'm Lonely.

2005-11-24T08:26:00.000-05:00

When I think about you, I touch myself

2005-11-14T23:09:00.000-05:00

I wonder if Westlaw will add the iBuzz, and for how many points.

I'm already compiling a list of songs perfect for getting off to. Suggestions?

How do you know you're hungover?

2005-11-13T12:35:00.000-05:00

When you're wiping your ass after taking a crap and it takes you about three wipes to realize that's have been dropping the dirty toilet paper not into the toilet, but instead into the trashcan next to the toilet.

It's going to be one of those days.

It all comes full circle

2005-11-04T12:52:00.000-05:00

We started out with a Kelly Ripa camel toe.

And now we've moved on. To a Madonna camel toe. Now isn't that special?

How lazy am I?

2005-11-01T23:26:00.000-05:00

When I get a pudding cup and carry it to my office, I use a plastic spoon so I can throw it away there and not have to carry the spoon all the way back to the kitchen.

Top that.

2005-11-01T22:56:00.001-05:00

With all the talk about Maureen Dowd's stupid article, we have lost focus.

It's time to bring the focus back where it belongs.

I would just like to remind everyone that Wesley Pruden is a fucking moron.

A problem, one of many

2005-10-26T22:04:00.000-04:00

Why is the attention of men so important to me? I thought age and some maturity would 'cure' that little problem of mine, but if anything it's getting worse. This isn't good. Not good at all.

It's official now...

2005-10-23T18:08:00.000-04:00

...my penis is just for show.

{The link is not safe for work. Please click at your own risk.}

Unsafe at any speed

2005-10-23T02:37:00.000-04:00

I would ask Snoop, but my Sidekick is busted

2005-10-17T13:15:00.000-04:00

I took a trip to the Bay this weekend with my sweetheart. At some point early in the morning, the morning of the most beautiful, most perfect day in the history of San Francisco, we found ourselves at the Wallace Battery at the Marin Headlands, overlooking the San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean. The panoramic view from the Battery is spectacular, yet the spot is somewhat secluded, sequestered from the view of passersby and other tourists by tall, thick brush and a dense thicket of trees. The privacy of the place is enhanced further by the long, echoing tunnel that leads from the main road to the battery. The footsteps and voices of those others coming into the battery foretell their presence long before the unwelcome ones would join the two lovers at the overlook - or so our hero (clad in a nice, new, white shirt) told his amor:

Don't you want to?

Yes! You know that I do! I'm just worried someone will see us.

Sweetheart, nobody will see us!

What about the people at the picnic area?

They are eating! They won't come over here.

Baby, but what if they do? What if those little boys want to see what is in the tunnel?

They won't. Trust me. We have plenty of time. Besides, we'll hear them if they come.

I know we'll hear them, but what will we do?

You can just pull your skirt down, and I'll...

(giggling and yelling and the pitter patter of little feet echo throughout the concrete emplacement)

Shit! Okay! You're right. Someone IS coming.

See? They would have caught us!

(Five minutes of impatient sightseeing while straw-headed seven-year-olds point at the ocean and run their mother ragged. Finally, the tormenters exit stage left and the lovers are again alone atop the hill)

Hurry, there's not much time! They could come back at any moment.

Honey! I...no...we can't...we shouldn't...oh...my...god...yes...oh god don't stop...Yes...Yes...Fuck...Yes!

At this point, our intrepid hero was forced bodily up against the dirty, graffiti-marred wall of the concrete fortress and yada, yada, yada and the world's hottest blow job later, the back of my once nice, once new, white shirt is now streaked with sooty black marks. The thing is, I have no idea how to clean the black grime out of the shirt. It's too nice a shirt to just throw it away (and I'd probably keep it as a souvenir in any event). Besides, I'd really like to wear it again. So, really, all of this was just my round-about way of asking: does anyone have any advice for cleaning black dirt stains out of a white, 100% cotton button-down from The Gap?

Ghost in the machine

2005-10-11T11:57:00.000-04:00

I was checking my referral logs and discovered someone had found their way to a post on my blog through an emailed link. I clicked on it, knowing it wouldn't work.

But it did. Straight to the guy's email box at a small nonprofit organization with a name you'd recognize. Over a hundred messages in the inbox, more "sent," dozens more in various saved folders. Worse, it also gave access to his address book (sparse) and calendar (seemingly empty).

He's a fairly dry and boring bastard, although I did find a folder of years-old emails from a past(?) girlfriend. Unfortunately, they were mostly in a foreign language, and internet translation is the best way to make something totally unhot, so I didn't bother translating beyond the only one with a semi-promising subject line.

If someone saw what was in one of my email accounts...well. Here's hoping my guys are a bit better on the security thing.

WTF?

2005-10-07T03:29:00.000-04:00

I'm near the top of my class. I have a Westlaw citation on my resume from a case I've won. I can ~~move objects just by thinking about it~~ write a brief that "will blow your fucking mind."

I look great on paper. So why do I always screw up the interview? Why am I seemingly destined to perpetual poverty?

Disappointment

2005-10-06T23:06:00.000-04:00

An exchange during sex recently. Note - we'd just gotten started.

Me: So, are you up for a little something against the wall?

Him (looking sheepish)

Me: I guess not.

I saw a shooting star tonight

2005-10-02T02:45:00.000-04:00

And all I could think about, was how I wish I wasn't thinking about you.

What Makes Me Almost Miss My 12:00 Class?

2005-09-30T13:57:00.000-04:00

The beer shits.

My Experience with Hallucinogens

2005-09-14T21:34:00.000-04:00

Nothing was happening. What a fucking waste of money, I thought. That was until I looked across the room and noticed that the refrigerator magnets were moving around like a bunch of little ants.

I decided to try shrooms as an academic experiment. Seriously. It was a lecture on “Religion and the Brain” during my senior year of college that really piqued my interest. By this point in my intellectual life, I had a serious interest in cognitive science. Unfortunately, my university did not have a structured course of study in the area, but I picked up things as I went along and read a lot on my own. I wanted to reverse-engineer my own mind from the inside-out.

The lecture in question was a part of an ongoing series of talks; various professors would speak about Religion and Some Discipline: Religion and Philosophy, Religion and Literature, Religion and Science, etc.. This lecture focused on the chemical and biological basis of the “religious experience,” or really, the “mystical experience.” History and literature are filled with the accounts of people who describe a similar feeling of “transcendence,” of being one with God, the Universe, or the like. As it happens, they all describe a very real phenomenon – though they misunderstand its source.

The mind, you see, is in part a filtering system. Your senses are bombarded with incredible amounts of data, and much of it is useless, at least in terms of navigating the world. Visual processing and pattern-recognition are a prime example of this; instead of seeing all of the possible patterns in your visual field, your mind sorts out the unlikely ones, and you see “objects.” For example, you don’t see your computer, desk, and the wall as the same “object”; your mind automatically sorts these things out for you.

This mental software can be tampered with and certain religious practices do just that. Ecstatic, frenzied dancing – extreme excitement like you see in some fundamentalist revivals – the extreme relaxation that comes from deep, practiced meditation – all these can disrupt a delicate balance in your nervous system. Your sympathetic nervous system is what excites you, while your parasympathetic nervous system relaxes you. Normally, the two act as counterbalancing forces. However, by pushing the activity in one to the extreme, you can force the other to become active in the extreme to try to counter it. As a result, this diverts resources from the part of your brain that basically distinguishes “You” from “Not-You” – in other words, the experience of transcendence. The mental state produced by hallucinogens is chemically identical – the lazy man’s shortcut to the divine.

And so I set out to take a journey into my own mind.

Shrooms were not hard to come by: the guy I bought pot from happened to know a guy who knows a guy and that was that. I researched the potential effects and side effects, and read Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. I researched methods of ingestion. Finally, I found a friend who was willing to try them out with me. I was all set.

On the night in question, I headed over to my friend’s house and we put the shrooms in the blender with orange juice. This had the advantage of dramatically increasing the surface area, and hence the rate of absorbtion – in other words, this stuff hit you quick. Real quick. It just sneaks up on you – one minute you’re normal, the next you’re seeing things that aren’t there.

Hallucination is a fascinating phenomenon. You don’t really see things that aren’t there; rather, you see the things that are there, but in a whole different way. You know how if you stare at a textured ceiling or wall, you begin to see patterns emerging – a face here, a dog there, etc.? Or, if you look up at clouds and find that they look like things? Or, if you stare at a blank wall long enough, you sort of lose depth perception and the wall begins to “wave”? The visuals from shrooms a lot like that, only a thousand times more intense. The patterns don’t just look like something – they are that thing.

But shrooms don’t just intensify the strange patters you already see – they also let you see things in a way you wouldn’t without them. Basically, shrooms mess with your mental object recognition software, almost “resetting” it. You’re almost like a baby who hasn’t solidified its concept of what everyday objects really are. I remember sitting at a party we went to (and believe me, finding our way those two blocks was like wandering around the fucking Sinai desert for 40 years) and staring at a series of pictures. The resident had placed three famous Van Gogh pieces side by side: from left to right, Café Terrace at Night, Starry Night, and Starlight Over Rhone. I saw the pictures, but I also saw something else: the Hindu god Shiva was in the middle of them. His body was based in Starry Night, his arms extending throughout the other pictures and beyond, with a ring of fire swirling around the whole thing. He was there as if the wall was some sort of mirror – flat, but three-dimensional inside. I can still see the image vividly in my mind’s eye today.

And yes, you do get the transcendent experience. That was a lot harder to analyze, and therefore will be much tougher to describe than the visuals. For me, it was a feeling of being at one with existence itself – not in a “let’s hold hands and sing Kumbayah” kind of way, and not in a “Praise the Lord!” kind of way. No, it was something much deeper and more profound than that. It was sort of a sense of reverting to what Heidegger called “Dasein” – a pure sense of simply “being there.” I simply existed. No added complications, just the pure flow of Existence. And it was, indeed, a “flow”; it was like floating peacefully through space and time as nothing but matter and form, riding the wave of effortless conciousness.

My friend who had tripped with me and I began talking to each other about this Existence that we were experiencing. He wanted to know what It was that we were seemingly connected to, what It was all about, why It was. I turned to him and proclaimed:

“It’s not how It is. It’s that It is.”

I love drugs.

You know you love it

2005-09-14T17:08:00.000-04:00

Cute cats. More cute cats. Beware their real agenda.

Get out of jail free of STD

2005-09-14T10:02:00.000-04:00

My sister is fat, and her friends in high school and beyond were and are correspondingly skanky and overweight themselves. The chief skank offered to fuck me back in high school. Refusing preserved my virginity for three more years, and my self respect for...well, no, that was long gone.

Mom told me a couple of weeks ago that the CS had been arrested for "grand theft." She'd been involved in some car buying/selling scam that involved check fraud as well, to the tune of about $200k stolen in a short amount of time. From Mom's incoherent explanation, it was entirely unclear how she made money at this, but the good boys at Marginal Revolution came to the rescue today. (Want a trackback boys? No?)

I'm glad this baleful influence will be kept away from my sister for a couple of decades, but somewhat regret that the CS won't be telling stories in prison about how I was greatest lay she ever had. All hope is not lost, however. I skimmed a book about the Foreign Legion that claimed it's the tradition that deserters are supposed to sleep with the fattest, ugliest woman they find as soon as they can. Catch you on the flip side, babe.

Sex by Committee

2005-09-13T11:07:00.000-04:00

As the artist formerly known as Soupie has noted, thing around here have taken a definite turn for the love-stricken and maudlin. Therefore, in order to provide some balance, I feel it is necessary to ask an age-old question that has bothered me:

If you had the choice of (1) having a threesome with two attractive members of the opposite sex for one night or (2) having sex with each of them separately for 10 nights each, which would you choose?

I ask this question because the whole "menage a trois" thing has never done much for me (or the whole "girl on girl" thing, for that matter). My logic for choosing (2) above is simple -- I only have one dick. Why would I give up quantity for a dubious increase in quality?

Follow Up: If you prefer, you may answer the question 1 night with 2 vs. 1 night with each. I have found that, contrary to Dylan's assertion in the comments, most men choose #1 above when given a choice, so I try to make it a challange. As for the whole "opposite sex" thing, I suppose you could substitute "any sex" if your boat so floats.

a forceful coming together of two things

2005-09-07T09:07:00.000-04:00

you can see the inevitable coming on a freight train.
you can hear it miles away when it's still only faint whistles and
steam over a mountain ridge and
low rumbles under your feet and
the slow bounce of gravel across your path and
the lightest pressure of a breeze behind you,
- just a hint of the power heading your way -
whose far-off breath can push an ignorant dragonfly imperceptibly to the left
miles down the road

and all in front of you is eerie quiet calm and

invisible creatures drone and hum from tall yellow grass and
heat like a lazy serpent slithers up from the dust and
the whole world is holding its breath with you and

(he thinks you need to be saved
because he doesn't really know you and
he thinks he needs to step in the way and
he doesn't get it )

you want to be run over
by this inevitable
full face
head on
wood ties beneath bare feet
hair whipping
ears throbbing
feeling the engine inside your chest
inescapable

(because when it's like this, it's so so good
god
how do you stop?)

Open Letter #2

2005-09-06T23:30:00.000-04:00

I can't remember what it was like not to be in love with you. It's been only a little while according to the calendar, but I feel like I have known you my entire life. In a way, I have known you that long, in the same way that everyone knows what their dream person looks like. That's just it, though... you aren't locked away in some dream along with all the other things I'll probably never have. Quite the opposite--you are here with me. You are everything I have ever wanted in someone else. I am in love with your heart and soul, your smile and laugh, your opinions and wishes. You have become more than just a lover and a partner; you are my best friend in the entire world. You are the only person I've ever been totally honest with about everything in my life, yet you are the only one who's never judged me for anything I've told you. If I am sure of anything, it is this: I am going to marry you and spend the rest of my life making you the happiest person in the whole world. I love you.

Six of one, half dozen of the other

2005-09-06T19:54:00.000-04:00

A

B

Unclearly erroneous

2005-09-06T10:20:00.000-04:00

Contributors, how truthful are your CE posts? My last included one small outright lie, several gross oversimplifications, and a pretty big exaggeration.

But I did it for the children.

Man

2005-09-06T00:19:00.000-04:00

The road moves really fast when you're drunk. Someone should fix that.

I am not a smart man, but I know what love is

2005-09-04T22:03:00.000-04:00

TNT showed Forrest Gump tonight. I've always identified with the bad parts of his character. No dad, few friends (but durable ones), drifting aimlessly through life, wasting my time and thoughts on the woman I love.

I watched the movie for the first time with the first lady to hold that distinction, a girl whose soul was purer than newly fallen snow. The innocent don't really understand pain or despair in others, so she held my hand and pretended not to notice when the tears leaked out at appropriate moments. The second was more than a little Jennyish. I think I wrote her a letter about it once.

The third is a lot Jenny. I wonder what she's doing in tonight's cut away scene, and whether he'll be the latest to break her heart, or the one to finally save her. Me, I'm getting tired of waiting around for the job. Maybe I should go run for a while, or forever.

Woo fucking hoo

2005-09-02T14:10:00.000-04:00

I think I'm going to come to class drunk more often. Sure, I can't pay attention for shit, but class is much more entertaining when you have one beer before coming to your first class and then add three beers during you one hour break between classes. I wonder if they can smell the booze.

Nevermind, I don't give a shit.

Squeaky Clean

2005-08-31T17:59:00.000-04:00

I masturbated in the shower today; I haven't done that in over 2 years. It felt fabulous. There's something beautiful about a woman pleasuring herself and genuinely enjoying it. If I do say so myself.

Black mark

2005-08-30T19:11:00.000-04:00

Prediction: News reports out of New Orleans will be a big but unspoken blow to race relations in this country. The city has always lived up to the worst stereotypes of both prissy northerners and racist Klansmen, and nothing about the looting or police reaction is going to change that.

In re: Katrina II

2005-08-29T19:23:00.000-04:00

This morning, a partner came in to my office to discuss a motion we were working on. Instead, we began discussing Katrina. With his voice lowered, he said that, while he didn't want to see anyone hurt or their property destroyed, part of him wanted to see a Category 5 hurricane hit New Orleans just to see what happens.

I agreed.

In re: Katrina

2005-08-29T01:27:00.000-04:00

I have come to a conclusion about all these morons who refuse to evacuate because "When it's your time to go, it's your time to go."

Their brains are not the product of Intelligent Design.

If you really think it's your time to die, go ahead and shoot yourself so God doesn't have to send a whole hurricane to get you.

I'm just going to pinch your cheek and you'll feel a little sting but that's just the anesthetic.

2005-08-22T15:32:00.000-04:00

Included in my assorted "pleasure pack" of condoms is the "Performax," which "prolongs lovemaking with body heat activated climax control lubricant."

That sounded fine. Until I read the small print at the bottom.

"Performax active ingredient: Benzocaine (5%)."

Isn't that the stuff they use at the dentist? Yow. The Performaxes might have to be "inadvertently" thrown away. At least we've still got the Tropicals.

Grocery store receipt

2005-08-21T16:57:00.000-04:00

I would love to know the inspiration behind this girl's name, but I think we can all suspect what led to her conception.

Bump

2005-08-20T17:57:00.000-04:00

I suppose editing or deleting another's post is bad form, leaving aside the potential for war and destroying what little value this site has, but I'll post some whitespace to push the below picture off most screens.

If you have a massive flat screen that still shows that pic, I hope you do get fired, asshole.

NSFW

2005-08-19T15:39:00.000-04:00

Great. Look, I'm a cat lover myself, but now I can't fucking view the site at work. Well, I could, but as nice as shaved snatch is, it ain't worth losing my job over. Let me clarify that, a picture of a shaved snatch hoisted in the air and waving as large and proud as a car dealership flag, while certainly a thing of beauty, just isn't worth a visit from human resources. The real thing . . . maybe.

That being said, why am I reminded of Georgia O'Keefe?

Gimme that Loot

2005-08-18T15:35:00.000-04:00

I've been clerking at a firm all summer, and now that school starts, I'm rolling back my hours, but am continuing to clerk for them. I get paid decently, but I'd like a little more. I really like my job, the office is laid back (Polo/Jeans dress code), and I basically can do what I want. How do I go about asking for a raise? I'd like a $1.00 or 2 more, is that too much to ask for? I don't want to make them think that I'm unhappy because I'm not, I'd just like more money. Any help would be great.

Unclear on the concept

2005-08-17T15:18:00.000-04:00

Dear grandmother:

It was nice to see you this weekend, even under such unfortunate circumstances. However, I am writing to correct your recurrent misapprehension that I am a "lawyer." While some people I respect disagree, I find this term inappropriate for someone who has never taken the bar and has no intention of ever working in the legal profession.

Nevertheless, I was willing to overlook your erroneous usage the first fifteen or so times, and correcting you in front of your guests gives me something to do other than stand in stony silence. But really, I think this has gone on long enough, and you go entirely too far when you imply that I am in fact pursuing productive legal employment.

Stop.

I understand that having bankrolled my legal education, against my initial wishes and better judgment, you may feel entitled to live in a fantasy land or lay on what you mistakenly believe to be social pressure. But it's time to face up to reality and/or admit failure. I am not going to be a lawyer.

I leave it to you whether you should nevertheless be proud of me.

Dear Aunt/Uncle C, assorted other maternal relations, and friends:

It was nice to see/meet all of you this weekend. I'm going to carbon copy you on a note I just sent my paternal grandmother - hopefully this will clear up your widespread misperceptions that thankfully were only expressed for the first time.

I did like the novelty of two different ad hoc(?) groupings taking me aside to tell me to take the bar at the next opportunity, but (1) it's incredibly unlikely to happen and (2) it will do me a lot less good than you think. I'm pursing a job/career that would require time commitments wholly inconsistent with taking the bar. In the event I don't get it, it would nevertheless be nearly a year before I would get my results and be able to do anything with them. This is at best a long term plan, and I see at best short term benefits to the practice of law or any related activity.

(Special note to the highly aggravating and moderately overweight girl who wouldn't stop bothering me: I'm not sure if you were a random natural disaster or Aunt C's worst matchmaking accident (joke?) of all time, but please fuck off. I am not going to tell you my deepest secrets. I'm not going to tell you my future plans; my mom would freak out if she found out, and why should I trust you? No, I don't want a fucking backrub, and when I tell you that what I presently "do" is "nothing," I'm quite sincere - watch Office Space if you're confused.

I generally only reply with a flat "no" three times and no more before I do my best to utterly humiliate clueless, pushy imbeciles like yourself. It's my great regret that our culture and language lack appropriate terms and concepts that can be readily used to make young, white, straight, fit, and socially adept men behaving as you did cry with the agony of the damned and contemplate suicide, but you enjoy no such immunity. Fortunately for you, I'm carrying quite a bit of guilt for recently jumping the gun on a young lady who didn't deserve it. Her unjust pain is your unwarranted gain, but don't count on it in the future.)

(Special note to the incredibly amusing and moderately attractive girl who left far too soon: Would you like me to take the bar? Ask, and I shall obey.)

Dear family friend and lawyer father of the ex-girlfriend I dumped immediately before law school:

Thank you for your graduation gift and card I just got around to opening today, three months late. Through no fault of your own, however, you made a mistake in your selection of greeting, which inappropriately congratulates me "as [I] enter the legal profession." See attached for an explanation. Still, I thank you for the thought, and I am morally certain that the card's prediction that I will find "all the fulfillment and happiness [I] deserve" is perfectly accurate in a literal sense.

Tell L that while we were ultimately doomed anyway, and I'm still too embarrassed/kind to tell her the real reasons, the timing of our breakup was so I wouldn't be hindered in upgrading during law school. Yep, still single.

All the best, etc.

John Who?

2005-08-17T09:07:00.000-04:00

I just received a cell phone call from a guy who said he met me last week at a party I attended. He said I put my cell # in his phone and told him to call me some time.

The trouble is I don't remember meeting him. Which isn't surprising given the events of that night. I've never had this happen before and while I didn't want to hurt his feelings, I had to be honest. He knew several things about me and it became obvious that we'd chatted for a while. But I remember none of it. That I had no recall of our encounter* only caused him to pause for a moment.

He then started in with "well, I'll be at such and such a bar tonight if you'd like to get together" and "I could meet you up your way if that would be easier." Dude - I don't remember you. Surely you remember I was wasted when we met. I'm sure you're a nice guy, but it is VERY unlikely I'm going to agree to go out with a complete stranger, essentially sight unseen, and especially after I've declared I don't remember meeting you and it turns out you're cool with that.

*No, we did not sleep together. Yes, I'm sure.

Age before beauty

2005-08-15T06:50:00.000-04:00

The daughter

Pros: Early 20s, very cute, thinks my name sounds like a porn star.
Cons: Her brothers seem like they would be hostile if we dated, doesn't drink, shows disturbing signs of being much, much smarter than me.

The mother

Pros: Hotter than her daughter when I've been drinking, 10 years ago probably hotter than any woman alive in any conditions, really likes my name, her own name closely resembles a sexual act, her incredibly cool ex-husband might actually buy me a drink if I pulled it off, not least because it kept me away from his daughter.
Cons: Mid 40s, her sons would break me like a twig if they caught us, maybe I can't stay drunk enough long enough.

I need a plan. Who, how, when, in what order, etc. Advice?

The punisher

2005-08-11T12:11:00.000-04:00

I usually trust the written word more than the spoken, for I am not an eloquent man. Give me time to write, however, and I can work magic. It's magic of a rather limited kind, more given to explanation than persuasion, but when your future presidency would be most closely compared to that of the current incumbent, you take what you can get. Still, what ever my limits, with ample preparation my writings are not to be misunderestimated.

With ample preparation. Demand letters, thank you notes, police reports, articles, essays, and, most importantly, love letters I write are impressive. Emails, less so. Misspellings are rife, gramatical mistakes not uncommon, positions often poorly thought out. Here, at least, the spoken word is to be preferred, even by magnificent manufacturers of malapropisms such as myself.

If I need to say something quick and dirty, let me explain quickly, so that you'll continue to talk to me dirty. Give me emotion and passion in my voice to lift up my meager, inadequate, poorly chosen words, correct my mistakes and misapprehensions before they run wild. Stop me before ~~I kill again~~ I say something that I'll regret, and in a permanent form.

I know all of this, and yet I do it anyway. Sometimes I'm drunk, sometimes it's late, most often she (in her multitudes over the years) won't answer the phone. Does that make it her fault? No, never. I could have slept on it, called again. I could have saved a draft, and revised it several times, thought about it from different angles, maybe in a fit of wisdom deleted it entirely.

I might have been saved by a softly whispered "sorry," a well-deserved (did I but know it) "no, fuck you, asshole," a banal but oh so welcome "wait, I'll explain." But that's unfair. Why should she have to save me from myself? I could just as easily have taken the high road (I think I did it once in '97), just stopped and thought for a moment, not about the hurt I'd suffered, but what I still had to lose.

Perhaps waiting, thinking, reconsidering wouldn't have helped after all. I've said I don't persuade well, and that I certainly confirmed. (Maybe today I'll confirm that lead doesn't float very well.) But I also bragged that I excel at describing, explaining, clarifying. What I'm really afraid of, even more than losing her, is that my email was no mistake. Perhaps it didn't fail because it was unclear and hasty, but because it was all too true and raw.

She said she didn't know me anymore. Truth? Of a sort. At the very least she didn't know I was capable of writing anything so nasty. At most, she didn't know I was such a nasty person. I didn't either, but I'm beginning to think she might be right. I have to take her word for it, seeing my reflection in her words, for I still don't have the courage to read what I truly said. Maybe I don't need to. I wanted to be someone she would love, and if I've failed at that, no other truth really matters.

She said I didn't know the real her. False, absolutely. If the recent email was more true than I knew, each letter I wrote, every caress whispered in her ear was always more accurate than she ever believed. If my crime is to think I'm better than I am, hers, always, has been to think herself worse than she is.

Perfect.

I knew that still when I accused her of having Fallen, knew the fault was not hers, had to be mine. Wise fool that I am, I blamed her. Did I really blame her? Maybe even then I blamed myself. I'm reminded of Jane. No, not the sure thing I reluctantly met and passed on at the same time she came into my life, the shiny apple I reached beyond to try to grab a star, but that one who after a few hundred pages of unrelieved awfulness, abuse, and (accidentally?) betrayed friends (repeat twice), struck a deal with the ~~devil~~ dragon to destroy the universe. They failed, they came close, they never had a chance.

Brought before the Goddess aftwards, things don't go as expected.

"You may ask anything you want," the Baldwynn said, and left.

"Why?"

There was no answer.

"Why?" she said again. "Why is life so loathesome? Why is there pain? Why does pain hurt so much? Couldn't you have ordered things differently? Or did you have no more choice than we? Is there no such thing as choice? Are we nothing more than automatons? Why is there love? Did you create us merely so we could be punished? Why are we punished? What was our sin? How could a mother treat her own children so? Don't you love us? Do you hate us? Are we aspects of you? Are you so hungry for sensation that you incarnate bits of yourself as us in order to experience ignorance, fear, and pain? Is omniscience that bad? What is death? What becomes of us after death? Do we simply cease to be? Do mortals have only the one life? Were there other lives before this one? Did we do something unforgivable in them? Is that why you hate us? Will there be more lives? Will they be worse? Can even you die? If you hate us so much, why is there beauty? Does our misery rely on it? Would we be happier without beauty? Why is their joy? Exactly what do you want?"

There was no answer.

I know the feeling.

"Do you feel better now?" the Baldwynn asked.

"Yes."

"The Goddess has directed me to give you whatever you want."

"Oh.

"I want to be punished," Jane said. She had no control over the words They came out of her mouth without volition and she was amazed to hear what she had said. But she didn't want to disavow them. She knew the truth when she heard it.

For a long time the Baldwynn did not speak. At last he said, "Will you serve the Goddess now? Knowingly and lovingly, in sweet obedience and humble acknolwedgement of all that she is?"

"No." The word was a pebble in her mouth. She spat it out. "Not now, not tomorrow, not if I live to be a million. Never."

The Baldwynn stopped and took her hands in his. "Dear child," he said. "I feared there was no hope for you."

I know the feeling.

Thanks, Goddess. I deserved every bit of it, good and bad. Jane got better than what she deserved in the end. It doesn't look like I'll be that lucky.

[Update: revised and greatly expanded the last bit from the original posted here for half an hour or so, got rid of the awful original title.]

Take that step to the other side of Lethe tonight

2005-08-10T21:53:00.000-04:00

Scheherazade Fowler had a typically poetic reminiscence about her earliest memory the other day, reminding me of my own earliest memories. Plural, because beginning in high school and continuing throughout college I sequentially remembered earlier and earlier episodes, leaving me with five "earliest" at various points in my life. You may sense a theme.

I. Where's Waldo?

When I was three I had the best dog in the world. Waldo was brown, shaggy, friendly, exciting, and totally unable to learn not to shit on our 70's shag carpet. Waldo also had an unfortunate tendency towards diarrhea.

Now you and I would think this would aesthetically improve the carpet, but my father was unwilling to concede the point, and even I have to admit that it did not improve its olfactory qualities in any way. One day, while scooping up Waldo's latest indiscretion, dad declared that he had had Enough. Dad grabbed Waldo's collar; I grabbed dad's ankle. He cursed, I screamed, and my best friend was dragged away, never to be seen again. Allegedly he was delivered to one of my father's several friends who lived on ranches outside town.

I promptly forgot all about Waldo, only to remember him in a horrified flash two decades later while reading the Onion's latest Point-Counterpoint. Mom: "We Gave Rex to a Nice Farm Family." Rex: "They Put Me to Sleep at the Vet." I called Mom and demanded to know what had really happened to him. She claims that as far as she knows my father really did take the dog to one of his friends who had a ranch, albeit one we didn't see very often. Maybe. Maybe.

Waldo, I'll name my first born son after you. Well, maybe not.

II. Ashes to ashes

When I was nearly four, Mom picked me up from preschool like any other day. "Are we going home, or do we have to run eeeerrands?" I whined. We were not running errands, but we couldn't go home. We were staying with her parents for a while, because the house had burned down that morning.

"Oh."

I wasn't concerned with the loss of my home and possessions. Disasters weren't tragedies, but opportunities for heroism. For days I did little but imagine what I would have done if I'd been there. In my head I saved my Mom, little sister, ~~dog~~, fellow rescuers in a tough spot, and a few important possessions over and over and over again.

Was it exciting? Not really. I remember thinking about it dispassionately, a problem to be creatively solved, not something to get emotionally involved in. That attitude stayed with me in subsequent disasters that happen to other people: the weekend I came home from college to discover the dryer's lint catcher had caught fire and spread to the wall around the gas powered water heater; the just started grass fire on a lonely highway that was much closer to some vacant farmhouses than it was to the fire department; the asshole upstairs in my apartment who sounded like he was beating his girlfriend but who proved to be merely demolishing her place, allowing me to forgo methodically and calmly beating in his head with my six cell Maglite until the cops arrived. ("Uh...are you the night watchman?")

Thanks, childhood financial disaster, you served me well later in life.

III. Boys have a penis, girls are treacherous bitches

I was four, she was two. I loved her, she worshipped me, as only a little sister can do. She was quickly learning to talk, a skill that made her both more interesting and useful, and which I therefore encouraged. She had trouble with her l's, and especially with the word "girl," which she pronounced "goo." I drilled her constantly. One day, a breakthrough.

Giiiirl. Girl. Fantastic! Do it again. Girl. Girl. Girrrrrl. You're the smartest sister ever! Let's show mom and dad. I summoned them. She bestowed them a beautific smile, but not before shooting me an odd expression that I only later identified as Absolute Evil. Say it, J. Goo. No, no, no! Girl, like I taught you. Like you did just two minutes ago! Goo. Goo. Gooooooo! But she knows how! I taught her! Mom patted me sympathetically on the head, and they fussed over their adorable little "goo."

At that moment I first understood betrayal, the default behavior of all women once they have earned your trust and love. I swore to ruin her life, and while I can't truthfully claim my constant hostility over the next ten years (I finally found better things to do in high school) was more than a signficant contributing factor, she did get enormously fat, barely graduate high school, and then waste two years at a community college in a zero credits earned depression before returning home in shame to work at a convenience store.

After years of talking about it, she had stomach reduction surgery last week. I'm proud of her. I haven't been proud of anything I've done for her in a quarter century. Maybe I'll be nicer to the next girl who breaks my heart, even if this time she's old enough to know what she's doing.

IV. SG1371U

Even when I was barely five I knew I was a genius. Everyone said so, but I'm not sure how they knew. All of my most interesting work happened in my own head, elaborate ideas, fantasies, hypothesis, correlations whizzing around in a maelstrom. They whizzed fastest when I was moving, and you'll still find me stalking seemingly aimless loops in a room with a distant look on my face.

Back then, however, new "breakthroughs" came most often after snacktime at my kindergarten, when I would volunteer to clean up crumbs with the push vacuum, operating on autopilot, dodging chairs, students, coordinating footwork, changing angles of attack and thinking of a thousand things far away. And then, one day, I had The Idea.

The Idea was lifechanging, awe inspiring, sure to cement my place as one of the great prodigies of all time. I paused for a moment to wallow in my own greatness, then resumed vacuuming. Thirty seconds later, after detouring down a chain of suppositions increasingly distantly related to The Idea, I tried to remember what I needed to do or who I needed to tell to bring The Idea to fruition. To my bowel loosening horror, I couldn't remember a single thing about it. Not the first step, not the last step, not The Idea itself.

It's hard for me to explain how furious I felt at this self betrayal. I. Did. Not. Forget. Ever. I was the kid with the good memory, better, the one who didn't even need a good memory, because I was so easily capable of using intuition, deduction, hell, probalby even voodoo to get the answer I needed from some scrap of information I didn't know I possessed, some obscure relationship I figured out without anyone ever explaining it to me.

And now I'd had The most brilliant Idea ever, and it was lost to me. I panicked, froze, dropped the vacuum handle, tried desperately to remember. Nothing. What was I thinking about before The Idea? No clue. Before that? Oh it was, blah blah, which led me to think about...something. Wait! I could remember precisely where I'd been standing when my epiphany hit, between those two chairs, facing that direction, pushing the vacuum at this direction. Surely if I did it again...no.

I said I was furious, and this was nothing new. I was often furious, at my classmates, my parents, my sister, my shoelaces. But never before had something so precious been lost, and this time it was my fault. Fury was already a familiar emotion, but self loathing and doubt were entirely new.

That day began a new chain of chaotic thoughts, one that eventually turned me into a slacker, convinced me that my best wasn't good enough, that fate or some hidden flaw in myself would doom my best efforts. That day and ever day after I felt like a fraud whenever anyone would tell me I was smart.

I vacuum twice a year, whether my carpet needs it or not.

V. Hit Me Baby One Last Time

Sheherazade's memory, not surprisingly to regular readers of her blog, is heavy with rich visual imagery. My own memories are never like that; I can't even recall my mother's face with any great detail. No, I have an introvert's obsession with his own mental state, a focus not on what is interesting or beautiful but Important, a sense that fate has intervened and changed my life in some way.

But I can remember sounds sometimes. From that apartment we lived in after the house burned down I most recall music, as we didn't have a TV then. Betty Davis Eyes played a lot on the radio when I was five, and although I never spotted them, I'm told some private eyes were watching me. Subconsciously, it appears, I may have been moody and blue, as well, although I don't explicitly remember it.

Nor do I remember what Mom or dad were wearing that night. What color was the wallpaper in the kitchen? What did we have for dinner? (Was it even after dinner?) I think I remember that the racks on the dishwasher were empty; certainly they were pulled out. All that's really clear is the sound of my parents yelling, and the crashing sound when Mom hit the dishwasher racks. Did he hit her or shove her? He'd often yelled at her, and not unfrequently hit me, but I don't remember him being violent with her before, so maybe he just shoved her. Hard.

The result was clear enough. She lay on the ground, holding the bottom rack, crying. After a while she slowly got up, walked across the kitchen, staring at me with her red, blotchy, tear streaked face, opened the back door, and left, never to return. Leaving me and J, sleeping or playing elsewhere, hopefully oblivious, with him.

For years I thought this was my earliest memory, but I didn't recall it at all until high school, when my life first began to take on some sense of normality and stability. Until then, life began the day, maybe a half year later, that J and I moved in with Mom and the man who would soon become my stepfather, in the big empty house that we slowly filled up over the years.

The second worst behaved dog of all time moved in a year after I did, and died there a year before I left, a pretty good run for mildly retarded labrador. I saved that house from burning down one day. There I taught my baby half-sister to talk, how to forgive people who disappointed her, and to understand that not everything that offended her was intentional or done with malice. And while I volunteered to clean up after dinner every night, filling up the dishwasher, I would never empty it.

While I lived there, I never had a woman I loved walk away from me because of some other man. Since? Call it three.