The Birthing Egotist

I was recently presented with a question, or rather a theory to be analyzed. The topic: Childbirth, and whether its fundamentally selfish. Each day we make millions of decisions, albeit, many of them much more important than others. The underlying fact is we make almost microscopic decisions and life altering decision daily. How many of them are selfish? For some, I predict its the majority, for others possible not a single microscopic decision was psychological egotistical. 

Psychological egoism is the concept that all humans are motivated or driven by self-interest, or at least delusions of grandeur for ones self, even if those acts appear altruistic in ones mind. While, I believe this concept is very accurate for many decision I myself make, I do not believe that every benevolent act is done for self-improvement. 

Late last night I got a call that my Uncle Fran, brother of my close Grandfather had passed away from liver failure. He had a long battle with this illness. I can count on one hand how many times I had seen Uncle Fran. Our relationship was cut short by the differences he shared with his brother, essentially ostracizing one side of the family from the other. The point is, we were not close, I didn't cry, and I felt nervous for the call to my grandfather. I simply did not know what to say to him. How would I show sympathy for a man who I was kept from most of my life due to his alleged shortcomings? 

I made the call. I apologized for his loss, and I began to feel sad. I could hear the pain in his voice, I could hear that he was scared. The people around him were slowly passing away. His sister is in a nursing home with terrible dementia, and while she has her wits about her, she simply does not recognize her friends and family. His wife of 35 years is on hospice care, and breathing through a tube. And now, his brother has left him after years of hardly speaking. He is facing the harsh reality and inevitable realization that our time here is finite - there is an end. I can hear the worry, and almost monotone words, flowing from his lips and transmitting to my ears. His ennui pattern shines light on his defensiveness and lack of desire to let his emotion show. At this point, I change the conversation and ask about something innocuous, just to break the depression and avoid the possibility of extending anymore useless platitudes. 

I remembered at that moment a passage from a book called Tuesday's With Morrie. Throughout the book, the maim dying character, discusses life, and his lack of fear for dying. He believes he has lived a complete life, gave back to humanity, and helped 3 beautiful children grow. I will paraphrase:

 In South Africa, there is a tribe who see the world as a fixed quantity of energy between all living creatures. Every birth must therefore be endangered by a lack of death, and thus every death brings forth a NEW life keeping life complete. "what we take, we must replenish, It's only fair."

With the view on life and death, I feel there is a childbirth that is truly altruistic, and wholly meaningful. In order to keep the balance of life, to keep the world whole and spinning, there must be death, and there must be birth. We owe it to the world to continue to procreate, and in the same hand assist a love one in dying the best way we can. One could argue that this is an entitled decision, but I would respectfully disagree. I would say the choice for having a child is predicated upon the desire to keep the world spinning as it should. 

With that in mind, I believe that many people bare children for the wrong reason. They do it because it was an accident and feel some religious reason to keep it alive. They do it because its the societal norm, and they desire to fit in with people their same age, to share the experience. They do it to prove something, that they can raise a child into wealth and success. Comparatively, having a child for the wrong reason, is like a suicide. Maybe in the South African tribe, that is how a suicide is justified. I will have to look into it. 

I do not believe this post truly answered my friends question, but as always, I hope it has induced some thought while scrolling left to right. 

Fictional Facts

A much more published author than I once said:

 Fear is a good thing. Fear is what drives us to take risks and extend ourselves beyond our normal limits, and any writer who feels he is standing on safe ground is unlikely to produce anything of value.

As I repeatedly read this quote I started to relate it to a recent conversation I had, interestingly enough through text message, where the majority of my writing and banter chooses to exist as of late. The  mildly argumentative yet fervent dialogue led to attraction from both parties (I believe)  predicated upon intellect.

I have always been a fan of fiction, rooted in the concept that the above quote touches on. Fiction, is a narrative that deals in part with event(s) that have not happened. However, many fictional narratives are embedded with truths and innate characteristics of the author - garnishment which I find most intriguing. Fiction, to me, allows the author, if he is willing to be open, to bleed between the lines. It allows them to transgress from their fears and project their inhibitions. It allows the imaginary to emanate, tie-dyed with true events, intertwining fiction and reality, subconscious with the conscious.

My astute and enlightened counterpart, dripping in collegiate investment and scholastic aptitude, did not share my affliction with fiction (ignore the ryhme). While fiction was intriguing to him/her, it served of less important to them.

"The world involves subjectivity and objectivity. I think objectivity is a more imperative persepctive which benefits all instead of just and individual."

While I agree there are many benefits to objectivity, for one in testing, it is not the cure all, and science is not perfect and history finds itself concealing lies. Why does something have to touch all, when we are all so vastly different in our own beautiful way. They then went on to say that they had less interest in "quintessential redundant narratives of mans struggle with life, but that doesn't negate the fact that it may still be interesting." To this I argue, "you are reading the wrong fictional literature." The Art of Racing in the Rain,  is told through a narrative of a dog, witnessing mans struggle, and is far from quintessential in my mind. This man prevails through adversity, and the dogs (obviously imaginary) interpretation was enlightening to ingest. Is this book going to help me solve a math problem, or design a building that is both efficient and green? Will it alter all of humanity? No, but it does change my perspective on a life that is often taken all too seriously.

Granted I am fickle and obdurate in my stance as many people argue history is. So, while I argue this dashing competitors opinion, I do value it.

We finally reached an area of placid agreement - historical fiction, the mediary between non-fiction and fiction. This style of writing allows for a presentation of known objective facts in an imaginary setting, theme, or style. With this literary concept my foe in this argument can move forward amicably and know that they are receiving a larger sum analytical data, and I can rest assure that the author may have faced one or two of their fears whilst writing.

Recurring consistencies are something I am sure that we all find welcoming, but without a surprise or two, what are we trying to prove? That life can be predicted from this day out? That all history repeats itself? That we are all inherently the same and our differences do not benefit one another? I like too think not. We are all part of humanity and in humanity lies many facts that should be used to unite us, not tear us apart. However, what makes us interesting, what makes us love, what makes us passionate, is what is not consistent. I hope this does not change. Otherwise, replace my organs with machines, stamp me with a corporation seal, and choose my wife. Having the ability to live peacefully amongst our vast differences rather than having them drive us into conflict is essential to a productive humanity.

Train Setbacks

When people take your dinner suggestions it usually means they take you pretty seriously. I mean, who is going to go to a place to consume food recommended by someone who’s daily opinions are not valued? More importantly, if that person takes your suggestion, say in a new city, it means they truly value your opinion and trust your judgement.

This is what I was thinking about sitting in the overheated lobby of New York's Penn Station. I was dodging nostalgia as the station attendant announced publicly that the 173 regional to Washington, DC and Richmond, VA was now boarding. 6 months ago I would have been heading in that direction, out of this "person swamp" that the populous refers to as a city. Now, I am heading where it is somehow colder than it is outside and the only two upsides are less people and lower buildings for the wind to work up courage to slap you in the face.

I was traveling to NYC for business, or should I say social gatherings outside of my place of work. The two day cluster fuck consisted of 5 hours of exhibit hall hand shaking and business card exchanges, followed by 18 hours of frivolous spending and glutinous food/alcohol consumption. The night before I had 4 fucking dinners, 4 dinners. The last one was the larger of the quad dinner experience and I merely winked at the overpriced food and forced saki down my throat like a strep culture stick. Thinking about eating today, after just going on lunch numero duo, makes me want to take my clothes off and force vomit like Nicole Ritchie. Not sure why  I am taking the clothes off to complete this task, but I am predicting that the act produces body heat. Given the temperature of this homeless persons dream space that I am waiting in, naked seems to be the best and only  option for forced vomiting. Personally I am excited about the possibility, there are 7 things I ate last night that I am not totally certain what they were, or if they were even edible.

Looking across the row of waiting chairs it looks like heat waves are forming. The hot air has collected dust particles from the hundreds of thousands of forever unclean passengers and it is just resting in the air. The dust seems to form a permanent cloud that if I squint and reach out, I can break it up and clear a area of relatively purified air. 

A young man, a bit homely but not vagrant, came up with a prepaid credit card and ten dollars in his hand. He claimed that he neede $2.75 to board the LIRR and the prepaid card would not work since he has to enter a zip code for it that didn’t exist. 3 possibilities:

1.     He was being truthful

2.     He wasn’t buying a ticket at all

3.     Stolen, empty, prepaid card

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I have a feeling the situation was a combination of 2 and 3.  I will certainly be giving this a trial run tonight by entering a fictional card and seeing if it requires a zip code. If it does, ill stop my investigation and just say he used the money properly, or at least did some decent research on his lie. Life is a lie, how we live it is directly correlated with our ability to obscure the truth. Write that down.

So far the 20 dollar bill that I just took out of the ATM in case I needed it has gone to; lying LIRR rider, the coat check lady at the convention center, and the cab driver who was names Infal Combrero. Haitian?  The cab driving race breakdown has really seen some changes in the past year. I think half of Haiti is here driving the cabs. If they all left the city at once New York would be fucked, or the subways would be packed like China. Seems like I am really putting this Jackson bill to good use so far. I may buy a Mr. Goodbar on the way home and a can of Yoo-Hoo.

Boarding the train now at the 6 East. I cannot believe that I am going to be on this moving tin can for 4.5 hours. So much for quick travel. Takes less time to drive than to take the train. You can get halfway across Asia in four in a half hours on a train. Here, you have to plan your whole day around traveling just 115 miles. Good lord, the only thing to do is  to move forward amicably, board this bitch, fall asleep a pray to a god that I don’t believe in that I will wake up 4.25 hours from now. 

River runs wild and I do not fear
Afraid of nothing as the wind it tears
Casting shadows on the days of old
A winter dream, caught in the cold

Spraying angels in the burly snow
My mind lays with you as the months they flow
another season spins, the leaves return
waiting for the summer sun, to feel the burn

But your not here, no your far away
Edges of my sweater, crack and fray
from the miles of dreams Ive been walking through
The winding road that never leads to you

I've dusted bibles and twisted prayers
Thought of fate and your wind-blown hair
The drink and smoke only clog my mind
Makes me fall deeper and far behind

I write letters on postcards form foreign seas
Tell my mother, I'm making a man of me
But I'm just a boy lost and torn
My heart battered, dark and worn

My facade strapped tight and my nails filed
Parted hair with a crooked smile
They all pat my back and say job well done
Nobody knows my battles never won

The Expected Stuggles of a Married Man - Part 1

Upon recently moving offices I have become privy to elicit exposure to the lives and personal intricacies of my colleagues. Te close quarters allow monitor browsing, food sniffing, fart avoidance, excessive use of obnoxiously loud Dr. Dre Beats earn phones, and of course the listening in on  personal conversations allowing me to tactfully pontificate upon what I have just heard with friends who are not in the office.

The most recent spark of interested came from N--- who was speaking with his wife on the phone. On the whole, it was incredibly uneventful and I can only assume he was talking about picking up his kids, or rather having to be picked up since the family owns one car and his wife is in possession of it. What I clung onto like a gator navigating a swamp and finding his pray hiding behind a darkened tree branch was this:

Life as a married man starts off completely fulfilling. You feel wholesome, you feel new, you are embarking on a journey. Its sort of like a trip to Florida for the weekend. You are on the plane after work, drinking whiskey, contemplating new relationships with strangers from 800 miles away. Not sure what you are going to do but you know you will drink, it will be fun, maybe weird like a finger in the ass or a chick wearing vampire teeth while your fuck. Then you do go, it is fun, your ass hurts, and your brain is numb, but its over. You have to get back on the plane an return home to your mildly monotonous job with a mediocre salary (after spending roughly 43% of your monthly income). You had the journey, now you realize you are back to reality. The journey just fucking blows, and you never have time just turn the music on, with your headphones on full blast because its rude when you are on a lifelong trip with someone else. You can no longer be selfish or even really drink. 

You are now on a journey of judgement. You cant shit where you eat or eat while you shit. You cant pick up a Chad Kultgen novel and say "this is intriguing literature" without being called a masogynistic asshole. You cant call up your buds on "movie night" for a change of pace, because its insensitive. Your journey is now not really a journey at all, its a sentence. This sentence is made up of 15 life long consecutive sentences. You're prison fucked. 

So as I talked to my friend about this concept of marriage we quickly fell into a bit of satirical banter. The focal point was Fantasy Football. Fantasy is something I enjoy now, and I really get into it. But Fantasy Football for the married man is like Poker Night, it is like water, or oxygen, it is needed not for enjoyment, but for survival. It acts simply as an escape from the reality path he is forced to meander down, only to find the road does not diverge. It simply curves and winds to its inevitable beginning, leaving him only to be able to say "this is my nightmare," for it is truly mine.

I told my friend that on the same night that I invite him to a poker night at my house, he should immediately delete my number and write down on a sticky note the date. This date represents the day we stop becoming friends and concurrently my social life has been taken out to the small, flower infested backyard (which I was forced to plant on a Saturday) and shoot it right in the fucking face.

After poker night organizations are established in order to keep one ounce of dignity stored for the lack thereof a social life, you fire up a riskier move - Fantasy Football. Wives must hate Fantasy Football. FF take up an incredible amount of time in a males life; drafting, setting weekly rosters, pending trades, lost waivers, injured players, sports news reading in the morning, more trades, FUCKING GAME DAY. They HATE FF with a fire-like passion. Allowing FF to enter their husbands lives is like women being gifted with a 50 Shades of Gray TV show that is on 4 days a week. They become second best and everything they do is simply a backfill priority, receiving all the unwanted traffic, or shitty time that sneaks through.

In order to get FF off the ground, the coniving, yet loving husband must send out invites for a draft. Now that he is balls deep into this "partnership," they share everything. Things that he thought was his own, including his testicles, are not. His college email that he somehow uses still as a mode of conversation - not his. His cell phone is now simply a quicker avenue for her to get in touch when he is picking up the jumbo sized tampons. His pants, he didn't pick out, so therefore not his. He literally has no known possessions, besides his hotmail email account, which is usually not good for anything other than SPAM rape, and porn registrations. He sets up a time and date for the secret FF draft, thinking that if he could at least get the league started without his wife knowing she will not ruin him and make him drop out, therefore removing his balls and shipping them to Lithuania. Package addressed to: Chantel with a note saying "these will not be needed anymore."

He sends out the email that has all the info and he states clearly "Gentlemen, please DO NOT, under any circumstances, make the mistake of RSVPing to my Gmail account, my wife knows the password and she will bring this idea down like Haiti's political structure."
- Of course one asshole friends sends him an email to his Gmail thinking that he was kidding about his request.

Two weeks later, after the beginning of the 2012 FF season, disqualifying the group form involvement, he sends a follow up email. This time it is sent from Constant Contact, a service that requires you to pay a monthly fee at a high rate in order to send private emails and manage them from a third party location:

Dear Friends and Fucking asshole suckface, slut-bitch, titty slapping JAKE,

Due to a lack of ability to follow instructions there will be no Fantasy Football this season. My wife logged into my gmail two weeks ago claiming that she needed to print off our airline tickets to West Virginia, where her third cousin is getting married....next July. She was fortunate to stumble upon Jake, who thinks his humor is as funny as his community college degree's, email, and threw a temper tantrum that rivals Rainman when he is not allowed to count the things he wants. Needless to say I am currently sleeping on the futon I rolled into the unfinished basement. Yes, the futon from college. On top of that she has hidden all of my phone chargers so I was only able to fire up this iPod touch that the 8 year old neighbor left here last week while mowing the lawn - can't believe I had to pay the shitstick 10 bucks for that. However looking back it is a 10 dollar iPod that I can slowly access internet on. Sorry for any typos, I am using an online fucking email program on a first generation Ipod touch with a scratched screen. Fuck you Jake, sorry guys.

Me

Fast forward one year.

Hey Guys,

This is a mass message. I know this is a dating site and you think this is one of those gay dudes popping off a queer message to see your dick and send it to his aunt, but its me. I'm pretty fucking jealous you guys are all on here, chicks are smoking hot. I am also sarcastically glad we have to communicate this way. Things have really taken a turn to the dark side at home and I simply cannot move forward amicably. I have upgraded since the last time we talked (11 months and 2 weeks ago) to and iPad. I bought if off the same squirly bitch neighbor who noq extorts me by charging 15 bucks to mow my 10x15 sq foot lawn. I snapped the floor boards in the deck and hid this bad boy in a plastic zip lock bag so i can use it to message you guys. This is an invite to the Fantasy Football 2013 draft (location sent later). I hope you all can make it, I chose not to add Jake on here who I hope dies of herpes to the brain. If you guys need to reach me I whipped out a Cricket mobile account with prepaid minutes. I have 37 minutes which I estimate will be the exact amount needed to field all your RSVP's and questions. George - dont get long winded and talk about how much money you made fishing last year. After the RSVPs are confirmed I plan on burning this phone and dropping it in the Long Island sound so my wifey wont ostracize me from all my friends for another full calendar year. 

(The guy with no balls)

Happy wife, happy life. NO. Happy wife, dead husband. 

How would you do it?

It is a bit peculiar that I had this thought earlier this morning, only hours away from boarding a plane to a tropical city to fuck my liver over for two days and stare at girls in bikinis that are 2-3 sizes too small. But - as I was walking off the T, and throughout my 7 minute walk to the office, I was people-watching. People-watching is fun, but can also be dark. Today, I was looking around trying to make an inference.

I was staring subtly at each person that  I passed by and those as far as my less than adequate contacts would allow, trying to guess a percentage. I was wondering what percentage, and who precisely, legitimately thought about killing themselves before. If my cerebral cortex decided that person had in fact, thought intently about ending their existence, I stared through them a bit to guess how they would have done it.

Let's escape the fact that anyone reading thinks I'm a complete sociopath with a psychopathic drip. You also might assume that I was shallow in my analysis and that I just assumed that the homeless, morbidly obese, mother carrying 4 children with no father in sight, the guy with warts on his neck, the insanely skinny girl probably suffering from a mildly to moderate eating disorder (another assumption) would be the choices. Give me a little more credit. My 7 minutes of skimming went a bit beyond the surface, and i truly thought about each one. There are plenty of well dressed people, carrying Louis Vuitton bags, rocking a pair of Ferragamo's or Guisseppe's, who drive home in their Porsce Panamara and enter their 3000 sq ft. luxury apt suite that want to take 45 Xanax, fire up a noose in their living room or overzealous balcony and let the world kiss their ass goodbye.

I feel all of us are on the cusp of losing it sometimes and we say it quietly, resting on the back of our breath, "fuck this, I want to die." What pushes us over the edge? When is it too much? Why do some people have a stronger threshold for rummaging through the trash that populates our life and brings us down? Why can one woman who has lost her husband in war, has kid battling Leukemia, and is unemployed on her last food stamp check, wake up make a cup a coffee and carry forward amicably? Meanwhile the broker who is about to lose his job because a slip in the market resulting in his trips to Smith and Wollensky's to be cut to 3 times a week instead of five, is waking up praying for a razor blaze sharp enough to cut through his heart.

I picked 11 people that I thought had wanted to kill themselves. Admittedly I could only choose methods for 4 people, it takes a long time to assess the inner working of a persons mind from far away and decide which path they would take to leave the world behind, exiting triumphantly, passionately and alone. Now, I am not a suicide expert, I don't think, but I know how I would do it. I will save that for another post. I basically made my assumptions on how they would do it on the following factors:

1. How artistic they appear - Creativity level
2. How angry or strangely happy their faces are: A very angry face may go violently or at least make a show of it, a super happy person might make even more of a show if it.
3. Their height - Taller people are more likely to worry about setback with hanging.
4. Sex - Makes a difference, just does.
5. Possible religion - In times of death i think people stay true to what their god, or lack thereof would think. They are looking for some sort of acceptance.
5. And which direction they were heading on the street - One way was a good part of town the other a bad one.

I am not really sure where I am going with this post, but it was just something I was thinking about this morning. On a morning when I was happy, work was good, Florida was in the near future, sex life was spontaneous and affluent, this is when I had the darkest of thoughts. Kind of makes me think that I could be wrong in my assumptions with people this morning. The person I thought least likely to end it all already set up a Dexter like lab at their apt, ready to put themselves in a noose, slit their wrist with a butter knife repeatedly, while pulling a string attached to a door that compresses a trigger of a .44 cal to blow their brains all the way to Vietnam.

Who knows.

Train Sounds

Our divine individuality, innate inequality and overall originality stems from freedom and our ability to act, do, play, dance, fuck, cry, write, sing, for the most part, as we please. We all march differently and to a different beat. While we may not be able to create counterfeit funds, spent them on cheap Polynesian hookers, and go on at looting spree while using the lords name in vain, we do have an overwhelmingly sophisticated freedom - a far cry from the characters of Orwells world.

A humorous thing happened on the train, entertaining yet acquainting. While riding on the notoriously slow, and inevitably problem stricken green line, its fate occurred. Due to the fact the green line runs above and below ground and is the older of the lines in the great city of Boston, it stopped. Even more impressive, it not only stopped but seemingly shut down. Initially I had gone through my 30 second Courtney Love panic attack wishing for a Xanax, checking my armpits for sweat, frantically locating the nearest exit only to find that it is blocked by what is likely to be 30 feet of man manipulated concrete. My overzealous mind tricked me into believing that this fucking horribly constructed, only mildly ventilated hot box of transportation may be stuck in this state for hours. Unfortunately this did not happen. The only reason why I saw unfortunately is that after I could calm the sweats, encourage myself that I do not need drugs for everything and opened a book, I found a very attractive young female. I think given another hour or two in the moving pile of emotion I could have convinced her to cut her losses, grab a coffee with Frangelica, skip work to head back to my place and see how the Tempurpedic holds up. 

Good lord, you win some, lose some. 

While the train was essentially shut down; standing still, lights dimmed, engine ceasing to run, and all was silent, something more transparent occured. 1. Jay-Z and Foster the People do not sync up well at all. 2. 87% plus or minus 2% were listening to headphones. Of that 85-89%, 0% had high enough quality headphones to keep the sound contained to their ear cavities, letting their musical choices soar out into the open train for all to hear. Had my headphones not just suffered a severe fatality while running this morning, I would be among the majority, but luckily I was not. I was fortunate enough to tune into the melodic jumble of over 25 different masterpieces coming from my colleagues on the train of "go fuck myself." 

They say that the one good thing about music is that you feel no pain, unless of course it is every genre mixed together and its about as painful as cuddling with a sick cat. Once I was able to move forward amicably from the horrendous blend of notes, I started to isolate the sounds and finally meet my fellow riders. The Asian man, roughly 26 years of age, with a nice watch was listening to  Luther Vandrose, "Dance with my Father." One could infer he just lost someone close to him, which may or may not explain his saddened, yet hardened facial expressions. The very professionally dressed young women nearest to my right was listening to Juicy, by Notorious BIG. I could tell her inner self wanted to just use the isle as her own personal dance floor and shout out racial slurs, not to be racist, just because she wanted to sing the song in its entirety. Let it ride sister, I wont judge you. 

As I moved down the line I found the songs to be more and more interesting, and of course I did not recognize some of them. One person was listening to a song I had just recently heard, and it was rather obscure, so I was excited. Once i heard duo play a couple weeks back I listened to the entire album and found that the artist were in LA, struggling to make their way (ignore rhyme) and each song was about a memory. I then inferred that she is new to the city, possibly starting a new job in Cambridge and can relate to these young storytellers. The artist was Kenneth Pattingale and Joey Ryan aka the Milk Carton Kids, if anyone cares.  

As I continued to listen during the short 12 minute stop I convinced myself that I knew a little more about the people around me, and the beat they march to. I started thinking more about what I listen to, when I listen to it, and why. I also found myself confused. Why do I go to bed and sleep to Alexisonfire, then get pumped up to run to gaslight anthem? The answer is that we are all constructed differently, our legs move appropriately to the way a dissonant sounds hits our ears, and it is completely inconsistent the next person. We all have a playlist, what is on yours? I think I'd like to listen to it, I may like to meet you. 

We are all Storytellers

Human beings have always told their histories and truths through parable and fable. We are inveterate storytellers.” (Beeban Kidron)

There are few things I get depressed over, other than the loss of a close acquaintance or the bottom of a scotch bottle. Whenever I spend too much time away from the keyboard or putting the pen to the sepia tone pad my ex girlfriend gave me back in high school, I am saddened. Whether we are truthful or prevaricated we tell a story, and it is important to someone, if not then to ourselves, to write.

Through every piece of fiction we find factions of truth - A character that shares mass similarities with a childhood friend, a struggle that parallels a the authors family member, a reality in the story that was a lifelong dream. I tend to read fiction because it is in the falsities that I find the true inner being of the writer. I see their desires between the black print and folded back pages. I highlight points where their true self is most transparent.

For lack of a better term, I hope that I am an open book. I find with literature, and the stories that I most relate to, are written by authors who are the most vulnerable. They are willing to bleed a bit on the pages and not worry about the cuts and bruises being exposed to sunlight. This doesn't mean the artist has to get all Edgar Allen in order for me to to have some sort of semblance of respect for them. The Picture of Dorian Gray is not beautiful because it is gloomy, but rather it is nebulous and invokes thought stemming from a character who is doomed from the life he chose to lead and his Faustian bargain. Oscar Wilde, a man who rose into societal acceptance debuting as an actor only to be exiled leading to his imminent death, wrote with passion and unprecedented prose.

So as I stroll through life pontificating with strangers, friends, family and foes, I write. I tell the stories that are true to me, or at least part of my subconscious. Our history is told through parable and fable, without storytellers, the world rotates on its axis and the days are numbered, but everything is left in the dust. Now some may argue that is it best to let the past die, and only to carry forward the favorable parts. This form of thought/story natural selection seems the furthest thing from natural. We should remember the growth of the trees and the wildfires that brought them down. Whats the point of knowing your best sexual encounter without remembering the erectile dysfunction scenario? Maybe some want to push that shit away and move forward amicably but not I. Any writer who ignores the facts, positive or negative, is doing the reader and themselves a disservice, present and more importantly, future.

Live, write, die, and do it again.

The Rapid Decline of "The Relationship"

It is less the anatomy of the relationship that I want to focus on, but rather the morphology. Morphology, a term that relates to the structure of organisms, does not have to be so strict. It does not only pertain to the inner workings of the human body but to all things that change, all things that are subject to a paradoxical shift. I write this as an introduction and will bring in a co-author for this post to vent on an inherent downside, at least biographically speaking, from this vicissitude.

One can see from just reading an excerpt for Fitzgeralds This Side of Paradise, that there has been a massive metamorphosis in the roles, attitudes, and dispositions of the sexes. What used to be orthodox is far from it today. In Fitzgerald's mostly autobiographical tale of young Amory Blaine, the main protagonist meets and inspiring women named Rosalind. Depicted as a strong-natured women, infatuated with worth, vanity, and having others discover its preponderance. Quoted, her philosophy is "carpe diem for herself and laisssez faire for others.  He instantly falls in love with her, in not much of a different way than men fall in love today, by kissing her.

This tale, taking place in 1920, unfolds much differently than things tend to today. The young egotist falls hopelessly, and in an all encompassing way, in love with Rosalind. She was only 19 years of age, dependent on a rich father, but much more mature than the 23 year old Blaine. From the moment they met over her elegantly fashioned armoire, he was ruled by her hand. She could play with him as if he was a a 2 foot tall marionette. A women of Rosalinds stature needed to date a man well beyond her years, as many times women of her age did, then.

Today, while we do see people marrying older, or younger, it often doesn't occur. Two people feel obligated to oblige by societal norms rather than conforming to contemporary thought. They often date at the same age, where maturities do not match. The societal paradigm shift can be blamed for this and the inevitable downfall of many relationships.

Additionally, the role of the woman is has obviously changed, and it take no morphology investigator to point this out - far from a social archealogical finding. It does change the relationship. As the women becomes more secure in herself, as she should be due to having more of a role in the family than childbearing and upbringing, things change. Not that the wealth and success of a man in not an asset, but it simply is no longer a sole concern. As we reach back to the Rosalind/Blaine example, occupation, or inherited wealth was on of the first things analyzed on a decision matrix to wed. One simple thing this does in young relationships is make the man less secure. The dinner that he buys is accepted and appreciate, but it wasnt needed....and perhaps she could have bought a nicer one.

Lastly, is the amount of people we meet. 5 degrees of separation has always existed, but now, with social media, online dating, and extended families it is more like 2 degrees of separation. By googling anyone, you are sure to find a connection. In the "old days," a cliche term I could not help but indulge, you only met so many people. The thought of settling, though you would never call it that, was not a bad idea. Today, we are obsessed with the "next best thing," and the fear that this is not our fated path.

With all that being said, and in attempts not to be too long winded. I'll hand over the conversation to a DC colleague of mine. My apologies for any slight vulgarity. #sorrybutnotsorry

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Let me begin with a revelation I had on the bus the other night.  It’s no secret that while in a relationship with a girl, managing her and your friends is similar to a ballroom dance between psychologists. In the name of complete transparency, a ballroom dance in which I’ve always stepped on a couple toes and ended up dropping the girl on her ass during the dip because I’m a little drunk.

Anyway, here’s how I see things shaping up- five distinct stages of what happens on Saturday night.

·         You go out with your friends, I'll go out with my girls, and we'll meet up later! :)

·         You go out with your friends, I'll go out with my girls but text you most of the time, and we'll meet up later!

·         You go out with your friends, I guess, and I think I'm just going to hang out at home tonight. Maybe you can come by at like 11:30ish?

·         We can go out for dinner with our friends.

·         We have no friends.

This makes me hate dating women. No matter how much vetting out you do beforehand in that datey, honeymooney phase, things will always shape up this way.

Every single time. As soon as I drop the hammer and crush this girls’ dreams of matrimony and parenthood- the very instant that their parents go from enamored to disgusted by the mentioning of my name- the girls immediately revert to step one. She begins the cycle all over with some new unsuspecting guy that’s just trying to soak his meat stick in her baby hotel.

This isn’t just a hair-brained theory from a guy cracked out on Redbull vodkas, HGH, and Got 2 Be Glued. This is real shit people. I’m a mother fucking young professional who, by and large, is a productive member of society.

The proof’s in Zuck’s pudding: exactly two weeks after a girl becomes single, my aforementioned cycle begins. You see it. Old friends who she hasn’t talked to since the early days of your relationship start coming out of the woodwork with extensive wall-to-walls. I see posts and think, honestly- Where the fuck was this girl when we dated? This seems like the absolute coolest girl ever. Oh wait, shit. THAT IS THE SAME GIRL THAT I MET A YEAR AGO, PRE-TRANSFORMATION. Super fun, sarcastic, going out and getting drunk all the time, really close to her friends.

Then as soon as we start dating the friends get more and more distant. The nights out begin to become rarer and rarer. Oftentimes without you realizing it or wanting it, this girl is subtlety making herself more available for you. And if you’re not around, she’s making herself more available to craft text messages that rival War and Peace in length and putting calls into AT&T customer service to try and get the 7 page SMS limit increased.

The distance of friends increases. The level of fun gets lower and lower. Until finally the girl just evolves into a sour bitch with me as basically her only friend.

I don’t fucking understand how having a boyfriend does this to girls. Girls that, when you meet them, are so fucking mysterious, in-control, and confident that your dick twitches thinking about them in a meeting at work in full length pencil skirt.

It’s really about having a girl that you want around. And in the beginning, this façade of a woman is fucking cool! You love to have her around. Hey, meet my friends! Let’s get wasted! Then as things devolve… you fucking hate having her around. Texts from her are like little 160 characters-or-less punches to the thick root in between your legs.

In the beginning, you go out together, have your groups of friends meet up, etc. It’s fucking awesome! It’s fun. You’re enjoying their company and getting laid more than you ever will in your goddamn life (pure frequency here). I would date that.

But then, as the relationship moves forward, the friends get pushed away. I do not fucking understand it. And I am honestly not sour on any of my past relationships- honestly- best of luck in your new LDR with the guy in the national guard you went to highschool with.

The worst thing about this? IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN! This cycle is going to play out a few more times in my life, despite my best attempts at mitigating it. I can’t stop it! It’s like I’ve seen the fucking movie in the Ring and now I’m just waiting for my 7 days to pass with my dick in my hand.

What’s the solution? Can the cycle be broken? Some guys say you can give a slight push- start going out with only your friends until she follows suit. That MAY help briefly- I tried this tactic and it led to her old best friend being looped back into her social calendar for once-a-month after work margaritas. And while she was there, the more of that sweet sweet sour mix and Jose entered her bloodstream, the faster those bony, malnourished fingers were flying on her iPhone keyboard. And to my dismay, she didn’t have the balls to just find another guy to satiate her hunger for communiqué (I would have welcomed her cheating at this point just to have a reliever in my goddamn bullpen).

This is going to sound horrible and it’s going to hit your palette like misogyny that’s been fermented in ball sweat to increase its potency.  But there’s an honest, horrible truth about all of this, boys and girls. Women are weak. They’re fucking weak! They’re weak and dependent on men- for everything. Not dependent like, I need his money to pay my bills; dependent like, I need the approval and attention of a man in order to be fulfilled in life. Women have transgressed from 1919 and are in a much better position to be omnipotent and rule a relationship. I’d welcome that- they simply choose not to. They still become submissive and revert back to the days of their great grandmother Muriel.

How did this creature even make it this far in the human race? I’m telling you, if they were stripped of the baby machine they’d die out in a generation. When the going gets tough and shit happens- disease, natural disasters, international conflict, the men would step the fuck up and handle that shit, granted with a little gritting of the teeth and testicles slightly retracted towards the tummy, but they’d fucking get it done. Afterwards, he might go take a breather, have a drink, go out and do a weird drug he hasn’t seen since college.  But it’s over. Where would the women be? In the fucking broom closet with a box of tissues, trying like the goddamn dickens to clean up the mascara that’s dripping down their face, turning them into a really sad excuse for a Cirque du Soleil character.  AND DIALING THEIR FUCKING MOTHER.

Honestly, this weakness pisses me the fuck off. I would think at this point that men would just be able to lay eggs and fuck a Fleshlight every night. That’s a fucking world I want to live in.

You may say- well, bro, what about the billions of people who are happily married on earth? Honestly, I’d challenge you to really take a hard look at how many happy marriages there are. I’d say the number is pretty fucking low. THINK about the men you know that are in successful relationships. They are basically willing to have a girl have them by the balls. They are willing to slow way down with their guy friends and eventually stop hanging out with them. They are willing to accept that any social interaction they have will be couples-only.  They are willing to “hang in” on a Friday night because “they really need to relax” whereas their true instinct is to go out and try to touch girls inappropriately without being arrested again.

NOW think of the guys that have trouble with relationships, like yours truly- they simply aren’t willing to stop going out. They aren’t willing to accept a cooking class as “their Saturday evening.” They aren’t willing to give up their friends- the people who were there for, in many cases, DECADES before this pussy on a stick, and will absolutely be there after her bulimic ass turns herself inside out post-meal for the final time.

WHY do girls need to put up this bullshit façade, while they are single, of power, sex, mystery, and the possibility of anal later. When they ALL deteriorate into the same fucking thing- withering messes of estrogen and katy perry songs, with an internal self-worth as high as the girl who was held hostage for 17 years by her father in Germany or wherever.

This weakness permeates other stages of the relationship too- such as the pre-relationship. Which party is the one who presses for the next step? Which party is the one who wants to put the foot on the gas, make things official, meet the parents, go on vacation, get married? Why do girls need this in order to be happy? How come every guy you know that is casually dating a girl says “yeah man, it’ll never be anything…” then 3 months later you see selfies on Twitter in the bathroom of a Howard Johnson’s that he sprung for to celebrate the 87 day anniversary of their first hand holding. Because they get pressured into things they aren’t comfortable doing. And they get comfortable with that person and just end up saying, well, fuck it, she’s good enough for now. Then the “she’s good enough for now” ends up becoming two years, the last 8 months of which you completely hate each other, until finally you get the balls to cut it off or cheat on her blatantly enough that she stops  talking to you? WEAKNESS. Girls are too weak to have a guy who is a friend who they go out with and have fun occasionally- exclusive or not- but not be a BF? What’s the big fucking deal ladies? Really?

I’ll end this with a solemn note. Women of the world: I’m coming for you. I’m going to sneak into your life with the charm of Neil Patrick Harris and the wit of George Clooney. I’ll woo you with the same fucking unfunny jokes and made up stories as I did the girl last time. I’ll hold the door for you and not try to fuck you the first night, which apparently nowadays means I’m a goddamn gentleman. Then, when you least expect it, I’ll be gone. Hopefully hurting you enough to make you grow a fucking pair of balls next time. Because that’s what we’re all looking for. A bitch with a big, bulbous set of hairy balls.

Destination v. Destiny

"Look Daniel, Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor; its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not to is home visits. You have to go for it." - Carlos Ruiz Zafon

I often fear that I will get so close to my destined path, and just be inches from tasting its fruits, only to have missed the opportunity, hidden beyond the corner of the next .1 mile block. Life is about grabbing the bull by the horns, drinking the half full glass, calling the winning numbers. It is about perseverance.

Giles Duley, a photographer for fashion, glamor and the music industry for 10 years, always thought he had reached what he was destined to do. He believe he truly had it figured out, that he had accomplished his fated task, and had fulfilled his inner peace. He was rudely mistaken, tragically but definitively. While stationed in Bahrain, he stepped on an IED (improvised explosive device) while routinely monitoring the surround grounds. His arm had to be removed, a valuable asset to a photographer. Months earlier his mind was jarred by a young boy who he had befriended in Russia. He intended to return later that year with a camera, for the boy had taken an interest in the art, and had never seen the beauty of life captured between well adjusted pixels. His country had been ripped apart my authoritarian rule and indoctrinated poverty. He was stricken with loss, but given beauty, in a place where it was only smothered or dreamed of.

As Duley lied in bed with, his arm amputated, conjuring up thoughts of death, and how his life is to change, if he chose to continue it, he received worse news. The young Russian boy was found dead; he had overdosed on pain medication and vodka, at the age of 14. Rather than lie around and feel sorry for himself, while the rest of his body awaited eagerly to the travel with godlike speed through the rest of his life, Giles Duley had a revelation. Reporting the news, and capturing its surroundings would no longer suffice. It was the story of the people, that he would take into custody and propagate. Through him, these stories of the less fortunate, the brilliant, the abused, and the victorious would reign.

So quick are we to move away from our goals, and often because we feel we are on the wrong path. If you truly do believe that, then perhaps you should try another route. How simple it would be to defeat the words of Robert Frost and at the divergence of two roads, travel both. You can always take both roads, the common path and the one less traveled, but isn't it always the latter that proves more compelling, more truthful, more serendipitous, and with more foreordination?

I am not sure if there are any Latin connections between the terms destiny and destination. But if there are, I offer this. As we grow more reliant on GPS devices, electronic maps, and Siri to guide us to our destinations, we miss the detours. We miss the failed attempts that lead to eminent findings and illustrious sites. We miss the mistakes that teach us life lessons, earths fables, and stranger tales. We should let go our of metaphorical GPS devices, carrying us directly where we think we ought to go, and simply enjoy the ride. When I reach my destiny, I can only hope it's a rewarding destination, but one I will not seek with normal travel.

Honestly, One Day

We often commiserate with friends around fires, dinner tables, and lecture halls on this topic. We regularly ponder this thought late at night during a mild panic attack, or faint pain during a heart beat. What would we do if we simply had one more day left. If we were not inhibited at all by our inevitably fatal fate and can live that day to the fullest, devoid of any harm, bereft of any constraints.

This is usually a thought that people of elder years start to let build up within the cerebral cortex, but shouldn't we all let it marinate between the synapses a bit? Sadly, shit, for a lack thereof a better word, happens. Instead of a bucket list of things I want to do over a long period of time, I think about the one day.

You hear many people talk about their ridiculously embellished ideas of a lavish trip to a foreign country halfway around the world. Clearly these people have not put a whole lot of time into this thought. If you are living in CT and want to fly to Tahiti for your final day of life, you are going to spend 14 hours in the air, 2 hours checking in and out of the airport, and a 1 hour layover at LAX. There is an outside chance you see a D-List celebrity like Pauly Shore. carrying his puppy through Terminal C, but most likely this will not occur. You will be dropped off in a foreign location, luckily without much luggage, since lets face it, you don't need clothes for tomorrow. Meanwhile, 17 hours of your 24 hours to live has been spent dodging chip shrapnel from the fat fucks who overindulged in airport snacks, and it costed you $137 dollars in nips just to get a goddamn buzz going in air. You are now left with roughly six hours to get some sun burn before you say peace out world.

Then you have the derelicts. Usually these are your friends or family members that consider reading a horror/thriller novel to be "pushing it to the limit." They decide on their last day, they want to go Sylvester Stallone on this bitch and go rock climbing, or base jump, or let a complete stranger dry hump them from 20 thousand feet and skydive. I am all for adventure but I do not believe these folks really contemplate their actions long enough. Having never done any of these things in their pre-finite lifetime, they do not understand the dangers fully. One day to live does not mean you are the terminator and you won't die. It does not mean that you definitely have that 24 hours. It doesn't mean go out in the street and see what if feels like to be a human pinball off taxi cabs. If something goes wrong; the chord snaps, plane goes down, rock falls loose, river takes a dark turn, storm comes abruptly....your final day is cut short, just because you wanted to play librarian goes Evel Knievel.

Not to mention you are probably not going to be able to convince many of your friends and loved ones to do this with you. You will most likely be left with a bunch of thrill seeking, adrenaline junkies who have another 40 years on this planet and wont believe you, let alone sympathize with you about the fact that you are embarking on one of your final journeys. I blame Tim McGraw, Live like you were dying, for all the people that would spend their last day like this.

I have put some thought into this and I see the day playing out two ways.

`1. One day is not 1 Millionth of enough time to thank all the amazing people in my life for simply being there. My mother, father, and stepparents for their amazing gifts, upbringing, support through college, and food. My younger siblings and their love, guidance, and energy they give me each and everyday to wake up and make them proud, help them to succeed. My best friend Aaaron, and the comedy tour we never started. My close friends, my new acquaintances who have helped to make Boston a new home. The list could go on and on..but I'd bring all these people together. I supply everyone with the proper amount of red bull, diet coke, 5 hour energy shots, or cocaine, whatever is needed to stay up for awake for a full 24-hour period, and we would dance the night away, dance this life away.

2. I'd go Holden Caulfield on the world. I would become a day long reclusive animal, reaching out to only long lost friends or mild acquaintances. I would make poor, feckless, and fly-by-night decisions...I would have no one to answer to and no one to tell...other than possible the coroner at East 5th and Broadway. My bank account would be emptied and a superfluous amount of checks that I never used will be archaically scribbled onto with large sums, just begging to be bounced. I would sleep with prostitutes, drink elegant scotch, smoke menthol cigarettes with pot dabbed on the tip, and blow on the filter. I would slide comfortably into the next chapter of my life, that would undoubtedly be furnished with red and black curtains, and an insanely hot temperature.

Too far? Too dark? Good lord, who knows.

The Relevancy of Age

We are asked daily to input our date of birth; in the doctors office, signing up for a subscription online, applying for a credit card. We are asked just as often how old we are by new friends and acquaintances, co-workers, bartenders and bouncers. I find myself asking the question - How much does age matter?

For many things that require an age it is simply for legal backing. The law has stipulated that the same men who can die for their country cannot concurrently indulge in a beer or even a glass of whiskey to help wash away the thought of death from their mind. A cliche' analogy there, but yet a real truism that deserves attention. The law decides that people under 21 are not responsible enough to enter and leave a bar intoxicated. In Pennsylvania studies have shown that nearly 70% of drunk driving fatalities occurred within the ages of 21-30, not within 18-21. At 21, people decide they have reached the age of being reckless.

Age seems to be more of a hindrance on society, not only with drinking, but more importantly with love and relationships. I may be biased here coming from a divorce situation where a mother and father of the same age remarried 14 years older and 9 years younger respectively. They both appear happier, more content, more in love. When a man of 25 dates a girl at the age of 20, its deemed "not socially acceptable," by many people. Why? At what point does a girl or a guy reach the maturity level in which they can comfortably date someone more than 5, 10, or 15 years older than they are? Should there be dating laws to go along with sexual encounter laws?

When is a person old? Is it relative? Relative to what? Health, appearance, grey hairs, speech, education? These are all questions that come to mind when thinking about the ever perplexing concept of age, merely a number of years that you have existed on a planet.

I was watching a TED talk the other day talking about juvenile delinquency and its correlation to those on death row. 80% of men on death row spent time in a juvenile delinquency center or were incarcerated at some point. The speaker, David R. Dow,  talked about a young boy who had witnessed his father being shot, was chased through his home by his deranged mother with a butcher knife, beaten in two different foster homes, and eventually imprisoned. He was 14 at this time. At 14, he was older than me in experience.

Allow me to deviate from a piece of thought provoking prose into an op ed to conclude this entry. I would like to propose that I do not believe age does matter at all. Levels of maturity do, experience does, education does as well. In our society we are so keen on measuring things, age is just another measurement, and it is the simplest measurement for gauging someones ability to coexist, and match up against others. Next time I go to the bar I would rather the bouncer pull up my resume, my dating record, and then arm wrestle me to decide if I am an eligible patron for their establishment.

My parents relationships work....now. My birth mother and fathers relationship did NOT work when they were together, and age, along with many other things was a factor. At the time of their divorce they were at completely different ages, yet their birthday never changed. Why is that? Age is not a good indicator for how "old" someone is. For me, the world is for the most part in order.  Stipulations and public biases throw it off its axis.

One Page to Sell Yourself

Sparked by this weekends events of assisting a friend, name not needed, in helping to set up an online dating page, I realized something. Maybe not every day, but very often we are given one page, or small platform to sell ourselves. To prostitute the hell out of our looks, brains, skills, attributes, and abilities, and mask any possible flaws or non-fortuitous traits.

On page to sell yourself. Think about it, and start simple.

Resume:

This is one page where you get to boast about your achievements, past work experience, awards, grade point average, college background, and if you are creative enough dick length or breast size. The actual resume is probably the lesser grandiloquent pieces of the two parts to a resume. The resume is simply a bullet point sheet that modern society and critical writing courses have forced upon us to be able to separate likely candidates and rank them. The cover letter is really where you give an overblown and ostentatious presentation of your skills and how they relate to a specific role. The letter is generally the same to each company or employer because you have exhausted all the strong vocabulary words you possess, and cannot half-honestly boast any further about yourself and "successes." You have a page to pimp the shit out of yourself and there is a good chance you don't even have that. Most of the employers will skim your masterfully crafted pretentious piece of self-capitulation and either decide to call you to hear more. They will disregard the rest of the letter or just toss it into the waste basket next to Jeremy Rennick and Susan Wainthrop, two others who will remain unemployed.

Facebook/Twitter/Blogs:

I feel these three are completely over-saturated by comments and fun poking remarks so I will keep this brief and tie them all in together. Each social media avenue is a way to sell yourself to your friends, family, and colleagues. It is a place to sell them on the fact that "you're worthy of their time." That you are a fun person to be with, that you a knowledgeable person, that you will help their status in this world in some way...I fear we are all sociopaths. On Twitter you write about your thoughts, but wont put anything up there that too many people will disagree with, or anything you feel they wont pay attention to. You hash tag the shit out of your comment making it practically illegible, just so that it shows up on various feeds and you expand your reach. You throw in a few @ signs and create a symbol that looks like some sort of Japanese character mixed with an ancient Egyptian war token. This is followed by the false belief you just made twitter art that will become the hottest trending accident since #winning.

Facebook is too easy. Clearly you are using that page to sell yourself by posting videos you think you are the first to see (meanwhile its has 8.2M views in the last 24 hours). You are pumped about some political jargon and want to insight a fucking fantastic discussion on your wall that only excites 3 people in the entire world while pissing off 300 who get the feed updates.

And blogs. I'm selling myself right now with this long one-pager. I am trying to come off as a witty, narcissitic aspiring writer who thinks way too many people care about what I say. My hopes are that they will care and I have successfully sold myself to 5 or 6 more people who might read my next post about womanizing, the modern tree and how they tie together.

The Online Dating Profile

This is the mother of the self selling one pages we put together. You are convincing people of the opposite sex, and well maybe the same sex if that is your journey to spend time with you outside of the internet. These are people who have never met your charming ass self and have but one page and a maximum of 20 photos to decide if they would like to risk the chance of your being a serial rapist or practicing man witch and take this thing to the next level. The online dating profile is your place to shine, to show all your amazing self-centered qualities, without sounding like a self-interested, pompous and vainglorious pric. Unless of course that is how you want to sell yourself, and if so, by all means rock this shit out of that profile, you may even "find love in a hopeless place." If you are a female you're trying to explain how you are gainfully employed and in no way need support from a male, but think a guy should open each and every door, gather flowers when he has been out of line, who is never weak and always strong, and believes you whether you are right or wrong. You then will post 10-15 photos that are of course, in your mind, the best photos you have ever taken. They will show just enough skin to reveal that you are not devoted to god, but will likely not fuck on the first 2-3 dates.

This page is where you can talk about the things you cannot live without, things you are okay with not living with. You can talk about your career goals no matter how far off they are from what you are doing, making yourself sound cultured, sophisticated, and motivated. You need to sell yourself, otherwise you will stay just as lonely as you were before your decided to pay $75 for a three month membership to online date frolicking, resulting in an overall waste of time, typing energy, money, and emotional distress.

With all things that you sell, there is a success rate, and a failure rate. Most of us don't even realized the amount of time we spend each and everyday making people "want" us. It is really a part time job, especially if you are online dating, updating multiple social media avenues, and applying for a job - not sure how we find enough time to do all this selling while working a 9-5. Seems just easier to go to a street corner, throw on a dress and skip the underwear, shake our ass, change our voice, give someone a good time for an hour and walk away amicably. Good lord, I guess we are not heading for social entropy after all.