WAKE UP IN THE MORNING FEELING LIKE…

$hit.
I hate days like these. I should never look at myself in the mirror for this long. The shirt
I’m wearing looks like a ball draped in a curtain,
Except this ball has man-tits.

I could totally lose the weight if I wanted to. Mantra. Rinse. Repeat. I could go to the
gym, run a couple miles, eat something nice… OR, I could get stoned, watch Carl Sagan’s “The
Cosmos”, eat a microwavable pizza and fall asleep in a pool of my own failure. The decision-
making part of my brain also goes for the latter. This shirt doesn’t make me look fat…

The Cheetos dust does, though.

My mom says that I should go to the gym to meet women. I think the whole, “Talking to
girls on the elipticals” thing only works for a select kind of dude… namely, the ones who are
also comfortable not wearing sleeves in public.

I’m the kind of guy who wears sleeves to the beach.

People like me don’t talk to girls at the gym. We’re too afraid you’ll see our sweaty orb-
shaped bodies, stumbling on a treadmill at 3 miles an hour, and think, “Well, that guy is probably
lacking in sexual stamina. There’s no way he could ever please me physically, or emotionally.
He probably listens to stupid music too, and talks too much about how the latest three Star Wars
movies have sucked.”

How are you supposed to flirt with someone when the predominant thought in your mind
is, “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK LEGS FIRE FUCK”?

The girl on front of me is watching the Food Network while running on the treadmill.
This is like some sort of modern day, carrot on a stick contraption. Maybe if she runs faster, she
can have whatever Rachel Ray is cooking.

GRAB MY GLASSES, I’M OUT THE DOOR, I’M GONNA…

Go back to $leep. I just walked out of my apartment to see a homeless man peeing in my general
direction. Our eyes made contact for a few brief moments before he panicked and ran away,
wiener in hand. There is no way I’m starting my day with the sight of a homeless dude’s dick.
Let’s try this morning again.

GRAB MY GLASSES, I’M OUT THE DOOR, I’M GONNA…

Call my Mom.
My mom has always thought there was a medical reason to explain my strange behavior.
When my brother and I were just kids, we were told that we both had Tourrettes syndrome. My
brother actually had it, but I was just a weird fucking kid who did stupid shit all the time. My
brother’s Tourrettes isn’t even that bad, so when we went to those group meetings, with other
kids “like us”, we were the boring ones.

The kid who yelled different types of cereal brands, and the girl with a penchant for
licking shoes sure got a lot more attention from the “crew”.

In high school, my mom tried to put me on Ritalin for ADHD, but the doctor confirmed
my suspicions: He told my mother that there wasn’t anything mentally wrong with me, I’m just a
little different.

She also thinks I’m gay, but that’s beside the point. I guess she forgets that time she
walked in on me looking at internet porn… straight internet porn.

We both try and forget that.

If I were all the things my mom thought I was, I would’ve been the most ridiculed kid in
the history of public schooling. A Gay, Tourettes patient with Attention Deficit Disorder?
Sounds like a bullies’ wet dream…

Don’t feel sorry for me, life is 99% rad all the time. I’ve got a family that loves me and
I’ve got friends that love me more. It’s just that sometimes your brain decides to focus on the
shittiest 1%. Someone better call the WAAAHmbulance.

BEFORE I LEAVE, BRUSH MY TEETH WITH…

Toothpa$te, like a normal goddamn person.
I am single.
I’m single in the way Kanye West is arrogant.
I’m single in the way pop culture references are easy and cliché.
Helen Reddy doesn’t write feminist anthems about awkward chubby kids with self
esteem issues.
I am single, hear me roar.

It’s certainly not for lack of trying. I think I just have a fast-pass to the friend zone or
something. I’m that guy that you [Yes, you] always answer declarations of love with, “but we’re
just such good friends,” and “I don’t wanna ruin this great thing we have”. You know what thing
would be even greater?
If we dated and had sex all the time.
That would be way better than this, “You talk about how your boyfriend is an asshole and all
guys are assholes except for you, Dan, but don’t worry because that doesn’t mean that I’m going
to date you because that would break this endless cycle I have of dating douchebags named Trent
and Travis and then crying when we break up, and telling you how great you are and how I
deserve some really special, but not me because Travis is really a great guy once you get to know
him” thing.
Some days can make even the smallest bed seem too big.
By this point, you’ve probably noticed, and become annoyed with the amount of times
I’ve used the word “I”, and if hadn’t noticed yet… now you have. The paper clip in Microsoft
Word is asking me, “Are you done, yet?”
This isn’t supposed to be a pity party, these are just the things I’m self-conscious about.

CAUSE WHEN I LEAVE FOR THE NIGHT…

I ain’t comin’ back.