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Start small, just the ones you can handle: sadness when someone dies in a movie, anger at tech support. Those are the ones that make sense, that go down smooth.

Are you on a diet, Klein? Grapefruits aren’t suitable hangover food. I have half a mind to send you home since you should know better, but count yourself lucky. We’ve got bigger fish to fry (also not a hangover food, don’t get any terrible ideas).

And an ex-girlfriend, when we were in college, used to mock Everything But the Girl’s Missing, especially the like the deserts miss the rain line, because, as she liked to say: How can a desert miss something it’s never had, since deserts are deserts because there is no rain. And I used to say, well, isn’t that the point?

By this point, I am beside myself with stress. Do you know what it’s like walking around with the feeling that your life has been fundamentally altered by rogue viral forces, that your genitals are the cause, and that your life will never be the same again (maybe I’m being a little over-dramatic, but this is an accurate picture of how I felt at the time)?

An overpriced cell for the overachiever, the minimalist apartment gets its name because it’s inhabitant either a. doesn’t have space for frivolities like, say, a bedside table or b. cannot afford furnishings due to spending over two-thirds of their income on inflated rent/ mortgages.

The night wasn’t all just celebrity gossip and fun stories though. Sometimes it was just awkward silences, especially when it came time for her to answer random questions from the audience. One woman asked Didion this long-winded question about why there wasn’t any moment of redemption in Blue Nights and Didion just curtly responded, “Because it wasn’t about redemption for me.”

‘Why is he scurrying around?’ you wonder. ‘Why won’t he let me go to sleep?’ These questions don’t concern me because I’m a wild animal with a tiny brain, and most of my behavior is based on operant conditioning principles.

It’s really too bad that no one likes “Under Pressure” by Queen and David Bowie. It’s tragic actually. Whenever I request it at a bar or a club, the DJ laughs in my face and tells me, “If I played that song, it would incite a riot. People would try to burn the place down. That’s how much they hate it!”

Guys, we all know that what women say they want is different from what they actually need. Sure they might say they want a nice guy or a chance to study yoga in India, but that’s just a cover up for deeper needs that they usually won’t admit to. Fellas, no matter what ladies say, the things they need most are food, shelter, and potable drinking water.

When people haven’t wanted to interact IRL they’ve apparently been excusing themselves as tired, busy with work, “sick,” “not available,” or other socially acceptable — but, most times, indirect — reasons that are, at best, polite or tactful; at worse, perhaps, harmlessly dishonest.

The medicine is supposed to control panic attacks, but they still occur with the same frequency, and I’ve only recently — within the past year or so — learned to control them through sheer will and maybe a little bit of maturity. The only thing the pills do now is save me from their withdrawal effects.

If I were a banned book, I’d bring flowers to the grave of a mouse and I’d teach you that forever sometimes means forever and sometimes means less than forever but always means what forever will mean to you, then, at that moment.

Post-shower, I figured it out and grabbed one of my mom’s maxi pads from under the sink. I struggled with the protective wings for a while before giving up and taping the damn thing to my underpants with Scotch tape. “This can’t be right,” I told myself as I squelched around swathed in what was surely the adult equivalent of a diaper.

As if women don’t have enough self- induced panic attacks in their 20s, try getting diagnosed with lymphoma and told you might not be able to have kids in the same day. Then try emerging from your blackout only to remember you are still single. Almost too single. Allow yourself to black out for a second time.

Everyone — from Celine to Whitney to Barbara to Frank to Dean — has their own chipper version of every song, and each one is more wonderful than the last. Don’t like this cover of “Winter Wonderland?” Fear not, there exist 103982308432823 others to take its place in your heart.

The fake passport is the holy grail of travel contraband. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There are a couple of reasons for this. A whole world of opportunities await with the fake passport (FP), some of them lucrative (gold smuggling in Nepal), some of them door-opening (Burma, Congo, China), but all of them ego-inflating.

Be that rare breed of high schooler that’s popular because of their outgoing personality. Radiate an energy that makes everyone want to be around you. Be in the school plays and on the sports team. You are the chosen one. You get to do everything without receiving any judgement from your peers.

But I barely notice “the signs” because I’m still dazed and confused thinking about the Throne/Lonely Island dude. It’s really important to me! What the world needs now, the great missing link in the cultural food chain, is an emcee with hot flame-spitting authority whose brains are scrambled with, and this is the tricky part, Chappellian, Galifianakian, Silvermanian irreverence.

Cliche as it is, there’s something about the whole thrill of the challenge. Weak girls go for jerks because they like attention. Strong girls go for jerks because they like “the “game.

We can be whatever constellations you like, at least in the beginning. In the beginning it’ll be all starburst and Andromeda and other striking sights we won’t be able to take our eyes off of; but it won’t stay that way.

I want to share a deep hang — a drunken, mad, barfing, living-like-it’s-the-last-night-on-earth hang, a hang that will inevitably end in tears or pie-throwing or a slurred, giggly duet performed in a dank basement somewhere.

He hopes that somehow his grim loyalty to the non-physically rewarding friendship will convey his good character, that he will “break down” or readjust her sensibilities and transcend the conventional constraints of “shallow” physical attractiveness that she doesn’t feel towards him.

You’re left with walls that you’ve built up for yourself. When lovers break up with you, they leave behind parting gifts we like to call emotional baggage, which are then inherited by any person you might love in the future.

I lived in Long Beach, CA for about six years while I futzed around at college. Yeah, it took me 5.5 years to finish college, what about it? Anyway, my last year there, I lived in a beautiful house on a corner in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. During the 18 months I lived there, I witnessed a slew of events that can only be characterized as part of life in the hood.

Justin Bieber, the Canadian-born pop sensation, appears at the summit of Mount Zion in a cloud of smoke and pyrotechnics. He is flanked by his mother, Patricia Lynn Mallette, and his mentor, hip-hop legend Usher. At Bieber’s right side is a copy of his righteous Rolling Stone February cover story, held like a tablet. At his left is a negative paternity test, crushed to a ball in a vice-like grip.

She’s a real teenager—someone who says and does stupid things without a hint of self-awareness and I find it refreshing. I’m sure her publicist needs to eat ten Xanax a day just to deal with her shenanigans but whatever.

We need to make our statuses inflammatory, untrue remarks about President Obama. We need to dedicate entire pages of text to quoting a Glenn Greenwald article. We need to be listing incoherent reasons why Ron Paul is going to save our country. And, most of all, we need to be using capslock.

Except: a couple gets out of their respective cars in the coffee shop parking lot. She embraces him. No, wait—kisses him, jumps, straddles him like she did on those old department store rides powered by coins—and this is the most beautiful thing you have seen in a while.

But as the months went by, and 2010 came and went, I watched my friends abandon their Blackberrys one by one, lured into the iPhone miasma, practically delirious in their enthusiasm for “apps.” I remained skeptical, standing firm in my loyalty to Blackberry even though I knew my Tour was not the spry young chicken it once had been.

Now it’s nighttime and the tall-boot girls pop out of the dark doorways like it’s a shooting range—except they aren’t cardboard cutouts and I don’t have a gun—as I go up Hooker Hill. They go “woo, woo! Hey!” Just last week a U.S. soldier was arrested for trying to burn down one of the brothels when the deal went bad.

I want to say that Buddhism tries to establish such a mood of moods but the result is no mood fluctuation at all — to the enlightened Buddhist, all is a steady hum.  No manic highs, no manic lows: just a state of perpetual contentment.  Which, I have to say, sounds pretty good. Sometimes.  Sometimes it just sounds creepy and nihilistic, a kind of avoidance of the flux of life.

You were with us on the church green that morning – you knew not to touch me as I held my sister’s hand too tightly and silently wept into my littlest cousin’s hair. You knew when to laugh along and when to just nod. You knew how to leave us alone while simultaneously holding us together with your foreign presence.

I cry and the tears look like semen stains on my comforter. All I want is to cease thinking about the sad intermissions of things coming out, it matters not from where — I just want these DIY eye drops to abate like construction or war, things that remove us from each other.

A conversation is different than a discussion. A discussion is everyone talking about something — “Jane Eyre” or the latest Spoon LP or whether balding men really ought to shave the whole thing or not.

Everyone who hears this part of my story wants to know what 72 hours in a psychiatric hospital is like. Even I, more than 16 months later, want to know what 72 hours in a psychiatric hospital is like, because I was and wasn’t the one who checked himself in at the end of a disastrous relationship.

There is a robot dinosaur asleep in my closet, with its eyes closed and a fine sheen of dust on its ridged back. I’m not even lying. I can hardly look at it because it makes me so sad.

I tell myself I can’t make it through another holiday season. I tell myself this every year, each time that frozen turkey slips into the scarlet letter shopping cart of my singledom: too many microwavable meals and pre-made drink mixers. Solo cups. Doritos. Nutella in quantities that indicate there is nobody looking out for my health.

The friend you inexplicably need to make out with, tonight. The kid who used to name his bongs and was universally regarded as “too short” by the female population of your high school is now a well-spoken, well-dressed, “not too short” dude with an interesting job and what the hell are we even talking about, just make out with me.

…The chemical in turkey is not what makes you sleepy. …But it’s cute that we had to make up an imaginary reason as to why we’d be sleepy after Thanksgiving. Because “traveling long distances, watching six hours of football, then eating three pounds of food, then having an excruciating hour-long conversation with your aunt” apparently wouldn’t qualify as a reason to be “sleepy” unless there was some sort of chemical explanation.

I feel like the holidays are just plain weird for twenty-somethings anyway. Christmas serves a purpose for children and parents, and I’m neither of those. I don’t have a child to create a special Christmas for and I don’t have enough money to buy everyone gifts. It’s awkward.

By using “work” as an excuse (in moderation), you will be immune from criticism and familial scorn. Family members will in fact think you’re hardworking, opportunistic, busy, important, and successful, and given the right conditions, actively encourage you to go into your room and get done what you need to get done.

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