All these words that we speak, are a lot like the truth!
All these things that we do, are A LOT like the truth!
I'd say they're about as close as things come to the truth's OED definition. The definitive factual exactness of an idea, or entity. Unfortunate-and-all isn't it, that the instant we call it "truth" that that makes it false. Since we aren't exact. Since we're in transit. So let's not call it truth, let's FEEL it, hun. Let's BE it, babe. Let's KNOW it, yo. I'm up to that monumentally tedious task of just forgetting all those imperfect words, and it seems like you are too, so





When I posted the video for Chairlift's "Evident Utensil", I coined a little aesthetic concept I called "microquirk", that I think will define the next decade's "look" in the collective memory come the 2020's retrospective. Understanding it is difficult, but there are a few artists who embody this aesthetic perfectly in the areas of technology, "music", "fashion", and "painting". There's also a literary element to it that I try to capture in my writing. Let's see if you guys "get it".

James Jean is an artist I think captures this aesthetic in all of his work.

Combining vivid color, palpable texture, and a taste for the immaculately obscene, Jean somehow transcends metaphor and symbolism, creating something altogether familiar and new.

Also, his imagery is a juxtaposition of the "epic" and "romantic" against a sort of detached, childish sentimentalism, and all of the art has an awareness of its presence in the digital age.

I think the compression, over time, of the many pop-culture rip-off collages dubbed "originality" in the late double-aughts has produced this multi-layered, not quite crystalline, not quite liquid, completely pixel-based aesthetic force. It's the new "new" and I'll happily be your quiet resource for it as long as it's around :)






Douchebitches don't look at the big picture! They don't think about what the details mean either! They only care about their own understanding of the world and can't see past their own librarian-chic wine-goggles! Sluts! Whores the world calls them! But no! Douchebitch is the term we now adopt, because douchebitch is the term that best describes!

In the case of the master douchebitch, there is a level of arrogance that is only surpassed by her own insecurity about the limits of her malevolant reign over the human psyche. When in her presence, she is palpably both totally bangable and heinously noisome, but you're afraid to hate her because of her ubiquitous influence, and afraid to like her because she is part of a clan of douchebitches that inherently despise her and will rip you to pieces if you say otherwise behind her back. You don't know if you envy or pity her because power sprays like a flame from an aerosol can out of her nostrils when she's horny, and yet she garners genuine empathy when her life falls to shit on a weekly basis. But you know that the opportunity to evaporate her existence from the world would undoubtedly increase the Gross National Happy by 1,000,000%.

You ask, "Buttercup, how do we deal with the douchebitches in our daily lives? How do we cope with their vagina-dehumidifying, limp-dick-biting, innocent-mind-raping ways?" I don't know, Leo. I don't have a fucking clue. I know what I'm going to do though. I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine, sit down with a three-to-five good friends, and proceed to tear her life to sonic shreds, and repeat that process until I can't even remember her first name.


P.S. The douchebitch is you bitch.




She walked in on me, just as I came. "Oh! Hi babe!"
"You've got to be kidding me! You're jerking off!? Now!? Of all the times! Of all the fucking days! I just got off of my period." She slumped down on the bed, disappointed. Of all the emotions!
"What? I can get it back up in like a half hour. Besides, I'll be kinda sore," I tucked my junk away, " And kinda numb, It'll keep me in the game longer!" I did a little dance to trigger her cute sensors, but it didn't work.
"Why the hell do you watch porn anyway? Aren't I enough for you?"
"No offense, but I think a better way of looking at it is, there's a whole world out there, and I still just want you. Isn't that enough for you?"
She gave me a pouty face of disapproval, so I sat down next to her and began to explain:
"You see, there's are three different types of girls. There are the girls I fantasize about, the girls I actually have sex with, and the girls I begrudgingly love. And on occasion, those overlap."
"What about the girls who are friends?"
"No such thing," I shook my head, "A girl I'm not fucking goes into the begrudgingly love or fantasize box. When those two categories overlap I tend to call it 'friendship' to keep it from getting awkward. Interesting thing about it is that the fantasize box is kinda open-ended, so it could mean I fantasize about arguing endlessly until we're all droopsie and gross together, or it could mean I see a girl as a catalyst for compacting potentially hours of thump-gushing into one, five-minute, meaningless jolt of transcendence. You, my dear, happen to fall into all three categories simultaneously. But based on your location, expectation, and situation, they have the ability to become mutually exclusive."
"If you're not here to have sex with, if you don't want to have sex, or you can't stand to have sex, then I will somehow find a substitute. But I work not to hurt you, because I don't want to hurt you, and would hate myself for hurting you, so I don't cheat. And when I do have sex, it's for you that I have sex, and with you only that I have sex, because you're my favorite person-slash-fantasy-slash-real-life-vagina when we're together."
"Oh, alright, I see. But there's just one thing I don't understand."
"What's that?"
"Why the hell do you watch porn anyway? Aren't I enough for you?"





The problem I have with the suburbs is that there’s no detail overlooked; all was previously captured in the minds of makers. Each object of monotonous development was taken from the head and hands of a person given a lot of imaginary value by people with greedy goals and low expectations. All the pets are descended from animals idealized in the minds of selfish breeders who wanted their own hands to feel what they wanted to feel and for their voices to coo how they imagined they’d coo. The houses are filled with cabinets and vanities and televisions, earrings and wallets and dollars, all tediously labored over by people who value value and for all I know, very little else. And the families are built of people who got married to get children, who got jobs to get married, and who got educated to get jobs. But from this massive ensemble of narcissistic prefabrication came me, I, a child singularly obsessed with authenticity and with little vision for anything else. A man who lives moment to moment in search of an identity that lacks the history of any other mind or muse. I wanted to be myself. Little did I know that after compiling an amalgam of images, searching for the root of true intimacy with the world, would the most authentic occurrence in my life be a mistake.

I sat on her bed, no longer in touch with what I was thinking as she emerged from the washroom with the test in her hand. She had the look I knew she’d have. The one I knew she’d give me. And I couldn’t read it for the life of me.

“What’s the verdict?”
“Oh. A verdict? That’s what this is?”
“So...you’re pregnant.”
“Fuck. Holy shit.”
Cue the long fucking silence.
“Nikolaus, I’m...I’m sorry I put you through this, I just...”
“No, it’s fine. It was a legitimate concern. I should have worn a rubber.”
“I should have taken my birth control.” She threw the pregnancy test into the trash and stood at arm’s length from me. She was completely composed, despite the moment's pervasive awkwardness. She looked me in the eyes contemplatively. Her cheeks were still salty, her eyes were still red, and my mind was still relatively unoccupied. “Nik...what does this mean for us? Now that we’re in the clear? Since...there's...no emergency."
“Well, to tell you the truth, Annie," I started resolutely, "at some point while I was waiting, I got this idea in my head that whatever happened I’d still love you. So, um, I guess that’s the case.”
“Wait. You love me?”
“This may be the shittiest possible way for me to realize it, or to tell you for that matter...but I’m sure as shit the answer’s yes.”
She looked at me blankly for about fifteen seconds before I saw the water brimming over her eyelashes for the second time that day. Her face contorted into the scrunched, silent pantomime of an inexpressible emotional overload. I had told her I didn’t want kids. I knew that. She had told me she didn’t want kids. She knew that I knew that. But I’m no hermit and she’s no spinster, and life's a lonely heap of trauma for everybody.

She dropped to her knees and her head slid between her arms, extended. In a muffled sob she said, “I really, really hoped you’d say that! Like nothing else I'd hoped you’d say that!”
I reached out and held her hands for a moment. Then I slid back the lock of hair that had flung out from her ponytail. She slowly raised her head and looked at me with gratitude behind her icy blue eyes.
“Do you want to go get some In-N-Out?” I asked.
“No,” she replied.


If the question "do you want to get some In-N-Out?" is posed, you answer yes.




I wrote a nine-paragraph entry explaining why I do what I do and write what I write so that everyone would understand and appreciate me more. Then I deleted it.





OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS GIRL SOOOOO MUCH We do coke together She always ends up doing a million lines in a row and talking about her problems Coke gets me horndoggy like a ffffucking maniac but cokedick's the woorrrrrst So I end up sitting there just listening Pretending to listen I end up biting my nails and listening to things shuffling outside She likes to knit on coke Luckily she's amazing at it otherwise the speeds she reaches when she's hyped would probably bring about the construction of incoherent masses of cloth and waste shitloads of yarn But she makes the most fantastic sweaters and scarves at superspeed I tend to get completely fixated on her fingers when she's talking about her problems knitting on coke I wish I were as talented as she is Wish wish wish i could do something as mind-blowing as keeping people warm Just warming their hearts and their bodies on coke Just making their days a little better on coke Just handing out pamphlets to the needy on coke I haven't written a song in ages Here's one

The first time I did lines
I was at an awesome party
I’d had too many mojitos
And smoked jay with everybody
I'd just picked up cigarettes
So my stomach wasn’t stable
Then someone pulled out a bag
And put the powder on the table

Hey! Hey, hey!
Looks like carelessness prevails again
(repeated x7)
It was an accidental for the win

Gonna have to write more verses so the chorus makes sense I really really really like music but I'm kinda shitty at it I wish coke made me play music better I wish I could concentrate enough to practice guitar on coke I need a lot of practice I NEED TO PRACTICE A LOT because I'm not very good at playing guitar. Just did a few more lines I think I'm gonna listen to her knit for a while then we'll see if I can get it up.





He's got no idea whether he's over her or not. It's been eons. More than enough time to make a goddamned decision on the matter. Question is, is it his decision to make? He was careful enough not to alienate her completely, but now, fuck, she's dangling off his dashboard, ass in his passenger seat, chin-to-chest and feigning sleep, as the sun crawls into its cave on the horizon, beaming it's final rays onto her bosom. And with all this room, and nothing to look at, his eyes keep wandering over to her lips, glossed and glittering beneath that hat-o'-straw. Even at ninety miles-an-hour, endless Kansas tries to convince him it's absolutely delusional to try and cross her, just by stretching and stretching, making herself infinite, but he knows the West and freedom are yonder. At least a version of the kind of freedom he preached to that girl with the glittering lips in their bygone days, their "two-for-one" days. He preached to her in her nakedness with unbridled excitement a transcendence of "care", of "concern", and embracing this thing he called "time". She always passed it off as beatnik mumbo-jumbo to which he'd reply, "But I've lived it, darling!" and her eyes would glow and stretch like little moons orbiting his lofty planet of Pacific ideals. Even after he had left her he crawled back and convinced her to move there with him. She agreed, but on the condition that they were no longer an item! He said "fair enough," and before long the bags were packed and now these two friends with history are out on the road, making the great American journey.
It's 3:00a.m. and her turn to drive.
"What's your favorite thing about California?" She asks him.
"The fact that it's all gold and flash and has no substance."
"Why's that?"
"Because that's the way everything is. Just none of it's as self-aware as California. Everything in this world is unpredictable and madness and day-to-day, moment-to-moment, but everywhere else people have plans and new-years resolutions. In California, New Years is about as sacred as any other Tuesday night. And you get just as fucked up for the same damn reasons."
"And what are those?"
"Because you can, because you want to, and because you'll regret it if you don't."
"That why you're sticking with me?"
"I don't know why the hell I'm still with you, woman. Couldn't put what's on my mind into words if I wanted to."
"Do you think you love me?"
"Told you there aren't any goddamned words for it!"
"Well what's it feel like?"
"Terrible, glorious, and otherwise a little prickly."
"I think I'm still in love with you."
"Well that's just a terrible thing to say."
"Why's that?"
"Because I swore I wouldn't make love to you, that's why. Now that you went and said that, that's all I'm gonna want to do."
"That's all you've wanted to do since Nashville."
"That's all I've wanted to do ever."
She looks him dead in the eyes, avoiding the road, like she has a phobia for it. She accelerates up to 160mph, putting the fear of God into him, demanding, "Well then why the hell did you leave me?"
"For Christ's sake woman, watch the road!"
"Answer the goddamned question! Why the fuck did you abandon me you heartless heap of snakeskin!?"
"Because I thought you didn't love me!"
"Because I thought you didn't love me anymore!" The truck screeches to a dusty, blinding halt. Suddenly, the deep landscape, with it's milky comforter is engulfed by a swirl of sandy silence. She stares, blankly into the dashboard. He adjusts his hat and attempts to regain his composure. "I thought...you wanted me to leave you. So I left."
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she put her head on the wheel.
"What is it?" He asked, perplexed.
"I did want you to leave. I wanted you gone forever. I completely forgot."
"When did you forget?"
"From the moment you walked out that goddamned door...up until just a second ago."
He slowly dons a smile worth a whole jar of 5-cent candy. "You glad I came back?"
She looks over to him, her head still resting on the wheel, crushing her hat-o'-straw. Her cheeks are as red as tomatoskin and all the gloss has rubbed off her lips. She nods, "Uh huh."
"Me too darling. Me too."




As everyone knows, girls do not get horny.

Girls do not cheat, ever, especially when a guy gives them a sickeningly high amount of attention/affection in comparison with their boyfriend.

Girls do not call their BFF and plan to instigate threesomes with awkward/cute boys to deal with personal rejection issues or vague/nervous curiosity.

Girls are generally scared of boys because boys have overwhelmingly higher intellects.

Girls do not prefer douchebags.

Girls are in complete control of their emotions, and even if they weren't, they would not let them effect their decision-making whatsoever.

Girls, generally, cannot be bought by any price or under any circumstances, except for with the offer of trampoline sex.

Girls do not care about the length/width of a guy's penis, and are especially not concerned by particularly large/small ones.

Girls do not read romance novels/gossip magazines/watch Disney movies to make themselves feel better since the model for Prince Charming is the perfect cross between the lovey-dovey-dweebs who are too insecure to say yes to and the assholes too confident to reject.

Girls do not ignore phone calls for no reason whatsoever.

Girls do not like attention/compliments/things that are shiny or smell/taste nice.

Girls are not hard-wired to want to have your BAYBAYZ.

Girls LOVE it when their antics are made absolutely obvious.

Men totally care, and will no longer act retardo-ga-ga over girls now that they know that their Enzyte regiment does not have any correlation with their chances of getting/not getting laid.

Everybody LOVES anal sex. Especially Raymond.




By insanely (not to mention surprisingly) popular demand, 'the steps' from 'The Gentleman's Playbook by Fitzwilliam Darcy Jr.', paraphrased by yours truly:

Step one
Make brief eye/verbal/physical contact.
Giving a girl a veiled hint that she's on your radar is important. It shows you know what you want, even if you don't. This SHOULD BE the point where you make up your mind about that. Otherwise she'll be unnecessarily confused.

Step two
Assess the general personality type of 'the pursued'.
There are a few things you intuitively pick up about a girl after observing her for a minute or two. Just make a quick note of 3-5 character traits.

Step three
Play the roll of the opposite personality type.
Play the opposing force. If she's loud and self-conscious, play quiet and confident. If she's cool and calculating, play obtuse and disruptive, she'll hate you, but it creates a certain level of attraction as well. If she's a blonde, just pretend you're as dumb as she is, it'll throw her off and make her feel good about her own 'intellect'.

Step four
Find common ground, and stay there.
If she listens to Incubus, and you've heard one or two of their songs, best to stay away from the subject, unless you're an awesome bullshitter, or if she's a blonde. If you don't have any common ground, probs best to start talking about sex, but in a non-abrasive way, or via gateway topic, i.e. lesbians, drugs, or phallic objects. Try to avoid mentioning the family here, may get sticky. If she brings it up, she's probs trying to throw you off. Get back to sex talk via mentioning family pets, hometown romance, or a comedic story highlighting a fam-member's drinking problem.

Step five
Arrange for a repeat encounter.
Not too tough if you're cool about it. Probs want to end the convo on a dif topic than sex before asking for a number or asking 'what you doing this friday?' unless fuckbuds is your goal anywho and you're getting fuckbud vibes.

Step six
Avoid extensive physical contact.
Once you're hanging again, just show her you're not socially retarded. If you are, you're most probs fucked here. Or you can pretend you're sick, hungover, or 'too cool for this scene'. But don't touch her. If you don't mess with her here, she'll be convinced you're not that into her, even though it's totes obvi. This'll make her drop her guard a lil'.

Step seven
Wait. Wait. Wait. Be patient, now make your move! And now slow down.
Most important step. When her guard is dropped, you make your move. You probs want to let her drop her guard a few times before actually making a move or she'll just be perplexed as opposed to excited by it. And by "a move" I mean kiss the broad. If she's got an apparent blemish/cold sore, but you're irking to make an impression, do just a lil' neck action (no hickeys) and then leave her alone. Gotta give her less than she wants but more than she's used to.

Step eight
Play the confident idiot.
She's expecting you to make the moves now. Avoid all mention of and/or reference to anything physical, and it'll secretly drive her insane. She asks you veiled questions, you act like you have C.R.S. disease. She asks you direct questions (which she won't) and you pretend like she's making you angry/uncomfortable. This will help develop the 'prerequisites' needed for competence inside a relationship. When she's least expecting it, go in for another 'move'.

Step nine
Lose control, it's her game.
Once you're involved, it immediately becomes her game. You try and pull anything openly selfish and you'll be in the doghouse. The doghouse = negative coolpoints. The more negative coolpoints you have, the more likely you are to get dumped.

Step ten
Hurt before you get hurt.
Typical relationship rule, but this one has parameters. 'Hurting' includes but is not restricted to veiled insults referencing indecisiveness, going silent for extended periods of time especially when unintentionally ignored, and not doing what you know she wants you to do and appearing openly nonchalant about it. These are all low-level forms of feline manipulation, and when they are few and far between, they're generally effective. But other 'more intense' instances of 'hurting' are typically banked by the female for future use in attacking your person. As such, they are not recommended.

Step eleven
Apologize before she apologizes.
This only applies when 'hurting' creates a longer-than-'short-term' rift between you and/or when she is 'irrational'. No matter how 'irrational' her anger, frustration, or agitation, it is your job to acknowledge that you are the one who is 'wrong'. Period.

Step twelve
Repeat steps eight through eleven.
After apologizing, you will be subject to severe scrutiny and/or verbal abuse. This typically ends in 'move-making'. Just play the idiot, because 'you are' the 'idiot'.

Step thirteen
Repeat step six.
Extended periods of distance help remind her she likes you touching her. Dunno why this is, but it is true. Avoid looking to other girls as substitutes here. This is one of the more vulnerable places where that kind of thing can happen. Though Ben Franklin had some interesting things to say about this, he was a cheater.

Step fourteen
Repeat steps seven through thirteen.
Going back to basics turns her on again after you've left her alone for a while. Dunno why this is, but it's true. Try some new moves, doesn't have to work straight off the bat, she'll appreciate that you try.

Step fifteen
If step ten results in breakup, DO NOT intentionally contact again
subsequent chance encounters will most likely result in a) friendship b) fuckbuds c) awkward acquaintances. Do not expect any 'more agreeable' outcomes. Being the first to apologize here does not ensure the problem is resolved whatsoever. She is insecure about you now. You're are no longer in the 'dog house', you're in a 'doggy grave', and she's not attracted to dog-zombies.


This post is abnormally bland. I'm not entertained and don't particularly feel like entertaining people today.

How many Pride & Prej references are in this? I lost count.

I claim no responsibility for the subsequent seizures experienced by women who are now too self-aware for their own good after reading this.




He was lying on his back, just like in reality, so he thought he had woken up, and right beside him was a vision of an impossible lover. She was sitting back, with her reading glasses on and a book, thickly paged, opened at its center.
"What are you doing here?" He asked her.
"I'm reading a book, numbnuts. What's it look like?"
"I mean, here, on my bed, in your pajamas."
"Iiiit's my bed tooooo!" She said in that atonal sing-songy way she said things when stating the obvious. This was her typical princess moment, where he felt like he was denying her something even if she had it all. He sat up and looked down at his feet. The bed was clean, and he didn't remember cleaning it.
"I'm at this part in the book where Sylvan lunges at Minerva! He pins her wrists to the wall of the dining hall and voraciously begins making out with her!"
"You know, as much as I adore you, I truly do not care about your love stories. Never have, never will."
"I know, but sometimes you just need to vent you know? I'm feeling so much passion in my mind, and there's no one to share it with, except you hubbie-dubbie!"
Hubbie? Fuck. I'm in a dream. I'm in a dream where we're married. Awesome.
"Sluggerfuck." He said aloud.
"What's wrong?" She said, making her "I'm genuinely interested in how you're feeling" face and voice, even looking over her glasses for effect. This dream was too much, the details too real. He suddenly really, really, really just wanted to wake up and order some pizza, but then she asked again.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
"I, uh, I need to get out of here."
"Wait. Why! What's the problem?"
"I just, this is uber stressful. I can't handle it."
"Awww, what? Something happen with your work today? Is something bugging you about tonight's editing session?"
"Tonight's edit? What edit?"
"You said you were editing the fight sequence in your movie today. You're always saying," she began mocking his oafishness, "'fight scenes are always so haaaarrrrd, because I'm always fighting convention! Crouching Tiger this, Matrix that, eff the Wachowski sibs! Blah bl-blah bla-blaaaah.'" All of this she said with the cute, unadulterated mannerisms of a four year old. She had a way of making fun of him that made him fall more and more in love with her. He then decided to stick this one out. She went back again to genuinely caring, like she ever-so-suddenly would in their platonic heyday. "That's probably it huh?" She reached over and started rubbing his shoulders with her left hand. She put the book on the coffee table and started massaging him. To his surprise, it was actually making him feel extremely calm. She stopped for a moment, like she was teasing him, but when he looked over to her, she had gotten out from beneath the comforter and was pulling it off of him too. He said no words, just watched, because in reality they had never gotten too friendly, and he was curious what this dreamgirl version was inclined to do.
She straddled him, taking off her bulky bedtime shirt, and she looked down at him with a comedic version of a puppy's curious face, her head cocked to the side. She bounced her boobs up and down with her hands. "Boing, boing! You hard yet?"
He cracked an ear-to-ear grin, "Yes ma'am, very much so," he said.
As she leaned in, putting her hands on the backboard, slowly enveloping him, she whispered, to his face, "You're going to make me lots and lots of babies."
He was awake. Wet dream. Awesome. I really, really, really need to get laid. Wonder if Dominos is open.





I know, I feel your pain. I usually follow the steps, but every now and then there's THAT GIRL.

There's a playbook, you know. A playbook that outlines how to convince a girl that she likes you, even if, deep down, you're a douchebag; how to get her to let you into that head of hers, and how to get her to let you have free reign in it.

I've read the book, and I know steps one through fifteen by heart. There's a disclaimer though. It says "In the event that 'the pursuer' bypasses step seven in order to achieve step nine, and develops the inability to attain the 'prerequisites' (see step 8 article 7 paragraph 3) needed to reach step twelve, the rules no longer apply".

The title of step seven is "Wait. Wait. Wait. Be patient, now make your move! And now slow down" and the title of step nine is "Lose control, it's her game now".

Warning to all novices: NEVER BYPASS STEP SEVEN. It has a 97.333% chance of ending fatally. I'm one of the lucky ones, and I am warning you. Don't go toward the light. She's a sweet girl, I know, but put the ball in her hands too early and she'll trample you. Not because she doesn't like you, no. It is simply because there are steps.

Men, for an abbreviated playbook, paraphrased by yours truly, email me at the.absterged.one@gmail.com.

Ladies, I'm not sending you a playbook. Not because it's a secret, but because your reactions are hardwired already, and having access to it would cause over-analysis and possibly seizure. I'm looking out for you.


There is no playbook. You're all fucked. ENJOY.

I AM A MAN pt.5/5


Part 5 of 5

What takes that fortune and multiplies it times infinity, is the fact that there's a WHOLE STRANGE PERSON attached to that thing, and seeing her when I wake up in the morning, oddly enough, makes me want to put my hands EVERYWHERE except for into my own chest. That has GOT to be a neurological survival mechanism! And then sometimes, she says interesting/annoying/OBSCENELY ANNOYING/cute things that get under my skin and make me think. Even if I want her to think I don't think about them, her saying them levels out my brain-to-nervous system ratio, which keeps me grounded so that I’m not just all impulse and thrill like a fuckin’ douchebag. And let’s not forget, she doubles as both the part-time source of the previously mentioned food, and (much to her horror) the full-time source of the majority of the ironic/stupid/gross topics REALLY worth laughing uncontrollably about. So, like, I'm sorry that it had to be this way ladies, but you girls are awesome/gorgeous/incredible/worth every minute of a dude's life, not just how long it takes you to prepare for his night. And though I may spend the bulk of MY life preoccupied with avoiding the topic, every now and again, I’m going to muthafuckin’ remind you, because, "A" your vagina feels AMAZING and is the source of life on many levels, "B" if I don't show you I appreciate you you'll chop my cock off, and "C" because I am a man. A REAL FUCKING MAN, whatever the lamesauce that means.

Part 5 of 5





A saucy hipster with a taste for champagne and a passion for electro music had stolen his virginity only a week before. But she's another story entirely, for another lonely day. Tonight though, the combining effects of multiple organic hallucinogens and particularly promiscuous company warded off any reservations he had about passing up on joining everyone else's fun, and he suspected her reactions were a result of the same.

"Isn't it awesome how the sky looks like someone drew it with crayons?" He asked.
"Wow, you're right!" She exclaimed, "And here I was thinking your shroomin' was making you see things in a way that I couldn't."
"No, I'm actually coming off of them now." He took a drag from his cigarette.
"You have a generally weird way of seeing things. You know that, mister?"
"Well technically, since everybody sees things differently, the likelihood of finding someone who sees things 'weird' probably isn't that low."
"Haha, you're such a putz." He looked her in the eyes, half-amused and half-perplexed.
"You know, I think you're the first person I've heard say that without it sounding even vaguely awkward."

Inside, the hookah was making its rounds while an episode of "Sex and the City" played on loop. Jessica Parker said something self-revealing and less than universally true, probably for the fortieth time that night. Nevertheless, it got the whole hopped-up company laughing like the god of sitcom had descended, just to stretch his awkward arms out and tickle every wine-laden belly.

He turned to her and grinned a little. Her arms were relaxed in a "u" atop the rests on her chair. Her foot, flip-flopped and with toes painted a bright but not obnoxious pink, bobbed absentmindedly as she looked out into the western twilight. He saw her face and how her hair dipped over "the twins" and couldn't resist the urge.

"You wanna get out of here?" He asked.
She turned to him briskly and with a smug look of inquisitiveness on her face. "Whaddya mean?"
"I mean do you want to get off of the balcony and, I dunno, 'get outta here'."
"Well, I'm not leaving this apartment," She said firmly.
"We don't have to leave the apartment, I mean..."
"Well then getting 'outta here' isn't the proper proposition is it?"
A rush of cheesy bliss surged from his toes to his lips and he smiled like the nervous novice he knew he was. "Well, do you wanna...go to your room?"
"That's more like it," She said, standing to her feet. She reached the hand that wasn't cradling a wineglass out toward him. He took one last drag from his cigarette and flicked it into the night, taking her hand, standing and sliding the glass door back. But before they entered, she tugged at his arm and secured his attention. He looked at her for a moment, taking in everything her eyes had to give, and after seeing it all how he sees things, he went in for a kiss.


I AM A MAN pt.4/5


Part 4 of 5

I think it’s really unfortunate that there are differences between the two of us, you know? I mean, you may like being a woman and all, and probably have no desire to “get” what it is we dudes “get”. And similarly, I have no desire to “get” why you would allow anything hard, cylindrical, and potentially life-threatening to be shoved in or around your person (unless of course it's a full, platonic can of beer, shoved in or around your hand). But I WISH I could rationalize like you do and wake up without immediately wondering, "man, how awesome would it be if I had somewhere warm and squishy to put this!?", but I can’t change that, because though I might carelessly rip my own heart out for fun, there's one part of my anatomy that I'm irrationally obsessed with, and permanently removing it would be the only solution to said problem. SO. FUCK. THAT. Fortunately though, there IS somewhere warm and inviting that’s natural function corresponds perfectly with my curiosity, and it is INCOMPARABLY satisfying/surprising when it ignores my poor social habits as a guest and says, “n-n-no, it’s fine! Come in! Come in!”

Part 4 of 5


I AM A MAN pt.3/5


Part 3 of 5

That's one reason why YOU ARE AWESOME. And yes, I mean you, heterosexual/bisexual/homosexual-but-I'll-jerk-you-off-just-'cause woman/women/womyn. Because, believe it or not, there's some guy out there who does not inflict serious injury on himself because he is thinking fondly of you. And even if that person is a scum-cussing-fuckslugger, at least the though is genuine for about .00006 seconds. And besides, it's the thought that counts when you have to stay a minimum 500 feet away from someone. (kidding, didn't mean to remind you)(yes I did) I'm a dude, and I'm sorry, but sometimes I can't help the impulse to make you feel genuinely uncomfortable, because it’s entertaining. That is, until you start talking about how uncomfortable you are.

Part 3 of 5





One of my favorite love stories of all time is actually a work in progress.

There is an art movement that you haven't heard of and wouldn't be able to understand called n33n. You haven't heard of it because you're not an internet nerd and/or artist based in any of the remote cities that sponsor the exhibits that showcase these artists' work. You wouldn't be able to understand it because it's not about understanding, it's about doing, on the internet, which you hopefully have have no concept of or stomach for.

One of n33n's founding artist's name is Rafael Rozendaal. Rafael Rozendaal is Dutch and Brazilian. He may be a genius, and he may be insane.

Rafael discovered Petra Cortright. Petra Cortright is from Santa Barbara, California. She makes sub-viral videos on youtube. She may be a genius, and she may be insane.

Rafael and Petra recently got engaged and moved to Tokyo. They haven't made any n33n art since October of last year. And that's fine with me :)


I AM A MAN pt.2/5


Part 2 of 5

Maybe the real insight here is that being a man takes a certain level of motivation outside of the basic functions of life. Sure, sleep is awesome, and so's food, and sex, and laughing uncontrollably about ironic/stupid/gross shit. A good time is definitely good motivation, but unless you're more nervous system than brain (which we must not discount, for some men truly are) dudes need something to BE HERE for, and survival, or a good time, doesn't always fucking cut it. We need something to keep us from acting on impulse, because we'll use this excessive strength of ours to rip our own hearts out, just out of curiosity, wondering, "how fucking cool would that be!? How insane would that feel!?". In fact, writing that sentence has totally backfired, what WOULD it feel like if I ripped my own heart out!? SHIT, HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE!?

Part 2 of 5


I AM A MAN pt.1/5


PART 1 of 5

I am a man. I don't have a clue what that "means". I mean, I know it implies that I've got "the power", "the social influence", "the advantage", but tell me, why the fuck should I care about those things? So what if I'm supposedly "stronger"? If I have a better chance of becoming "what I want to be in life"? Though, I gotta admit I'm pretty stoked on the fact that it implies I don't have to religiously keep track of a monthly reminder blaring "PRIMARY OBJECTIVE IN LIFE: MAKE MORE OF ME!" via bloody axewound/angry babycave. Seeing its chemical effects is more than enough trauma for me.

PART 1 of 5





Hey everybody, in case you forgot(might be projecting here), WE'RE MORE THAN HALFWAY INTO BLACK APPRECIATION pseudoMONTH!

You know, I love Black people. They are the source of almost everything that's ever been cool, ever! SHOUT OUT TO ALL MY NGGRZ/NGGTTS~!

-My first kiss was a Black girl.
-My first friend(age 2) was kinda Black(half) and he's a drug dealer, so he gets +2BlckPts.
-The first/last/only bitch I ever bitch-slapped was Black.
-My best friend in High School was Black(IN RACE ONLY).
-My 4'11" ginger aunt from Finland THINKS she's Black(♥).
-My pastor growing up/godfather was Black.
-The teacher who got me into film critique was Black.

WOW! I have a lot of Black people in my historymonth! How about you? I'm sure there are more than you may initially think! Favorite substitute teacher?? Lead singer of your favorite band?? Last pornstar/15"schlong you ogled?? Just think about it! And should you see any Black people this February, be sure to take the time out to let them know you're aware that they're Black and/or Gangsta, because Negroes appreciate that kinda stuff! B-McGeezy, OWT!


In case you guys are wondering why this post is at all relevant to the nature of this blaaag, it's because it was inspired by my reminiscing on the aforementioned awkward/awesome/AMZNG first kiss and how cool/cute/classy that girl is. ♥ you babe, and thanks for not turning out to be a lesbian (potential FML avoided).




My buddy Ben made a pretty dope Valentines Day mixtape that, after listening to, I feel like imposing on the general public.


Pretty sure the release is limited to today, but be sure to check back later for more/different/equally awesome stuffs.




10. The PPLS Republican of the Chinamens

9. Hindians (AKA le negro nouveau).
8. Economists/Consumers.
7. Your friendly interweb necessities.

6. Texans.

5. Condom marketing teams.

4. Chris Brown.
3. CRLS.
2. Floyd, who changed his relationship status on facebook to "SINGLE" today.
1. ME! Duh.



Buttercup McGillicuddy's "Adventures in Pansyland" is a huge success here at RoRhet, so we figured we'd share it with the world. Buttercup is convinced it's "a whomping piece of shit" while Floyd called it "the best Valetines Day gift so far". We don't really know what either of them meant, but hopefully you'll "get" this sugary collection of pop-y "love" songs.


Be sure to leave a comment letting Buttercup know what you think, and maybe bring him out of his Valentines Day post-album-release slump. We keep telling him he's got more stuff to do today! Love waits for no man!




Laugh out loud at old people by way of Rosario Dawson and Gossip Bitch:





Nobody ever listens to Mercutio. Why the fuck doesn't anybody ever listen to Mercutio?

"Awww shit! My nigga's ADHD like a muthafucka! Son went and forgot aaalll about that damn Rosaline bitch! Nigga's in some deeeeeep shit now! Sheeeiiit!"





Most "good guys" find it difficult to get into worthwhile relationships because "all the good ones" are taken by some "douchebag". Is this because assholes know how to properly woo women? (i.e. roofies, targeting the alcoholic in the clique, waiting three "no's" before consummating the relationship) Or because girls subconsciously like being treated like shit? (i.e. receiving expensive bouquets, chocolates on Valentines Day, monthly drunktexts admitting "i loev u bayb") Or is it because douchebags have a monopoly on appreciating the simple pleasures in life?

Dicks With Time Machines

Whatever it is, please stop, because us good guys are horny too :(




This ♥ has been brought to you by Mother Earth and GoogleMaps, to make your day just a little bit...






When two people find themselves in the throes of love, they are fatefully bound together in an eternal pact that cannot be broken, neither by the disapproval of their peers and authority figures, nor by the seemingly great distances time and space may wedge between them. A true test of this is the amount of suffering one is willing to endure to reunite with one's love. Really, it's the only test, and most people fail miserably.




Good Salvia trip meets bad NTSC condensing meets gnarly love song. And now they're all best friends.

These cats went from nothing to something in thirty seconds flat with their equally gnarly love song/iPod Nano comersh last year, and have since released Does You Inspire You, an album full of what I want to call '10s MicroQuirk, a phenomenon that I don't think will be prevalent for another year or so, but that this album is prophetically rank with.


They went straight from doing shows > iPod comersh, to be ironic. How fucking meta. I absolutely love this album, truths.

♥♥♥EYE WANT♥♥♥

In like the deepest nerdcore way possible.





Local Pittsburghers are anxious in anticipation for this, but no one else knows it exists. This is the movie that looks at the origins of Douchebag Culture and why your boss is the way he is. Because this was his adolescence.

Okay, so it's a shitty trailer for what looks like a shitty movie, but don't be fooled! No okay, you're right, it's gonna suck. Or if it doesn't suck, it'll be slow, it'll make a mediocre shot at being intellectual, and it'll definitely be awkward (possibly not-funny awkward).

Just to get the obvious out of the way, "Adventureland" will by no means hit the box-office or quotablility high-marks of Mottola's 2007 hit, "Supabayad", which was undeniably worth more than its weight in laughter. But at least this movie has FIVE THINGS we have NEVER SEEN BEFORE in a feature film.

1) A movie about working at an amusement park.

I've secretly always wanted to see a movie about this, mostly so I can justify not experiencing it. It's no far cry from Ryan Reynolds' other puke-fest, "Waiting", but at least he won't be playing the caricature of douchery he's been type-cast as since "Van Wilder". Also, cue "emotional rollercoaster" puns if this fad catches on.

2) MstrDweeeb, Jesse Eisenberg in his first (potentially) decent film since "The Squid And The Whale".

Eisenberg's lead roll in the incredibly honest, absolutely emo, Baumbach/Andersonian divorce epic was none-too-grand, but undeniably memorable. "Adventureland" is his one project sandwiched between shitty horror pictures and the occasional shitty melodrama, so there's a small but present chance it might stand out. He's got a film about the Stanford Prison Experiment coming out later this year, but that's one among five undeniably missable rolls.

3) Kristen Stewart sans fantasy plot/sans vampires/sans sympathy complex/having poolsex.

You know you really, really, really want to see her naked.

4) A "period piece" that's non-message is commentary on its target audience's lives, while simultaneously being set right around when their lives began.

Maybe this film will help us understand and appreciate the inevitable crisis of mid-life we've still got double the time to worry about, but the depicted assholes are currently living.

5) An ensemble cast that legitimately makes you go a) FTW!? and b) I wonder who the token's going to be.

None of these actors are part of the groups we've been used to seeing them run with. IF this movie works, it'll be great, because of the novelty of its cast. IF this movie is a FAIL (which it most definitely is) then it's Ryan Reynolds' fault mostly. ASIDE: How does Mottola avoid putting brown/asian/aboriginal people in his films? The one guy he put in Superbad was so blazed I don't even think he remembers what his line was.

But really, this movie looks like one of the industry's poorer attempts at cutting costs to appear more authentic (i.e. 500 days of summer, juno, etc.). However, what I think they might have unintentionally done, by cutting costs, is made a really good cult movie. Tell you what I'm going to do: I'm going to go up to Pittsburgh, toke up, and tailgate a PIRATE viewing of this movie, in Kennywood's parking lot as soon as its available. Then I'm going to toke up again and have a laugh at how my perceived reality imitates art. You do what you want, but the reason this movie is bloggable is because someone's not making enough money either for or off of it. I just hope it's the marketing team, and word-of-mouth can save it. So spread the word "Adventureland" MIGHT be good.

"Adventureland" out March 27th via Miramax at a theater near you (hopefully).


The loss of Don LaFontaine is probably the main reason this trailer sucks.

If my assessment of this is right, think "Dazed and Confused" meets "Johnny Be Good" meets "Clerks I", but in Pittsburgh. I think that spells out "potential". I just don't know in what ways or why I like those films anyway.

The music in the trailer sucks cornnuts. The music in the film, will not.

*Just read the first ten pages of the screenplay. It's legit. This movie's going to depend solely on delivery.*



They've made a movie about the story of your life.

It premiered at Sundance and will undoubtedly be one of the altest movies of the year. Ben Gibbard's fiance as Summer, the awkwardest awkward boy in the world as her bond-slave, and you, the viewer, as the real patsy in the equation. Spend your money! Viva la Recession! Enjoy. ♥



She sat on the side of the pool and dppd her big toe in the water as she said, "Channeling this hamster is killing me."
"Yeah, I know what you meen."
"We try so hard, man. To be these anmls."
Her expression was soft in the suns holy rays, putting out of mind the shudder of death or fear of embrrssmnt. "Like, I'm making it easier and easier on myself, supposingly. All the same, the effort-to-return ratio seems to transpose onto everything. Maricella told me it always seems that way. The same."
"I don't think it can be any dffrnt."
He looked at her, half on purpose, half on accident, and she turned to him. First he saw her freckles against the tan, then his eyes caught hers, hazel-blue, framed by strawberry-blond bangs, the sun.
She looked at him, his bushy cheeks and still plump with babyfat. His shoulders arched up as he supported that face with that constant, blinding stare. She turned back to the water with its sunstrings and rppls, "Let's not make a mess of things," she said. Her fingers curled up around the pools edge.
"But look at us," Her thoughts, his words. They tchd.





In case you were confused, here is the evidence of his deity.

It's more than rewatchable, it's the kind of video that diminishes the necessity for other videos, ever, to nothing. Ever. The computer age is over. Ryan Leslie is here.




There’s something absolutely ethereal about the tone and rhythm of her voice. When I met her and she said her own name, she pronounced each syllable like she was exhaling breathable rum, Eh’lihz’ah’behth, like her words were manufactured to be sweet and sickening and perfectly toxic in the best way. The more she spoke the more the air was filled with this substance, this sound. And I kept thinking, I could listen to the cadence of her voice changing pace, pausing, inhaling, beginning again, and shifting pitch with urgency, excitement and her level of interest, from now until I went deaf from old age, and I would die a happy man, who lived an abnormally thrilling life. She asked me a question and it played like music in my ears. It took me a moment to say anything back, but when I answered she laughed, and by god, her laugh was like a whole other song entirely. And imagine, she probably hears her own voice in recordings and thinks, that’s not really me, is it? I sound so weird! No Elizabeth, you sound like magic, except you’re real.





We didn't know class-acts like this still existed. But apparently they do. They tried to put him in a box, but that's impossible. You've already heard of him, but he's worth mentioning again, and again. And again, because this man is nothing short of the messiah, hip-hop and r&b's prodigious orphan, the love child of love-making music, and he knows what he's been placed on this earth to do. This man is fabolous, and we want to be him, because he just wants to be with you.

Check out his website, to get updates on his daily life and worship him the way he deserves to be worshiped. Step aside KanYe, there's real talent afoot.




"Look Stewart, it's not that you're unintelligent, in fact I think you could be a genius. It's not that you've got acne. It's not that your ass is hairier than my dog's back. It's not that you snore, or talk too much, or don't listen enough. It's not your messy mop-top, or weird fashion sense. It's not the fact that you don't have a job. It's not the smell of your breath, or your feet, or your balls. It's not that you drink too much, or smoke too much, or exercise too little. It's not that you don't love me, because I know you do. It's simply the fact that I want to believe in you, but that you don't fucking believe in yourself. Cliche as it may sound, that's the reason this is over. I'm not your mother, so you can't expect me to play cheerleader twenty-four-seven, eh? But you know what? You can call me once you've at least developed some semblance of an ego, alright hun? Oh, and an herbal regiment or enhancement drug might be considered added incentive, or at least couldn't hurt, not to give you a hint or anything...bye darlin', and good luck with your movie!"




Our very own, Buttercup McGillicuddy, has a musical side-project called Abstersion. Today he posted a new track on his myspace entitled "British Girls". Check it out.


He's also self-releasing an album on his facebook page on FEB 14th, so be sure to become a fan and hear the rest of the tracks here.



It was a black night. A new moon night. The city’s ember glow doused most of the stars once they reached the suburbs, but Venus, in her radiant glory, pierced the eternal blanket of the night like a beacon of hope.
“What the fuck did you just say?” She jolted.
His neck arched back and he faced the sky, nervously. Why these ticks happened, even on the phone, he couldn’t understand. He recomposed himself, “I...”
“Are you breaking up with me?” She cut to the point.
“No! I just...I think we should take a break. I mean...you’ve been pretty distant, and I don’t know why or how to bring you back, so maybe we should ease up a bit.”
She paused. It was a long, hard pause. He didn’t know what to think. He was testing the waters to see if she was still in it or if the fire was gone, but either way he expected her to want them to be close again.
“Is it bad that I feel the same way?”
“What? Is it bad that you feel the same way? Yeah, that’s bad! But shit, what’s worse is the fact that you didn’t tell me sooner!”
“I just don’t think we’ve been on the same page recently. I’ve had to work a lot, and you’ve got your art and everything. We don’t have time for each other, so maybe you’re right.”
Fuck that. He’d have dropped everything to be with her, that cockamamie suggestion was his weak attempt at manipulation, but now his emotions had built up and made it backfire.
There was another gap between their words. But it was nothing like the gap he felt between their hearts. He had wanted to have this discussion in person, but he didn’t know when he’d get the chance, so in fiery angst he had called her, knowing she was on the other side of town, but not knowing that that distance would feel infinite.
“I said I wasn’t going to do this. I said I wouldn’t cry,” She sobbed.
“Don’t cry. All I really wanted was to see what you wanted. Can you tell me what it is you want?”
“I want for us both to be happy. I just don’t think that that’s possible together.”
That was the wrong button. He realized that he didn’t want to hear what she wanted. He realized that she didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t answer his question, and now it was pissing him off, especially since all he wanted was to be with her.
“Fine then, we’re done.”
“But...” He hung up.
He looked up into the night as tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away, forcing back any emotion but rage, and then he saw her. He saw that symbol in the night that for eons had represented the feeling he had, even now, though he had just shoved it beneath a mountain of anger, frustration, and now an entire ocean of guilt. He immediately called her back.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Look. You’re everything to me and I’m just scared that I’m losing you. I’m scared that if we break up I’m never going to get over you, because I’m madly, madly in love with you. I shouldn’t have said what just I said, and I shouldn’t have tried to manipulate you into saying what I wanted. Just, please, let’s make this work.”
He waited for her response, afraid it would never come.

To be continued.




The UK puts out. This little ditty from singer/songwriter Eugene McGuinness nods to the novel American image of 50's cool, the Fonz, of Happy Days fame, and like 2009's best videos so far, is stop-motion brilliance. The sound is indie-mystic-space-punk and the lyrics are too quotable for words. Take a listen.

Eugene McGuinness's eponymous debut LP is out now via Domino Records.





These pop-y motherfuckers have been around for the past year or so in the public sphere, but MTV finally premiered the video for their single "She Loves Everybody" yesterday.

In addition to the sultry sadist depicted in the video, Pharrell loves them (and that's enough for us to hate them), suffice to say that the man has taste though.

"She Loves Everybody" EP out on Star Trak/Interscope




“Why do you always treat me like shit?”
“Because it’s so fucking easy to piss you off. All I have to do is not play into your little schemes.”
“What do you mean? These aren’t schemes! I’m asking you questions because I’m trying to get to the root of the problem!”
“What problem? I don’t have a problem.”
We have a problem. A few, actually. And one of them is that you treat me like shit.”
“If I treat you like shit, then how do you treat me?”
“I dunno. Nicely! When you want something, I get it, when you feel bad, I’m there for you.”
“Yeah, you know, maybe you’re making it too easy.”
“Making what too easy?”
“Making it too easy for me to walk all over you. I want someone I can play emotional ping-pong with. Not someone who fucking worships me.”
“I do not fucking worship you! Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Then what do you call it when you wait on me hand and foot, call me every four hours, buy me shit all the time?”
“Genuinely caring about a person, maybe!? Being involved in a relationship!? Geez! If you want me to pull back a bit on the affection, just fucking say so.”
“...You’re not going to cry now, are you?”
“Maybe, why? Was that your plan this whole time? Getting me to cry?”
“God, you’re ridiculous! Shut the fuck up!”
“You know, you’re really sexy when you’re upset.”
“Oh, right. So we’re going to have sex and everything’s going to be fine and fucking dandy. Great.”
“...What is it that you want?”
“I want you to want me to love you.”
“You mean you want me to act like I care?”
“No. I want you to appreciate the fact that I have feelings for you, feelings that I can’t stop having, feelings that I’ve never let myself give into for anybody else, and I want you to show me that you feel something back. If you do at all.”
“You honestly believe that there’s a possibility that I’ve been pulling your chain all this time, and I don’t really love you?”
“I don’t want to admit it to myself but...”
“Are you kidding me? Last week I walked five miles in the snow to come say hi. A week before that I stopped going on facebook to prove to you I wasn’t secretly flirting with anybody. And Thursday, did you fucking forget Thursday?”
“What? What happened Thursday?”
“I spent fifty dollars of my hard-earned money to give you a nice dinner and a decent nightcap after you had ‘the worst day of your life’. Then, I took the time to walk your drunk ass home, a walk that, during which, you tried to pick a fight with a gang member, made out with a complete stranger, and yelled at me for an hour straight for saying 'maybe you're too drunk'.”
“Yeah, but I mean you’ve walked a complete stranger home drunk before.”
“Yeah, but I’d willingly do it again next Thursday with you.”
“Okay. Take your pants off. We’re having sex.”





Fredrick and Elizabeth’s first encounter was in Chicago in the winter of ‘88, at Newbury Medical Center’s maternity ward, when Fredrick’s father mistakenly pointed out Elizabeth as his son. His best friend Robert reciprocally pointed out "that baby is a girl", and that Fredrick Sr. had had a lot to drink. This was the beginning of Fredrick Sr.'s "stating the obvious is funny" phase. And though, in reality, there was no comedy, they both laughed over it.

The second was the first day of third grade, when Fredrick’s mother escorted him onto the wrong bus, and he ended up at the school across town. While waiting in the office for his mother to pick him up, Elizabeth came in to see the principal on account of the fact that she called another girl an “ugly twit”, and her teacher “had no time for such shenanigans on the very first day of school”. Elizabeth informed Fredrick of this and he laughed. Every time after this that he heard the word "twit" he felt compelled to repeat it.

The third was prom at Elizabeth’s high school, when Angela Sachs, the school’s resident wheelchair girl couldn’t get a date, so she asked a boy from her church to go with her. That boy was Fredrick. Elizabeth came with Jeremy Fischer, the linebacker from the school football team. Fredrick caught her spiking the punch and was the second to partake. Elizabeth had offered him a cup, and after he declined, she threatened to flash her boobs to the whole school if he didn’t drink it. Fredrick could not allow a girl to degrade herself that way, so he downed the whole drink while she watched. She laughed at him then made him drink more. Elizabeth lost her virginity that night, but not to Jeremy. Or Fredrick.

The fourth was in Rome where Fredrick was studying Classics and religion. Elizabeth was taking the semester off and vacationing at her aunt’s in Florence. They accidentally backed into each other while staring at the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Fredrick recognized Elizabeth and they ended up sharing a bottle of wine, which Elizabeth’s Italian plaything, Fernando bought for the three of them at a local bar. Fernando told a joke in English, but switch the first part and the punchline. They both knew the joke and decided to "ha-ha" laugh anyway.

The fifth was in Fredrick’s dream, or nightmare, rather, where he was sadistically chopping Jesus’s fingers off one by one, until he looked up and saw Elizabeth. The look of sheer horror on her face startled him awake. He laughed at the fact that Jesus was in his dream. He needed a vacation.

The sixth was at the presidential inauguration ceremony in 2009. Elizabeth saw Fredrick on the big screen and realized he wasn’t far off. So she abandoned her friends and found him near the southeast corner of the mall. She grabbed his hand and poked his forehead with her mitten-covered finger like she’d known him forever. Fredrick was surprised, but didn’t say anything. A recording of a violin played a sad melody that hovered over the crowd. Fredrick and Elizabeth's teeth chattered in the cold as they smiled about it.