Tuesday, August 31, 2010


Dear Diary:

That which you are about to read will include profanity, blatant sexual references and may or may not make any sense. Reader discretion is advised.

The Divorced Guys Rules for Ending Sexual Relationships-

-Don't be mean. Just let time kinda take its course. Fucking someone, no matter how good the sex, can't last forever, so, ride it out (pun intended), and just let it flow.

-Be honest. If you want to stop sleeping with someone, tell them. Everyone will hit a point where they wonder if there is something more that just hot sweaty passionate, back-breaking hardcore fucking. Ultimately, for me at least, I want to have the same hot sex, just with someone whom I actually have legitimate emotions for other than "like."

-Don't be weird and start throwing the "but I loved you" line if both of you went into the relationship knowing you were just going to make each other cum as much as possible. If you get "the feelings" and didn't say anything then well, you broke the above mentioned rule regarding honesty.

-Be an adult. If you are old enough to be fucking, then you should be old enough to know how to act when you are no longer fucking.

The Divorced Guys Rules for How NOT to End Sexual Relationships:

-Don't go running your mouth all over town and telling mutual friends shit that just isn't true. They say discretion is the better part of valor, or something like that. The only thing you do is make yourself look like a fool in the long run.

-Don't stay in contact with a former lover as a friend, while saying shit like "mmm, wish I could help," with blatant sexual innuendo. Because for a woman, well, I don't know how a woman would react, but for a guy, we think with our cocks on occasion, quite often in fact, and easy pussy is better than no pussy (but we won't date easy pussy or let it meet our family).

-Don't talk to your former lover/fuck buddy/friend with benefits the afternoon before you have a date and say that you are horny but know you shouldn't sleep with your date, considering it is a first date, and then tell mutual friends how thick of a cock your date had and how much you liked when he went down on you.

I'll fuck easy, but I would rather not. It's like pussy in a glass, "break in case of emergency." I won't fuck slutty. And I won't talk to her either. And I sure as shit won't send her a housewarming present.

(Obviously I am putting myself in this context so it makes sense in my head. One can flip the male/female aspect and have it still make sense, I think. But it's not like this has actually happened to me.............)

Wednesday, August 25, 2010


Dear Diary:

T-Minus 6 days until my cast is removed. Now, this does not mean that I have regained the sensation that was cut (no pun intended...ok, yeah, it was intended) away as a result of the original injury, but I have felt tingling, which is a positive step. What this DOES mean though is that I will no longer have this medieval torture device strapped around my hand.

This is good.

So, you may be wondering what I am going to do with my regained freedom. And the answer is........

I'm going to clean. My roommate, while he is a likable and personable chap, couldn't clean a bathroom if you drew him a fucking map with pictures. So, needless to say, cleaning has been a bit of a chore while I have been one-handed. Holding a mop is not that easy.

I'm going to be able to shower like a normal person. There will be no more blue newspaper bags covering my cast and making me look like a damn alien. Have you ever tried to wash under your arm while using the hand that is attached to said arm? Yeah, I looked like a blue armed alien monkey doing that. Same goes for putting on deodorant.

I'm going to wear shirts with buttons. Have you ever put on a button-down collared dress shirt one handed successfully? Well, neither have I.

I'm going to cut my hair. Tried it one-handed. Degree of difficulty - 8.7.

I'm going to fix my stoop and paint it. Can you imagine using a soldering iron one handed, melting metal? I'm in a cast because of a stupid mistake. I don't need another one.

I'm going to hit the gym. Well, I'm going to use elliptical machines and work on my legs. Doing bench presses or bicep curls will have to wait six weeks.

I'm going to run. I'll throw on my iPod and try to get my fat ass back to where I could do six miles.

Last but not least...

I'm going to make guacamole. Cause you know, if I don't, the terrorists win.

Monday, August 16, 2010


Dear Diary,

I'm confident I am a good man. I'm confident I am worth knowing. I'm confident I have intrinsic value. I'm confident I am worth something, and will be worth a lot to a special someone in the future.

I'm also confident there is no such thing as a woman that it out of my league.

Sure, there are stunningly beautiful women on this city that wouldn't give me the time of day, but that doesn't mean they are out of my league. That just means they are not interested. Big fucking deal.

But on the off chance they do not care about superficial bullshit (ok, unfortunately the vast majority of women in this area do) and I am able to strike up a conversation, then I am confident I can:

-Make them laugh

-Make them smile

-Make them wonder

-Make them feel like there is no place on earth I would rather be (because honestly, in that moment, there isn't)

-And if given the opportunity, make them cum like they have never cum before

Now, the five things listed above all require one simple thing that unfortunately a lot of people have difficulty with: PAYING ATTENTION!

I like paying attention. I mean really, you would be amazed at the shit you can learn not only about other people, but about yourself if you just slow the fuck down, listen, and pay attention.

Ok, for the last of the five listed you may be thinking, "wow, what a cocky prick." But getting a woman off is not rocket science. In fact, I think guys that do not give a shit whether or not their partner gets off are missing out. I for one take great pride in it.

I like paying attention to the way a woman breathes when I caress her skin gently with my fingertips and lips. I like her smell, and the taste of her skin as I gently kiss her neck, working my way down across her collar bone, across her chest, and between her legs. Honestly, there is nothing quite like the sight of a woman's heaving torso when you are looking up at her from between her legs. It's empowering really. And I could spend hours doing that, or until at least my jaw fell off. I actually had a woman tell me I should teach a class on how to eat pussy, so I guess I am pretty good at it.

But no one will ever learn these spots on their partner if they don't fucking pay attention! You cannot learn the different paces and pressures if you don't pay attention. Just because anyone can have sex, it doesn't mean everyone knows how to.

But I digress...

No one is out of anyone's league. Whomever put that idea into other people's heads was an idiot. A woman either is interested or she isn't, but that doesn't make them any better than anyone else.

No one is out of my league, including the stunning, younger, tall, thin, light eyed, blond knockout that a friend is trying to set me up with.

And she loves beer. And I'll be buying her one tomorrow.


Sunday, August 15, 2010

Well Shit

Dear Diary:

Well shit.

No seriously, I need to shit.

One of the side effects that doctors do not always tell you when prescribing pain medication is that it can, and will, make you constipated.

I know, just what you wanted to hear, right?

So, needless to say, my bowel movements have not been that regular. I walk around feeling like I am carrying a baby: a big, stinky, turd baby.

Now for us guys, taking a good shit can be a beautiful thing.

*side note- when I was about 14 or so my mom, dad, and I were having dinner. The topic of school came up and I had watched the NOVA special on child birth (you know, the one that everyone sees in health class where they show the baby from fertilization to birth). I had commented that birth looks disgusting, and at that point my mom said "honey, giving birth is a beautiful thing." Which was quickly followed by my dad saying, "well for a guy a good shit is a beautiful thing, but no one wants to look at it!" And this is why I love my family.*

But anyway, taking a good shit can be a beautiful thing, but not when you are plugged up. In fact, it is then a painful, oh man is it a fucking painful, thing. You do not sit upon the porcelain thrown with a cup of coffee and the paper and let fly the dogs of war. Oh no, you must hunker down and pray that your ass is not split in four. (Hey that kinda rhymed, I'm a poet!)

You sometimes crouch over and hold your legs or anything you can clench because you my friend, are about to crap a Cadillac. Or at least it feels like a fucking Cadillac. With gigantic tires, and lots of very sharp edges.

But you cannot clench. The tightening of the exit point is not an option, especially when you have the turtle head sticking out. This only delays the inevitable and prolongs the pain.

So, you hold your breath, and you pray. You pray that what is about to disengage itself from your body will be quick. You pray that you will be able to walk after a log the size of a redwood escapes your system. You pray there is no serious damage. You pray that you never have to go through this again. You pray for fiber, tons and tons of fiber. You pray that when you look to your side there will be toilet paper. You pray your colon didn't escape too.

But most of all you pray you didn't clog the toilet.

Thursday, August 12, 2010


Dear Diary:

I walk down the street and go unnoticed. Does anyone see me? Is anyone interested in really knowing me? Do they even care about my story?

We all have a story, or rather a collection of stories that compose the symphony that is our life. Is anyone interested in hearing mine? There are millions of people that walk this planet every single day asking this same question. But I don't care about millions of stories. I care about two: mine, and the one that when combined with mine creates a harmony that would make Mozart cry from its sheer brilliance and beauty.

But right now my symphony creates an image of doom and chaos. Right now it sounds violent as my frustration with my current situation is dangerously close to boiling over.

I cannot sleep. I cannot put on a dress shirt without assistance. I cannot find refuge in the creativity I find when I am in the kitchen. I cannot blow off steam by putting on my running shoes or lifting weights until I feel that sweet pain of physical exhaustion.

My summer mission to lose at least twenty-five pounds is back to zero. There is nothing I can do about that unless I just starve myself for the next month, literally. This has had an extremely negative affect on my mood and my level of comfort in my own skin.

I cannot smile. When I walk down the street and pass someone I cannot smile. I try, but a shy grin is all I am able to muster.

I live in an area consumed with and driven by power, status, money, networking, and beauty. These are not things I possess. I am not rich and powerful and I do not have an impressive title on my business card.

I find myself professionally trapped in a situation where I am isolated to the extent I cannot meet my full potential and while I may do the difficult work, I do not get any credit and therefor no one knows who I am. I must be the public face in a certain area of my profession, and yet when I sit in meetings I am passed over and others are recognized who are not even there. It is beyond embarrassing.

I am not a GQ model, nor will I ever have the sleek and toned muscular body that women lust after. I listen to stories of women, women who live near me, filled with desire, lust, intensity, and a burning passion that emanates a level confidence and intimacy that dreams are made of, wishing, dreaming, hoping one day I will be able to know what it feels to be desired like that. But somewhere, deep down, I feel it will never happen.

Because I walk down the street and go unnoticed. No one sees me. No one is interested in really knowing me. No one cares about my story.

So I continue to compose the symphony that is my life alone. But what good is it if no one will ever hear it?

(This message has been brought to you by the makers of Vicodin, frustration, and exhaustion)

Monday, August 9, 2010


Dear Diary:

I cannot do much these days because of one tiny fucking nerve in my hand.

I cannot cook really. I cannot chop veggies or hold anything with two hands.

I cannot work out. I cannot lift weights. I cannot even go for a run. I feel like crap. I feel disgusting. I believe I can see pounds being added.

I cannot get dressed easily. I cannot button a shirt. Putting on pants is a challenge. But I cannot go to jail, so walking around everywhere naked is not an option.

I cannot do any serious work on my house. I cannot do any serious work on the outside of my house. I was going to landscape. Not happening.

I cannot take even take out the trash.

I cannot cut my hair and will suffer having a greenhouse on my head because I am not paying someone $15 bucks to just shave it all off.

I cannot (ok, I'm not supposed to...) have a beer while on pain medication.

I cannot do my routine.

What I can do is get frustrated with not feeling normal.

Thursday, August 5, 2010


Dear Diary:

Ouch!! Ouch I say!

This is what happens when you are not paying attention.

I took this picture in the recovery room about ten minutes after waking up from surgery. The fucking cast is the size of a Buick. It is only good for clubbing small animals, or maybe I could use it as a nice decorative piece. I could probably even use it to strengthen the foundation of a large building.

I remember three things from the procedure:

1. That they screwed up my IV and when they thought they were putting me to sleep all they were doing was causing me extreme pain in my right arm to the point I was shaking and biting my tongue not to scream and punch they guy. We are talking a solid 11 of pain on a scale of 1 to 10.

2. Then they moved the IV to my hand after shaving it (oh yeah, it looks sexy), and when the drip started it hurt like hell too. I asked them if it was supposed to hurt like that and then...

3. I woke up in recovery.

My nurse in recovery was a peach, and I may have offered to buy her a car if she got me a cup of coffee, which she did. I also downed about a gallon of juice in 30 seconds because I was thirsty as hell.

Also, doing random things are very difficult, like getting dressed and showering. So difficult in fact that I think they should make it an Olympic sport.

Now please excuse me while I pop some pain meds and relax.

(not bad typing one handed am I?)

Monday, August 2, 2010

On Hiatus

Dear Diary:

Tomorrow I go in for surgery to repair a severed nerve in my hand. As a result, I will be in a cast for 2-3 weeks while everything heals. As a result of that, the likelihood of you hearing from me is not that high.

So I figured I would just rant and rave about completely random bullshit, maybe go on some tangents in a stream of consciousness type of way, bitch and moan about a couple things, and expound upon things that I think are great.

And off we go!

-The summer is winding down, thankfully, I think. This summer has been a complete and total cooker. I have never seen days where it has been so ungodly fucking hot in my life. Oh, and here is a tip for everyone out there: don't go for a run when it is 100 fucking degrees out unless you want to feel like your head is going to evaporate and your skin will melt off.

-The bad part about summer winding down (which come on now, we all know won't happen for a while) is that there will be less and less women wearing summer dresses and showing off their bare legs. I am more of a leg guy than a tit guy, so this depresses me. Well not really, but I am going to miss seeing all the legs to heaven walking around my neighborhood. Short skirts are the bomb, yo.

-The deck was a failure, so I am going to improvise. After walking around the city a bit and checking out the back yards of some of the folks in my greater neighborhood region, I came up with a solution that I think will work out just fine: stairs. I am just going to build some stairs going out of my back door and then build the deck on the ground, where it will cover up some really rocky soil that is of no use to anyone, namely myself. And if it isn't of use to me, that's all that matters because well, I own the place.

-The backyard right now looks like the fucking rain forest. My tenant that I rent my basement apartment to is a bit of an environmentalist, and well, likes working with soil. Reality check tenant-o-mine, there is no fucking soil in DC. There is only dirt. This is not fucking Indiana where you can plant corn and wheat and shit and have your own sustainable garden. The dirt has years upon years of random dumping and crap in it. But that didn't stop you from planting corn and broccoli and lettuce and all other types of random shit before you left town for work for two months. And as a result, I need a machete to get into my backyard. Bastard.

-I wonder when I will be able to have sex again? Probably not until the cast comes off. But however, it is not like I have a woman that I am sleeping with at the moment, so me thinking about this is about as useful as tits on a bull.

-I have a feeling putting on pants may be a difficult task come tomorrow afternoon. As well as putting on socks. Too bad I cannot show up at work in gym shorts and flip flops. I think we need a dress code change.

-I think morning sex should be required by law. Think of how many people that you work with that would not be complete and total asshats because they got laid that morning? I think this would make the world a much happier place.

-Is it odd that the thing I am most worried about is not being able to work out? I have not lifted weights since I stabbed my hand, but I have gone running quite a few times. However, I do not know if I will be able to run with the cast on for fear of inadvertently fucking up the healing that is happening.

-I had a large dead tree removed from my front yard, and now have four gigantic bags of mulch I have to do something with. Once the cast is off, I think it will be time to finally landscape. I have been drawing up plans for a while now, but I think I know exactly what I want to do. I will build a platform in the front yard. A bit of a mini deck if you will, and then landscape around it, and throw a park bench on it so I can enjoy a morning cup of coffee outside, or a beer in the evening.

-Paint smells like shit after it gets old. Use it, or chuck it and buy some new stuff. Trust me on this one.

I think that is all for now. Maybe I will throw up some pictures of my stitched up hand, or at least the cast so you can all laugh at my misery.

Most expensive fucking avocado ever, mark my words.