END OF REASON

We're Engaged!

2008-03-27T20:06:00.004-04:00

Cheers, my love!

Weekend Advice #4

2008-02-29T14:12:00.000-05:00

This weekend’s safeword is “totalitarianism”. Juggle 3 uncommon items at once. Watch out for questionable landscaping businesses soliciting in your area. And don’t trust the girl scouts; remember, they’re a cult.

Sick Smoke

2008-02-26T09:23:00.002-05:00

Been immersed in Assassin’s Creed, now that Turok is finally finished. Ah, the PS3. How it fills the hours while Mel is at work until late evening. But enough of why I’m a dork. Let’s get to the important issues:

We just replaced the smoke alarm battery in our apartment, and here I thought this was a good thing. It’s located in the hallway outside the bathroom, and it decided to go off this morning while I was in the shower, because of the steam. The fucking steam! And it’s so loud and annoying and Mel’s cat Oliver is crying like he’s on the brink of a nuclear fallout that he doesn’t understand, but is forced to acknowledge.

Mel tells me to not take such a hot shower. I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. Mel’s showers are borderline freezing. I don’t do cold water, unless I’m drinking it.

And to make matters worse, I hate myself for already getting sucked into Bret Michael’s Rock of Love II. It’s a train wreck that happens each week, but I find myself emotionally involved with the passengers. I partly only watch the show because I want him to say diabetes, which he pronounces DIABEETISS. It drove me nuts last season. I couldn’t stop saying it and I still use it for every excuse.

Mel: Are you cooking dinner tonight?

T: I’m sorry, I would, but my DIABEETISS.

Mel: Why aren’t the Disney movies copying?

T: It must be the DIABEETISS.

As for the smoke alarm—The DIABEETISS.

Weekend Advice #3

2008-02-22T14:52:00.001-05:00

This weekend’s safeword is “Tilapia.” And clip your toenails—it’s time.

Doctor Feelbad

2008-02-21T08:13:00.002-05:00

When I was in the 8th grade, I scored these killer seats for Motley Crue, the Dr. Feelgood Tour. There was this girl who, let’s say, was part of the popular crowd, and I was, let’s say, not in that crowd. We’ll call her W. W loved Motley Crue, oddly enough, and I bought these tickets, hoping it was my shot at acquiring her in the biblical sense. She agreed to go and was genuinely excited. I mean, what 8th grader scores Motley Crue tickets and acts like it’s no big deal. We learned that another student—let’s call her C—got tickets and her family offered to give us a ride. But this is not a blog post about a Motley Crue concert.

So, I used to date C. And it was cool. No real drama, for eighth grade I mean, and when things didn’t work out, me and C remained friends. Which leads us to W. I wanted W. God, I wanted W. But W and I were not really friends (‘I’ meaning ‘me’ in case all the initials confused you). But now that I had acquired these Crue tickets, W and I became best friends over the next few months. Of course she’d have to acknowledge me since I was the one with the tickets, but she got to know me, and behind that mop of red hair, I was a nice kid, kind to animals and grandparents, etc.

W and I hung out on occasion, but you know, W was not really receptive to my charms. Shocking. I know. But I was determined, until she started dating one of my friends and I got jealous and confessed my true feelings. It was awkward. It got me nowhere. By the time the Crue concert came around, all the awkwardness was sort of out there and weird. Long story short—when the show was done, she was done. I never even got one kiss (insert single tear). I was sad.

Flash forward 4 ½ years later. Introduce my good friend S (don’t know what happened to C, but we recently connected again on myspace, which is great). Now S ran with the popular crowd, but S and I were, ironically, best friends as well. S was never shallow. S got me for who I was. S and I never had that sexual tension, and we were convinced that we’d proven the When-Harry-Met-Sally-men-and-women-can’t-be-friends-theory false. It was true. She was my long lost sister, or something. But that’s not the point. This is: S was good friends with W. Ah, yes. W. So much time had passed since the 8th grade Crue show. And now there was an opportunity on the rise…

When my mom was out of town, I threw this little party at my house, which turned into a little more than I imagined. I bought a few cases of beer with my fake ID and invited my, God I’m gonna say it, “rocker” friends. Oh, and the football team. The high school football team always invited me everywhere since they got drunk and I played guitar and they could sing songs. I was the guitar guy. Even at the reunion, they asked me about the guitar, begged for the guitar. It drove me fucking nuts. But whatever, I got invited everywhere because of my six-string.

This party. My house. It was happening. My friends showed up. The football players were there. S invited girls that would, on a normal day, not be caught dead at my house. W was there. And W was drunk. I mean…DRUNK. I was also drunk. So, enter suave guy from the next town over. His name was J. J could have any girl he wanted by snapping his fingers. I’d seen it happen. J decided that he wanted Female J, who was W’s best friend. Okay, are you still with me? To confirm: me, W, Suave J, and Female J.

The four of us went upstairs to my bedroom, where the black lights were buzzing and the music was mellow, etc. Now, Suave J and Female J were hitting it off big time, and basically W went upstairs with them, I assume, in the event he was a psychopath. I went upstairs because it was my FUCKING HOUSE, for one, and 2, I wanted to make a move on W, with four years and one Motley Crue concert hanging in the balance.

So, to reiterate the scene: my bedroom. Dark. Black lights. Drunk. Suave J and Female J are making out hardcore on the floor. I mean, completely clothed and all, but this was some twisted shit regardless. W and I were lying on my bed, looking up at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling. (sigh…yes, I had glow in the dark stars. We all did at some point. Don’t try to lie.) So, W and I were talking and, dare I say, hitting it off. She was wasted. I was wasted. We had the appropriate mental connection (kidding…had to say it), and I made my move.

And what happened next?

She looked at me long and hard…and proceeded…to laugh her ass off. I mean, she fucking LAUGHED at me, and was like, “Oh my God, no way. He just tried to kiss me. He actually tried to kiss me.” She stumbled off the bed and practically collapsed next to Suave J and Female J who, by the way, were really picking up some momentum. And fucking Female J started laughing as well. And just when I thought Suave J would be a man and stand up for me, he shot me this dreadful look; he was really pissed that I interrupted his animalistic make-out session, which, okay, sort of sucked for him, but did he not see the bullet I took in the chest??

Female J and W, laughing, left the bedroom, ran downstairs, and told the ENTIRE party that I tried to kiss W. To them, what seemed to make their story so incredibly fucking funny was how I thought I actually had a chance. Ugh! It was f u c k i n g horrible. I was so embarrassed. I wanted to hide forever in my black light room and listen to sad Motley Crue songs and DIE!

I guess what it boils down to is this:

(ahem)

You know I'm a dreamer
But my heart's of gold
I had to run away high
So I wouldn't come home low
Just when things went right
Doesn't mean they're always wrong
Just take this song and you'll never feel
Left all alone

Take me to your heart
Feel me in your bones
Just one more night
And I'm comin' off this
Long & winding road

I'm on my way
I'm on my way
Home sweet home

1992: Spermicidal Tendencies

2008-02-20T09:48:00.002-05:00

My junior year in high school, my girlfriend and I were concerned. She was two weeks late when we finally decided to take a pregnancy test. When my mom overhead us talking about rushing out to buy one, she immediately barged in and declared herself team member #3 (we hoped not 4), and she was surprisingly calm, considering she was about to skip out for a weekend trip to Atlantic City and leave the irresponsible lovebirds alone for a few days without parental supervision.

Some background: my high school girlfriend’s parents never appreciated the fact that I was dating their daughter. But in their defense, at sixteen I was a metalhead with zero ambition, ripped jeans, usually sporting a Suicidal Tendencies airbrushed denim jacket, and a lot of red hair, so from a parent’s POV, I wouldn’t have liked me either. Currently I am the same—minus the jacket. Oh, and I wasn’t Pakistani—not even close, which played an important role. One time her mother came home from work early and found us skipping class, high, and lacking the appropriate amount of clothing, surrounded by the sultry sounds of Winger or maybe Warrant or Motley Crue…Dare I say Bret Michaels and Poison. This incident wasn’t a strong selling strategy for me; it was hard to win them over after that. They eventually moved with their daughter out of state.

Anyway, all that irresponsible underage sex added up to this pregnancy test. So we bought one and took it back to my house where my mother waited. Her suitcase was beside the door. I thought it was ALL over. While my ex took the test and we all waited, my mother’s calm exterior crumbled—if she could’ve only held it together for a few more minutes, but apparently her capacity for calm was stripped away while I was at the drugstore.

“Her parents are going to fucking kill you. FUCKING kill you. And you know what, I’m not going to stop them.”

“Mom, calm down.”

“I’m not kidding. I can probably get sued somehow.”

“Mom, you can’t get sued.”

“They’re going to put me in jail for letting underage sex happen in my house.”

“I’ve never heard of something like that happen.”

“You think your father would put up with this?”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“How could you be so careless?”

“We were being careful. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

“Not careful enough! You wore condoms?”

“God, mom. Stop!”

“Were they spermicidal? You need to use the ones with spermicide!”

“I cannot listen to you right now.”

“Oh, you better listen. It’s over. You know that, right? Hope this was worth it. Hope this was really worth it!”

“I think you should try and calm down.”

“I am calm!”

Door creaked open. Girlfriend walked out. Negative test in hand. Sigh of relief. She shrugged and smiled awkwardly. I hugged my mother, halfway out the door to Atlantic City, and upon closing the door, she looked back at the both of us and said, “There’s lasagna in the fridge. Don’t be a bunch of idiots.”

PS3 Ethernet

2008-02-19T10:15:00.003-05:00

Last night I officially went online with my PS3 and played Turok with 10 people around the country. We killed dinosaurs and shot pulse rifles at mutant alien species. I am 32 years old. That is all.

Weekend Advice #2

2008-02-15T13:49:00.001-05:00

This weekend’s safeword is minimart. Don’t forget to floss. Do something nice for a stray animal. Call that uncle you hate. Avoid walking near puddles of shallow water. And don’t forget to promote sunscreen awareness!

Even Exchange

2008-02-14T09:25:00.003-05:00

All I’m saying is that oral sex is sort of required on Valentine’s Day. It’s like cake on your birthday (note: birthdays are also mandatory oral sex days—along with Good Friday, Easter, Veteran’s Day, and Groundhog’s Day…sometimes Daylight Savings Time and Lincoln's Birthday).

Mel will be surprised to know that one night while she was working on her American Literature handout or business writing in-class exercise, I took her daily planner and started scheduling specific sexual requests throughout the calendar year. March 22nd, August 12th, and November 19th are going to be a fantastic time if all goes as planned.

We exchanged gifts last night: I bought her a handmade crystal sculpture of two cats playing, for her desk at work. And some body spray that she made me write down on a post-it one morning.

She gave me Assassin’s Creed for PS3. Fuck yeah! And Flight of the Concords Season 1.

Mel, given your schedule, you are exempt from today’s tradition, however, please make a note to check your calendar for other scheduled events coming soon, with or without your consent. Thank you for your time. And God bless us. Everyone.

As for the rest of you…I hope your Valentine’s Day is filled with lots of animalistic, crazy, borderline inappropriate, shameful, uncomfortably pleasurable, domineering yet shy, self-loathing, blindfolded, shameless sex.

(end scene).

Speak Up #3

2008-02-12T10:00:00.000-05:00

Fact: Every second, approximately 28,258 Internet users are viewing pornography. But you’re here, so good job.

This is a fascinating article about Jesus, Pornography & Pancakes. This is fucked up in many ways, because I love pancakes and porn isn’t so bad either, but what troubles me is that Christians label men as the pornography demons; it seems that women are excluded from the equation.

Here is their solution:

"The ministries offer a six month, live-in treatment program for men with sexual addictions. At the facility, which claims to be the only one of its kind in the country, counselors take a biblical approach to healing instead of a psychological one."

"The live-in program demands intense Bible study and discipline from the residents. Each day is structured for work, prayer, and one-on-one biblical counseling, where the men study scriptural lessons on guilt, anger, depression and selfishness. The men are cut off from the outside world and any outside stimulation. There is no television, Internet or cell phones. Mail is even screened for clothing catalogues with what could be considered inappropriate images."

Other articles I encountered suggest that pornography is a ‘male’ addiction. Like I’m supposed to honestly believe that women don’t dabble in watching pornography? Maybe if I was a crazy brainwashed Christian. That’s right I said ‘dabble’. Or does this come down to the simple fact that everyone masturbates, but men are more inclined to use pornography, whereas women use their imagination? Do Christian women think of Jesus when they masturbate? I mean…I get it. Jesus was sort of hot. And if so, is that more sinful than thinking of some regular guy?

Could this minimal female pornography audience derive from the fact that the majority of pornography is not women friendly? Is this a matter of production value, storyline, and overall presentation?

Another study from both Nerve and Playboy claims watching porn with your significant other, religious beliefs and pancakes aside, enhances passion and the overall sexual experience. And to be clear, results were collected from both men and women.

Let me here it.

3 Min of Fame

2008-02-11T10:55:00.000-05:00

A caffeine headache has taken over my life, but I’ve got help from an acoustic Springsteen Ghost of Tom Joad Bootleg from 1996 and muted clips of republican strategist Amy Holmes on You-Tube.

I’m sort of obsessed with her lately. I’m also concerned that my recent TV crushes now consist of women found on CNN. I’m not sure what means yet. Any thoughts?

A lot of people don’t know this about me, but when I was in the sixth grade, I was on a television variety show called Steampipe Alley, hosted by Sex & the City’s Mario Cantone. I played Denny Gibson (popstar Debbie Gibson’s fictional brother). I wore an Anthrax t-shirt and jeans and cameramen threw rubber fish at me. At one point Cantone asked Denny (me) what music I’ve been listening to, and my one scripted line was, “I just got the new Springsteen, and I want the new David Lee Roth.”

I would kill for this clip. Can I get a SAG card because of this?

So, in short, that’s why I turned to drugs; being a childhood star was not easy.

Weekend Advice #1

2008-02-08T16:43:00.000-05:00

Remember, this weekend's safeword is 'Salamander'. Don't break anyone's toaster unless they deserve it. Buy a milk shake for a homeless person. Make-out with someone random who appreciates you. Boys like that. See you Monday.

Emotions = Blindness

2008-02-08T09:45:00.000-05:00

In light of recent developments in Penelope's world, and this blog's 'emotional connection' debate, I thought I'd share my related eye troubles.

It’s called Central Serous Chorioretinopathy.

The eye specialist tells me that at some point in my mid twenties, a tiny blister formed inside my eyeball, somewhere in the macula, then tore open and left a footprint on the nerve endings, which attributes to the vision loss I’ve experienced.

And of course, even with all our technological advances, it’s irreversible, at least for now. No telling what procedures will be available twenty years from now, but the ever popular Lasik option does not repair nerves.

The specialist (examining me): This is strange.

File this among ‘things’ you never want to hear any kind of specialist say to you.

Me: What’s strange?

The specialist: I’ve never seen anything quite like this. Even though you’re in your early thirties, it’s like your eyes are those of a seventy-year-old man.

Me: That can’t be good. How did this happen?

The specialist (falls silent, pencils some notes on my chart): Would you say you’re Type A personality or Type B.

Me: Well…I don’t know.

The specialist: This is a case usually seen in male Type A personalities. Did you ever go through any kind of…emotional episode…and if so, did you notice any vision loss at the time?

Me: Episode?

I mean, fuck, finding the right cereal I’ll feel comfortable eating for a whole month is its own emotional episode, and that shit just happened last week. Meanwhile, sitting there in the examination chair, I search my selective memory of the infamous early twenties: mayhem, drugs, girls, depression, kicking the bed sheets, weight loss, hating myself, meds, more meds, bla, bla, bla, and then I gaze up at her.

Me: I mean…sure I had a couple of episodes…I mean, who doesn’t…a few…some.

I’ve had more episodes than America’s Funniest Home Videos. And I’m going blind because of it. Awesome. Fucking. Awesome. I suppose this proves how emotional connections are dangerous.

At least it wasn’t the Urologist. I’d rather be blind than, say, have the penis of a seventy-year-old man. Coincidentally, this is also my high school yearbook quote.

Speak Up #2

2008-02-07T09:12:00.000-05:00

I've never slept with anyone without having some kind of an emotional connection first. People never believe me when I say this.

Speak Up #1

2008-02-07T09:10:00.000-05:00

If there’s an advantage to not wearing underwear, I’m ready to listen.

Preacher

2008-02-06T09:00:00.000-05:00

At work I’m accosted by at least one of the same three Evangelical preachers every two weeks. Their peddling and solicitations are beyond inconsiderate and flat-out fucking rude.

Some highlights from his greatest hits performance (I kid you not—this is quoting verbatim):

1.The gays are going to hell.
2.The Jews are going to hell.
3.Homosexuality is condemned in the Bible!
4.When you die without God on your side, it’s too late.
5.You can’t trick God!
6.God will see right through you.
7.Masturbation is a sin!
8.You think God doesn’t see you masturbate?

For the record...I KNOW he sees me and that's why I do it to begin with.

Last October I walked into this man’s circle, tore up his pamphlets and then tossed them in his face after he made a freshman cry because she was bisexual, from a strict Catholic background, and still struggling with her identity. It will probably end up on You-Tube with his other videos at some point, but whatever. I’m so sick of going to work and having to deal with some asshole on campus, causing a stir, and trying to shove religion down my throat.

During the first week of January, two young men in suits with Jesus Christ name badges told me that smoking was my way of enabling Satan’s work, that I was actually allowing Satan to ruin my health. So, I suppose an obese man should know that his desserts are the workings of Satan? What about that, Jesus Boy? Or was me smoking a cigarette and minding my own business just an invitation for you to come over and start spewing your shit at me.

Word of advice: if you want to reach people like me, talk to me, don’t shout at me, or make me feel inadequate. I get enough of that in the bedroom. (What?@!&!).

I hate Crammers ([kram- mers] religious screwballs who try to force his/her beliefs upon others.) These idiots are all over campus.

Him [to the students]: Your school’s health center tells you safe sex means wearing a condom. You’re school’s telling you lies! That’s not safe sex. Sex before marriage is a sin. And you will pay for that sin!

Do blow jobs count?

At least I’ll be in good company. Hell, even Donna Martin broke the rules and slept with David Silver.

Eat Fresh!

2008-02-05T09:08:00.000-05:00

The woman who works at Subway is on a mission to ruin my lunch hour. I always ask her to go light on the oil and vinegar, but every single time she pours it all over the bread like she’s washing a fucking car! I’ve fucking had it with her. For fuck’s sake, get it together, man! By the time I get back to work and unwrap my sandwich, it’s like someone threw it in a fucking pool. This soggy shitlog of a sandwich is now a gloppy mess and falling apart.

How difficult is this task? “Light on the oil and vinegar.” Should I fucking write it down for her next time? And I know she’s toying with my emotions, like most sandwich artists are capable of doing. She fucking knows she’s supposed to go light, but she just doesn’t care. I can see it in her eyes.

I could just order the oil and vinegar on the side—but that’s not the point and, despite what you might have heard, I’m not Meg Ryan. As a consumer I really don’t ask for much, I don’t care if someone provides me with friendly customer service, but all I do ask is that my order is correct, that my simple request is honored and meets my satisfaction. This is the stripped down, bare bones, basic aim for customer service! Don’t send me back to work to eat a soaked shitlog and expect me to take it lying down!

I like Subway, okay. I enjoy seeing the fat content on the menu. I like that it costs me under $5. I like eating a mountain of veggies on my sandwich and the way it makes me feel 39.6% better about myself—I like that I’ve cut French fries out of my life. But this sandwich-artist-shit-for-brains is testing me. She might as well slap me in the face with a cheeseburger, strap handfuls of scalding, greasy French fries under my armpits, cram warm apple fritters into my ears, and then tell me to drag my sorry ass down the block to McDonalds.

“Could you please go light with the oil and vinegar?”

She looks at me like I asked her to magically pull a happy meal out of her ass.

AWP Who?

2008-02-04T00:52:00.000-05:00

I’m sure other bloggers will write about the AWP Conference in New York City this past weekend—I mean… it is a writing conference, so why not a rock video of my experience that contains two sparkling bottles of vodka. Glad to be alive.

Back and intact—somewhat.

I’ll let the music and images do the talking. Crank it loud. An enormous thanks to Mel’s sister for rolling out the red carpet and the rockstar treatment.

More tomorrow…

RETURNING FROM HELL FEB 4TH

2008-01-18T00:19:00.000-05:00

[updated 1/28/08]

Off to NYC for AWP...

See you on the 4th...

The Score

2007-12-17T10:25:00.001-05:00

5th row seats for Springsteen, opening night at Giants Stadium, Sunday, July 27th 2008

2007-12-13T08:59:00.000-05:00

But I remember us riding in my brother's car
Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir
At night on them banks I'd lie awake
And pull her close just to feel each breath she'd take
Now those memories come back to haunt me
they haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse

FIRST BLOG FROM OUTER SPACE!

2007-12-12T20:52:00.000-05:00

Out here it is cold, but everyone gets along.

TEASE

2007-12-12T16:24:00.000-05:00

I don’t do things. Or tags. Or lists. Or lists about tags. Or tags made of lists. Or list the names of tags. I don’t even cut the fucking tags off my clothes. I walk around with fucking clothes tags scratching my neck, my thighs.

However, I will say that, when in uniform, I am an exceptionally sexy Salsa dancer. My parents are from Japan, so it sort of worked out well.

The Almost Holiday

2007-11-22T02:39:00.000-05:00

Tampa. 3:00 AM. Fucking driving around searching for a Steak n Shake like 90 min ago? Don't ask.

Listen, loving the 'fuck' love and everything, but it's wrong to use foul language. Clearly I'm manic depressive and mentally unstable and no one should listen to anything I say. You're giving me a Chirst complex and it's not even Flag Day. I don't have anything to wear!

I believe the children are our future. And not because Whitney Houston said so, but because people will have children in the future, so therefore, technically, the fucking children actually are our future, or will be in our future. And I believe this. Like Whitney. I wonder if Whitney from The Hills believes this as well. I love her dearly.

Hannah, I believe (correction) I know the children are your present. Knowing you has altered my belief in the accuracy of this song. Just remember to show them all the beauty...etc...etc...

I'm going back to reading The Almost Moon, which is so creepy and twisted and incredible.

More tomorrow. I'll be drunk by noon, stranded in the battlefield where the turkeys say I love you, except it comes out sounding like "FUCK!"

WHY DON'T YOU BLOG ALREADY???

2007-11-19T16:35:00.000-05:00

Because I’m fucking dead, okay, and there’s no internet access in purgatory. Yes, purgatory…the jury’s still sorting through a questionable summer I had back in 1999.

Not blogging has been WONDERFUL, like a salami sandwich with fresh Mozzarella on a Fall day when the weather cannot decide to be cold or warm, so it remains indecisive in that way only weather can do. SO GLAD being away hasn’t affected my mastery of simile. I was beginning to worry. Where have I been? I’m on the sidelines, eating a twinkie and playing with a rubber hose. See…that’s what you waited months for, a fucking twinkie and a rubber hose. I’m the Hostess with the mostess and ya know I’m gonna post this.

While we’re on the subject of blogs: I’ve been reading everyone linked here (in purgatory I mean), and no one writes ‘fuck’ enough. Are we all getting soft? Blogging impotency? Write hard, people! Please, everyone write ‘fuck’ in their next entry. And please don’t do something like this: f#@k. That doesn’t count.

Charlie said I should blog about cereal—so here it is:

Fuck, I love cereal, but NEVER eat it. I don’t know why. Each month or so, I buy a box of cereal because I’m in the food store staring at the box of Kashi or some oat-tastical whatever and I think, “I should eat more cereal. It’s healthy to eat good cereal in the morning.” Flash forward one bowl and 2 months later: fucking cereal is stale and barely touched. I’m smoking twice as much and Mel is saving the stale cereal to feed the birds outside. But I throw out the boxes before she gets the chance, fearing a colony of ants will take over said cereal and infest our apartment. And when she gets mad, I just give her a look and revise my story, tell her how I took the cereal outside and threw handfuls into the air as birds gleefully descended upon the earth and feasted. Fucking bird buffets all over town, and they were happy and singing and chirping.

You want to know what’s really going on with me?? Do you?? Quaker Baked Cookies—the apple cinnamon ones made from whole grain oats / 0 trans fat. That’s what up, playerz. I fucking slam back 2-3 of them at work each day and dream of salami and mozz sandwiches (see how I brought that back) because I have an addictive personality and a strong yearning to never change what I’m passionate about—this is how I accomplish things in life. It’s how I operate and accomplish goals, too. It’s why I order my computer to spend every second downloading each Springsteen show from the Magic tour on the day after the show is fucking played, so that in a few months I can look at all of them in a CD wallet and pat myself on the back, while Mel sighs, questions why she loves me, and then proceeds to feed the fucking birds cereal.

I’m still here, damnit. No factory guarantees or refunds.