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Spoiler Alert: There be no Carly Rae Jepsen on this playlist (though if you really want to hear “Call Me Maybe,” you probably won’t have trouble making that happen?) Instead, a playlist that celebrates all iterations of summertime.

When you think you have that sexy summer glow going on while dancing at a party, but then you catch a glimpse of yourself in a reflective surface and are like, jk, I look like a swamp creature.

They refuse to communicate what is wrong, any time that something is wrong, until whatever was wrong blows up five months later into something that is much worse than the argument that might have ensued had they just accepted your invitation to talk about it in the first place.

Not only is it disrespectful, it’s just a weird thing to do. If they are in the vein of someone who stands people up on a date, they may also be susceptible to the following weirdness: eating bleach, sucking on their ponytail, talking through movies, owning a Zune, liking Jar Jar Binks or biting their toenails.

Right before I was ready to pounce, he offered up a tidbit of wisdom that left my sophomore soul in awe. “I keep an index card by my bed. On one side, I write what gets me up in the morning. On the other side, I write what keeps me up at night. I look at it every day, and if I decide I disagree with it, I tear the thing up and write a new index card.”

I learned how to use the shell of one to pick out the meat of another. I loved how the shells would capture the decadent white wine sauce and could be used as little soup tureens.

The kitchen of nearly any restaurant is where all of the various parts of society who weren’t interested in or had too much of a criminal record for an office job decided to coalesce, yell at each other, be around scalding heat, and talk about women.

The “I just got laid” feeling is coveted by many. We want to experience it all the time, we want to drown in it, but we can’t always get what we want now can we? When you do get your wish granted though, you’ll do strange things like decide to walk home in a vicious snowstorm or call your grandma.

Often pronounced “vokka shots,” this is undeniably the entry into the part of the night where things are getting just a little bit too awesome, and you might have to start screaming at the DJ to play a certain song.

You’d essentially have to have lived under some enormous, wifi-less rock for the last four or five years to not know who Phelps is, but just in case you are really that uninformed about the pinnacle of human achievement and physical prowess that is the Olympic Games, let me inform you.

I am certainly not ashamed of my sexual orientation, but I am no more proud of being gay than I am proud that I have brown hair. I may not feel the need to hide my sexuality, but that doesn’t mean I want to march down the street in a thong and feather boa either.

This plane keeps us all together, and as these chattering Chinese fly us to Jakarta I am wishing you could be who you were. I show you how to fill out the customs form. I have been here before. You haven’t. All I want for us is to stay whole.

Stop breathing so damn heavily. This isn’t phone sex. Unless you’re interviewing for a phone sex operator position… then, uh, good job with the breathing. It sounds pretty authentic.

If, in the end, Lewis is right — that there are no safe investments — wouldn’t it be easier, less painful, less gut-wrenchingly traumatic in the long run to not invest at all? Wouldn’t it be more conducive to one’s all-around emotional and psychological well-being?

Men will never be asked the question, “Can you have it all?” because it’s implied that they already do. Their penis entitles them to the life cake and eating it too. They have a monopoly on “All.” They invented “All.” Meanwhile, women are constantly being led to believe that “all” is an elusive thing.

I know that it’s an erotic novel of some sort, loosely associated with Twilight (but perhaps not explicitly?) and that women love it. Still, what the color grey or the many shades in which it comes has to do with an erotic Twilight novel is beyond me.

Whenever I get injured or sick, my go-to method is the ol’ “do nothing.” Yep. I do nothing. I continue on with my life, dragging my half-working body around like I’m the guy from Monty Python and The Holy Grail. “It’s just a flesh wound!” I shout as my arm falls off.

Being drunk-hungry might lure you into a less recognized option for late-night eating: a 24-hour pharmacy. Since you can use your debit card here, you will feel compelled to buy every snack you see, especially if you’re far from home and need to survive a long drunken, train ride.

By accident, one of your gracious workers placed a Cheesy Gordita Crunch, instead of a Chalupa Supreme, as my order. Clearly, it was no accident — ‘twas a miracle, created by the Taco Gods. Now, I buy Cheesy Gordita Crunches almost exclusively.

Then it happened: The fourth album that was rocked by critics and fans alike. Folie a Deux contained elements of soul, power-pop and pop-punk. Yet, with such a fervent online following, and fans who treated their early work as gospel, the heat came harshly and often. Countless blog posts wondered “What Happened to Fall Out Boy?”

They have an indeterminable expression — something unsettling and endearing that you can’t fully read. Something that makes your heart splinter.

Cover yourself in a black suit of armor. Present yourself with class, and look “put-together.” Don’t look too sad, but make sure your outer expressions convey some of the emotions you have quarantined inside. Paste a faux-smile across your face as you make your way down the aisle turning from right to left to witness the sea of blurred faces in the crowd.

We all have these stolen quirks. They make up who we are and we can’t help but steal them. My aunt Laura showed me the know-how that real Midwesterners scream obscenities at the opponent and our own team when they suck (which happened a lot growing up in Cleveland.)

Ms. Alabaster never called me back, sending me into a deep spiral of despair. Things that didn’t matter started to matter a whole lot: I would never get to see her antique collection; I would never get to talk more jazz-flute shop.

Intimacy isn’t easy, it isn’t immediately gratifying, and most of the time it’s a bit squidgy around the edges. Moreover, intimacy is — call me a cynic — something that, given enough time, love, and effort, you can cultivate with just about anyone.

Write in the second-person plural present tense. Always, always. You always do this, you are always doing it, you are doing it right now. Cover up your lack of inspiration by writing in this way.

Most of us know there’s a little something out there called Facebook etiquette, consisting of unspoken rules such as changing your profile picture every day makes you look like a narcissistic 7th grader and if you’re liking my status after six years of zero communication, you’re towing a fine line, ya creep! 

Take long rides in too-hot cars with the windows down and the radio loud, play music you swore you outgrew like Sublime, or No Doubt, or Grateful Dead, or 311, or Bob Marley, or Long Beach Dub All-Stars, or Tom Petty.

Terrorists are perhaps the most technologically savvy of the different types of exes you will have in your 20s, employing the use of their cell phones to make repeated calls texts to their exes between 12 and 4 a.m., causing disrupted sleep schedules and new mates to suspect that the ex is sleeping around, or something.

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