In a statement that's likely to give impetus to the rapidly growing belief that I'm out of this world (down to earth on a casual conversation basis), I heart Valentine's Day!
Just kidding. Chill, I've never used the term "heart" and my masculinity will not be jeopardized in writing this blog. In fact, it will only be beefed up as I poetically share insights to the most frustrating holiday known to man.
In a time when money is tighter than Sher's botoxed face, I've decided to centralize the topic today, for the love of money, in addition to offering keen advice on how to win major points for marathon love making sessions to the break'a-break-a dawn y'all!
There's no dodging it. The economy sucks. The sagging effects of the economy even managed to hit my Monopoly board the other night. There was a housing crisis, one person collected all the money and refused to redistribute it, the $200 pass-go bailout was eliminated and the credit crunch forced me to nudge my fingers under the board and flip it with angst. I even crumpled a $500 bill and ate it to prove an immature point. I can't lose at board games. Sorry.
With that in mind, here's your guide for a recession-friendly Valentine's Dinner
First, get a napkin and write the short note: Meet me at my house, but please leave your expectations at your place.
Once she arrives, tell her your intentions to take her to a romantic candle lit dinner, but the economy has made that impossible.
Then just as the disappointment sinks in to her face, tell her not to worry since you've prepared a modest meal from the items in your house. Remind her again that it will be special, and there will still be a candlelight dinner (since you could not afford utilities this month and are currently without electricity and hot water) ...
Assure her that you're disappointed too. And then ask her to take a seat like the gentleman you are. (You sold your chairs on Craig's list, so comfort her with a pillow to sit on).
Once settled in, tell her about the appetizer dishes you've prepared. (You only had cheese whiz and some cottage cheese - which is likely curdled milk).
Build up the moment by describing reasons why she should be interested in putting bright processed cheese purchased from the gas station into her mouth. Provide evidence that it is considered a delicacy in certain countries, so by an extension of that thought, it makes it mildly exotic. If she scowls at the thought, direct her to the cottage cheese, and then bust out the emergency raisinets left over from Halloween to accompany the cottage cheese.
Be sure to thank her for bringing the wine. (Feel free to explain to her why you are drinking it from crumpled 7-Eleven paper cups fetched from the back seat of your car. You had to pawn your crystal wine glasses).
Let's head over to the main course now. Tell her you've cooked your famous shrimp scampi in a white-wine-and-garlic reduction sauce. (But it's 100 percent improvised).
Tell her she'll love the creativity in the meal, (in place of linguini, you've used ramen noodles, and you've substituted bacon bits for shrimp).
She will take one bite and certainly ask you what exactly is in it.
Tell her you didn't have any Chardonnay, so you deglazed everything in rubbing alcohol.
Begin eating, out of one large bowl (sine it's all you have) and it should add to the romance. Perhaps the both of you will even choose two ends of the same ramen noodle unknowingly and, slurping your way to the middle, your pursed lips will meet in a moment of preservative-laden bliss like Lady and her Tramp.
Remind her that the meal wasn't much, but it was prepared with love (and bacon grease because you didn't have any olive oil). This is what love is about. Love is about sticking with each other through thick and thin, through good times and bad, through wealth and agonizing, soul-crushing poverty. It's about supporting someone and not judging him, even if he has contracted scurvy and his only source of income is making regular deposits at the local sperm bank.
If she wants desert, try to avoid it (since all you have is a half eaten little debbie snack cookie from last week.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Rule #1: Money can't buy love, so if you're trying to impress her, do it the right way, like with some dope ass poetry that you've compiled from the lids of Sweet Leaf Tea bottles. Not by buying her a silver fleet yacht or a fuckin' diamond.
Rule #2: Don't ever put much emphasis in Valentine's Day. It's like the economy, except with increased diminishing marginal returns.
Rule #3: Say something genuine (with humor) at the right moment and I promise your chances for having sex will become 99 percent. What to say you ask? Figure it out tough guy, not everyone can place perfectly times comments like I can, I know.
Rule #4: Buy your Valentine the finest Swiss chocolate, but leave it in your car on purpose and let it melt. Then present the gooey gift and remind her that there's only one way to eat it: off her neck. just kidding. I'm sure there are other ways to salvage the chocolate. (no, there aren't).
Rule #5: Don't even think about doing something stupid, like serenading your valentine to Boyz II Men "Water Runs Dry" and climbing her roof and falling off in the rain. Yup. I still laugh about it to this day.
What am I doing on Valentine's Day you ask? Shiiiiiit, I don't do Valentine's Day. I did manage to find an orange Crush soda in a bottle and plan to use that as a nice subtle gift though. I know, why the fuck am I so awesome?
I've made a little play list for y'all. One that strikes the perfect balance of tender, brainy and lusty tracks, a combination designed to make both the mind and the pulse race. The play list should be at the top of this blog.
"It's the only way I can relate to Valentine's Day. It's like ESPN sports anchors telling the story of Jesus Christ through catch phrases: A good carpenter doesn't blame his tools, or No one does the voodoo like Jesus do. -- JJ McLaughlin
Since I'm not a curator of resemblance and pattern, I have to be positively tonic and unpredictable in every blog I write because somewhere along the line of life my healthy self-regard has exploded into obliterating narcissism. But it's that unpredictability that results in the pleasures of reading an exceedingly sharp pen connecting with an exceedingly inviting subject spawned out of nowhere.
Defiantly opposing repeated recourse, everything has to be new and different or I run the risk of getting bored. So it satisfies me tremendously when I write the following blog topic: JJ McLaughlin's College Application Essay, Revised (Almost 10 Years Later)
I would have little trouble convincing YOU, the reader, how amazing I am, in writing, but how would I stand at persuading an admission's director at a prestigious Ivy League college?
Let's push the envelope. I'm going to convince the admissions director to admit me, simply by explaining my hardship via a pop culture TV theme rap song.
Sure, I showcase a sharp wit in writing (thinly disguised as a dull one) that slashes with blunt slice-of-life insights and cutting remarks, sometimes nicking myself with self-deprecation in my dexterous jaunts with dopeass, mother fucking shit, but an admissions counselor doesn't care about my accomplishments in convincing girls to strip in hot tubs that contain no water. They want to hear my story of overcoming the odds. They want evidence that I've been tested in life and came out on top.
To that end, I present to you a glimmering narrative culled from the bowels of the early '90s, packed with a clobbering transformation of myself, embedded into every sentence which explodes with the delighted electricity of its creation. Enjoy.
Dear Harvard College of Fine Arts person,
I am presenting you with an autobiographical account of recent events that led to a topsy-turvy time in my life. I beg of you to remain seated as I take but a scant few moments of your time to recount how I transformed into the heir apparent of a tiny municipality referred to as Bel-Air, California.
Amidst the occident of West Philadelphia I was birthed, sprung to life and nourished. A lion's share of my youth and adolescence was consumed by the outdoor entertainment facilities at the park. Carousing with my pals, merrymaking to my maximum ability, and unwinding, I often participated in a friendly match of basketball at the schoolhouse's arena. It was during one of these excursions that a pair of rabble-rousing fellows instigated malevolence, wishing me harms and trouble. I took part in nothing but a single skirmish, yet my mother became entrenched in fear, at which point she commanded me to transfer my residence from her dwelling to that of my aunt and uncle in Bel-Air, California.
At the next moment, I proceeded to hail a taxi and, upon its arrival, I made out an inscription on the license plate that read "FRESH" and I was intrigued by a pair of dice draped over the rear view mirror. If nothing else, a claim could be made that this particular taxi was atypical; however, I came to the conclusion that recollecting this occasion in the future would be a fruitless venture, so in lieu of attempting to implant this incident within my memory, I implored the chauffeur to transport me to my destination of Bel-Air, California.
At approximately the seventh or eighth hour of the day, I disembarked and proceeded to inform the driver that I would inevitably become acquainted with his pungent odor at a later point in time. At this juncture, I looked on and beheld my new abode and came to grips with the fact that my mission to become the heir apparent in Bel-Air, California, had been consummated.
Respectfully -- Fresh Prince of Bel-Air
Post Script. I was once mandated by the harsh perils of poverty and reality to take risks and avoid law enforcement, but I gained invaluable life experience, building and developing street credibility in my business ventures and endeavors at the tender age of 15. Urged by older brethren to market and deliver an unknown product to older, wiser superiors in low lit alleyways, I have come to grips in understanding that there is always a way out. You can make 'change' happen.
I'm convinced I would strum a tender chord with this story and earn a pretentious point or two.
This is my first blog entry in far too long. In fact, I'm ashamed of my delinquency. A lot has happened recently and I have neglected you for too long. I know I promised I would write a giant end of year review ... but alas, I have failed you in meeting that requirement. But let me summarize 2008 in two sentences and we can move from there.
There were icy patches that marred life's sidewalk, but the ice in my life was much more slippery and the falls much more spectacularly funny, but now that I know where the ice patches are I'll know to avoid them. Ironically, it was the falls that made 2008 a cartwheeling year of whimsical exclamation points and joy.
I'll continue 2009 in my unbending social samurai ways, remaining mysteriously unpredictable, shrouded in pseudonyms and rumor, untouched by expectations while writing my own rules.
(I'll add a new music play list this evening. It's dope as fuck too!)
The relative flatness of the learning curve experienced when reading my dope ass blog shouldn't be looked upon as a bad thing. After all, the joy in reading it is derived from the intrinsic understanding that "dope ass" is already a byword for genius.
Sure, your chances are greater finding streaks of brilliance jolting about during a child's sugary display of Crayola poetry during nap time, but my morning bender of a dream was a cataclysmic explosion of infinitely dense matter that begged to be blogged about.
It proves that my fragmented, damaged and imaginative world of delusion and abstract thought process (while asleep and sometimes not) is something that needs to be studied by behavior scientists and such. I'm not sure what must take place during the course of your day that results in having a dream that you are a frog and your girlfriend is a unicorn. But I'm sure this has zero implication to reality. Before I tell you more about this dream, here are some sharp reviews from dream critics who explored the profound landscape of my head. My dreams are getting rave reviews.
"JJ's dreams strike a match on your eyelid and, before using it to set the cuffs of your underpants on fire, asks you to consider the color of the flame. -- Dark and Out of Nowhere
"His dreams are fatal fiber emissions that could trigger mass panic during pillow talk, whether sleeping alone or with Mother Goose." -- Fast Food Before Sleep
"They are tender moments of detached folly, loosely strung together by the thread of resignation and departure. Much like the fleeting feeling of writing an essay with no thesis in sight." -- There's No Method To My Madness
"We rarely experience a more provocative work of sexual prowess. There's a sincere magnetism that poignantly pulls otherwise unattainable women to JJ. Scenes of festive eroticism shower the viewer with sensual bliss, in which you pray that the dream never ends." -- Jizzed In My Pants
"Walking through JJ's dreams are no different than calmly walking into your family den on Christmas morning, nonchalantly asking family members if they have seen any clothes that might belong to you, since you'd be in the nude." -- Through The Halls of My High School
"Sometimes mute, and gray, the sluggish and trite meanderings soar with warnings, fraught with vague but sinister meanings that make the heart grow faint when you realize every turn brings an old familiar face. It's scary, but soothing." -- I Get Emotional In My Dreams?
"This guy is fucked up. There is no better, more apt way to say it. Fucked up." -- I Keep It Real
After undergoing an intense Q&A with my better judgment, I decided to actually turn my alarm off on my phone after it was ringing for too long. Glued to my disheveled nest of layers of bedding, I thought about how absolutely convinced I was that my girlfriend was a unicorn and I had wiry green legs and an incredible bounce to my step.
I vividly remember sitting on a park bench, talking to said unicorn, when a I asked her why she was constantly walking but getting nowhere. Upon further review, I noticed she was on a treadmill and she was wearing a cape and I had a magic marker and was drawing festive rainbows on her white coat of hair, feeding her cotton candy, too. We then galloped to a nearby civil war reenactment, where I said, "I wish I had mutton chops."
This is all I remember. I considered the meaning of this for about 30 minutes as the sun light punched me in the face. I opened my laptop and things were a little more lucid when I randomly began listening to this song that I've included with this blog. (It's long but suitable). Who the hell dreams of being a frog? More importantly, what the hell? Strange, but not so surprising.
This blog will be short and painfully sweet. So sweet that your teeth will begin to rot after reading this initial sentence. So short that you will become overwhelmed with an uncontrollable desire to weep like a baby, demanding more literary indulgences.
In fusing the scientific rigor of logic with any sentence that bursts from my mouth, one will likely roll their eyes and feel compelled to correct me in fear that my grossly mistaken take on something could be potentially detrimental to the nobility of owning a college education.
Sure, a lot of the claims I make are based on flexible fact, but I assure you when I say this: The power of the headband will consume you. (And I am NOT enrolled in aerobics class).
The following excerpt is written from the perspective of someone on the outside looking in, at me, while I'm wearing a headband. Yes, this blog is in response to someone who spread vicious rumors about me attending aerobics class.
5:30 p.m., Tuesday
You attend a core workout class at the gym (thinly disguised as an aerobics class). You are accompanying JJ because he has told epic tales of being so sore the next morning that he has considered crying in the corner of a doctor's office.
Stepping into the class, you notice the instructor (who looks like Olivia Newton-John) getting vigorous to "Physical" while wearing a headband and a leotard, and she's not sweating. Why is she not sweating? To answer this question we must reverse it and ask ourselves why JJ is not wearing a headband and a leotard and why he IS sweating?
It's clear why he is sweating. He is watching the illusion of nudity, which is the leotard and the symbolism of discipline: the headband. The instructor is doing all the work for him.
Upon further review, you notice that JJ is among only a few other men in the predominantly female class, certainly the only straight one at that. You have a sneaky suspicion that he is only attending the class to gawk at the lovely collective of female ass, when he suddenly pulls out a headband and slides it over his head. You immediately understand that JJ means business. It's going to be a serious workout.
Your initial impression that it's a low-intensity step class with high spirited gayness begins to fade away as you notice JJ squatting 900 pounds and lunging forward like it were a strongman competition. Any hope of making fun of JJ for attending a class that involved Rockette-like high kicks, hip-pivots and jazz fingers were squandered since such routines were nowhere to be found.
The song "Physical" became synonymous with promise. The guarantee that you will get the shit beat out of you in a hardcore workout. There was even a bench press portion where it appeared that JJ was raising a heavy bar to an unseen God.
But then it comes. Finally. An exercise that is questionable and involves routine and rhythm. YES! This is it! I'll be able to tell everyone that JJ does aerobics! And you glance over at JJ and it's apparent he has reservations about doing the exercise.
If we got inside his head, it probably looked like this: superego asks the id, "What are you doing? Don't make me look stupid," and then the ego and id respond, "Go lift weights, meathead. I am working out like Olivia Newton-John!"
Because he actually began doing the routine. But I suspect only because in his head, he thinks it's a core workout class and not an aerobics class.
Regardless of the class, I must admit, JJ makes it work with the headband. Even the girl next to him seems to agree as she seemingly doesn't care that he keeps sneaking peeks at her ass. I was ill prepared in not bringing my headband (or leotard) and I've come to the conclusion that there's no way I can possibly make fun of JJ as long as he's wearing head accessories that catch sweat.
Yes. To all you who think it's aerobics, I maintain that it's core training class. Unless I forget my headband. Then we might have a problem.
BUT, y'all can certainly make fun of me for wearing folded bandannas. Here's a video of me wishing I was wearing a sweatband, instead of a bandanna. Flight of the Concords styles. Only half of the spontaneous performance could be posted. Apparently YouTube can't handle the full three minutes. This was sad, since the conclusion was the best part. And something tells me I didn't exactly make this blog short.
Leveraging my status as an ambitious employee with goals is difficult to achieve since I'm more of a provocateur for handling responsibility with a sleepy conduct. To give myself some credit, I get drowsy when I'm not challenged. Don't get me wrong. I like deadlines. I also like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by, but my abject disdain for routine has forced me to enter a creative concord with my job.
It's an agreement that quietly states, "I, JJ McLaughlin, hereby promise to engage in tasks that are as preposterous as they are alluring, while at work, in order to avoid any impending slip into a profound state of sleep."
So I've chronicled my workday in crushing detail to share my penetrating ability to make flossing teeth seem more thrilling than the heavy use of recreational drugs. For all you discerning individuals who truly appreciate the elegant and visually rich format of my life and want to know more about it, this elaborate element of absurd exploration is for you.
The purpose of doing so is to prove to myself, and all of you reading this, just how rigorous and meaningful my day truly is, through a value added analysis used to measure my contribution to the workplace and society. The results are astonishing.
It's all about the details in life. I leave none of them out in this week's blog.
Starting My Morning With Spam Grammar Exercises
My day begins at 6 a.m., like clockwork. I stumble, stagger, slink and sometimes crawl into work. Communication is minimal since others are convinced I'm a zombie with the trace remnants of sleep still looming over me like a drunken man wearing the stench of booze from an all night Vegas bender. Without a heavy dose of coffee shooting through me, my grammar is a cross between peevish toddler and a drugged Yoda: "Sleepy I aaam." So I decide that I might need to wake up before I begin writing major news stories for publication.
I boil the creative juices by opening my e-mail and clicking on the Spam messages. Not only is it a real joy to the senses but it's an exercise in grammar that boosts the ego to level-20, New York Times caliber.
For example, I am able to quickly decipher the weak sentence structure of the following passive voice Spam message:
"Your balls are to be slurped by the biggest carpet munching nymphos!!!"
*It's hardly persuasive. The three exclamation points feel hollow, in an attempt by an inexperienced writer to breathe life into a desiccated construction. The active voice, however, allows you to write with straightforwardness.
I would then click on another Spam message to practice more grammar, for example, always be specific.
"In short order, you'll notice enhanced length, you stud."
The imprecision of "short order" is suspicious. Two days? One week? A year? Furthermore, avoid bankrupt modifiers such as enhanced. And stud is inaccurate. Rewrite it with exactness.
"You're exactly two days away from an 11-inch jizz stick, bitch"
Your girlfriendsd*porcupine&*!@ hot pix for <--- What does that even mean? These particular ones are hopeless exercises that I rarely spend time modifying for gain.
Playing with grammar and words takes new meaning when you edit Spam messages, however the odd exercise doesn't consume too much of my time, otherwise I might get irritable vowel syndrome and defecate incoherent sentence fragments in my work. And then ask myself, "Is my love life as good as it should be?"
I will slap myself in the face when I accidentally click on one of ads, in grave error, which will consequentially open the portal to my computer that allows extra terrestrial porn to pop up intermittently.
At about 6:30 a.m., I've typically completed that little exercise and am more awake than asleep at that point. So I open my real e-mail and look for the urban dictionary word of the day. I will scoff at it (psssh) and then unknowingly use it in conversation later.
At this point hunger will hit me so I decide I need to head down to the lunchroom for a snack in the vending machine. Of the hundreds of e-mails I receive on the hour, it's imperative to create an out of office auto reply before I leave. (No, it really isn't, but I always wanted to create one).
Unnecessary Information Revealed In An Out Of Office Auto Reply
Depending on my mood and my destination, the auto reply can vary in nature to a large degree. Since I would likely be leaving my desk for shitty vending machine food, the level of urgency might be low. I could see the auto reply read something like this:
"I will be out of the office from Dec. 8 between 6:30 a.m. to 6:35 a.m. because my youthful salary doesn't allow me the luxury of eating beyond the vending machine menu."
"I will not be available for a short period of time today but you can reach me on my mobile phone where I will screen calls aggressively and will only answer if your name is Ashley and you are prepared to apologize."
"I am out of the office handling business matters, in stall #3 of the men's room. If this is urgent, please call my assistant who might or might not be blogging about how long my bathroom visit has taken."
"From hours of 7-9 a.m., I will be too busy staring blankly at an unsharpened pencil, wondering about the existential outcome of my embittered existence as a sharp individual with dull tendencies."
"I will be out of the office for an indefinite amount of time, waiting in line at the unemployment office after encouraging a female coworker to reveal more cleavage when talking to me."
After creating an out of office reply, I head down to the first floor where I will embark on the most difficult decision I will face the entire day: Deciding what to purchase in the vending machine.
Vending Machine Executive Decision
There it stands, in all its glory. My hands, clinch the sweaty, eager quarters, preparing to make their descent into the slot of no return. I am bombarded with choices. Bullets of sweat begin shooting off my forehead. I hastily drop the money in and press F5. Yes. No. What the fuck? Do I want pop corn at this ungodly hour of the day? I dig deep from within, summoning my hunger's palate, seeking advice. The only response I receive is, "it all sounds good." Why can't I get a direct answer? I become flushed with buyer's remorse instantly after pressing F5. But thankfully, the message beeps and says $1.00 and I only entered $.75. Sigh of relief. I get fidgety and ask myself how Jesus would spend that money ... and then I postulate that home slice would probably buy shortbread and turn it into Welch's grape juice, ferment it, and then have a holiday party where everyone will love him for making the greatest snack purchase ever. I can't exactly do that. I take a step back, and examine the big picture. Twix, Butterfinger and Snickers have never disappointed me. But pastries are meant for mornings. Chips are beckoning, too. I breathe deeply because my heart is racing and my adrenal glands are on the cusp of imploding from exhaustion. In the reflection of the vending machine, I see someone walking in. I try to give the impression that I'm cool and I know exactly what I will be purchasing. I can't concentrate with someone else in the room, so I tell him the greatest lie ever to make him leave. "There's naked women upstairs ... and pizza ... and an unaccounted for $20 bill on the floor. Go get it all before it's gone," I said. Once I got rid of him I put my game face on, and realized that this is what I was hired for. I'm expected to make exceptional editorial decisions. I perform best when my back is against the wall, but why am I having a meltdown now? I turn the TV on really loud, turn the water facets on, open the fridge door, kick over the trash can, flip a table and lick other people's food in the fridge. And finally, I go with gum. Mother fucking gum.
Once I get that out of the way, I head upstairs for the editorial meeting. It's not your ordinary meeting, in my book though. I approach it like the Olympics.
Color Commentary On My Editorial Meeting Performance
Bob Costas Thirty minutes now until we see JJ McLaughlin try to medal in the elusive sport of editorial meeting commenting. First time for this event, and one that’s unfamiliar to some of our viewers. Marv, you competed briefly in this event. What should we look for?
Marv Albert Bob, this event is typically dominated by those who like to hear their own voice, or to a lesser extent, people who are prepared.
Bob Costas JJ has a unique approach to the sport. He appears, at first, almost completely ignorant of what’s happening in a meeting, often looking around with a puzzled expression.
Marv Albert It's part of his game plan. Sort of like cat-and-mouse, right?
Bob Costas No, he genuinely has no idea what is going on in the meeting.
Marv Albert He's a game changer though. Look for JJ to nudge whomever's sitting next to him and whisper something like, "What's going on?" or "Who's this Larry guy?"
Bob Costas WOW! What a clutch play by JJ! He was able to glom on to something someone said and repeat it as if it were his own thought.
Marv Albert That's what makes him so special. I talked to one of his college professors before the game who said this: "I’d never seen a student with less energy, interest, or charisma. It was almost like he was catatonic. But then, when called upon in class, he was able, at an early age, to take a fresh, cogent thought that a classmate had made moments before and restate it as if it were his own."
Bob Costas Folks, we're witnessing something historic here. It looks like JJ might be slipping into a mild slumber, and then out of nowhere he contributes to the laughter while seemingly completely missing the punchline. He does this to give the impression that he's listening and it's paying off.
Once the meeting is completed at around 9:30 a.m., I head to the bathroom, where I pontificate about the environment and how I can reduce my carbon footprint.
Bathroom Musings
Despite the large, enthusiastic strokes with which I penned my stall-door proclamation, it is debatable whether Rudy's Tacos are the best breakfast Tacos and/or whether the phone number provided will lead to a good time.
I always wonder about the literature on the hot-air-hand-dryer. The device reduces the chances of acquiring communicable diseases. It also helps save our precious trees. So, it was irresponsible of me to recommend that for more effective drying, one should instead wipe his hands on his pants. Even if this were true (a thesis refuted by industry research), the message was conveyed through large, uneven letters hurriedly written with a sharpie marker, which did nothing to suggest legitimacy. But I applaud those who think green and dry their hands on their pants.
I then look at myself in the mirror (this is done at least 50 times per day) and I remind myself that today is going to be the day that I clean up my desk.
Midday Reflections From The Fashionable Mess Of GQ Magazines On My Desk
I always look at the mess on my desk, which is a direct reflection of my life. Relax, o-harbinger-of-hastily-drawn-conclusions. My life is not a mess, at least not completely.
My desk is the unofficial portal for information relating to trends, music, style, girls and sports. So it's no surprise that it is covered with these types of magazines, periodicals and images that exemplify me, a young narcissistic individual who effortlessly persuades others to study me with a mixture of envy and desire.
Moving at a glacial pace to complete work tasks, I begin to imagine what life would be like if I parted my hair and wore nicely pressed shirts. My pillow has been my personal hair stylist for as along as I can remember. And my thrift store attire is just something that's uniquely me. I begin thumbing through some magazines. Not reading them, just thumbing them because I enjoy the feel of magazine gloss pages being sifted through by my fingers.
I always land on some pithy little article that teaches you how to dress to impress, or be the you that you want to be. I wonder if by having a more professional appearance, I might earn more money? And in case you're wondering, at this point it's lunch time, which is when I get most of my work done. The rest of the day is all down hill.
In an attempt to get more organized I make little notes and hang them on my cubicle wall, proclaiming reasons why 2009 will bring a new JJ. I run my fingers through my greasy head of unkempt hair and wonder if anyone else would ever dare wear a lilac colored hoodie on TV and get away with it. I wonder if anyone would ever want to? I wonder how important my role in the newsroom is? Would the local news world be crippled if I did not show up to work one day? Or would my coworkers throw a giant ugly sweater themed festival in honor of my absence? How do you know if you are wasting your time at a certain job? My shoe box full of business cards is collecting dust and unruly neglect. My mouse and keypad are worn and my chair has been sullied by far too many hours sitting, jockeying for that perfect position that doesn't make my legs go numb. When there is no challenge or adventure, is it the responsible thing to do to make the best of it, or is this a disservice to yourself? Considering the value added analysis is set forth initially in this blog. If it weren't for me, the vending machine would be fully stocked. The bathrooms would be free of satirical literature and phone numbers. I would not steal people's thoughts during meetings and reword them and. Society might still be able to function. I am confident in saying that much.
So what do I bring to the workplace and society?
I don't know. Like an acoustic citizen of soft strumming words and ideals with a penchant for hushed and languid tunes, I'm just gonna sit on it for a bit and let it play out in folk like harmony.
Before you make a lewd gesture (hand job motions and the like) at this little reflection, just know that I make the best of it all. You will never find me complaining about anything.
This concludes the dispatches from my work desk. I know I only went halfway into the day, but my work day ends at 3 p.m. anyways. Oh - and if by chance, one of my work superiors happen to read this, consider this posting the greatest stretch of the imagination ever told.
I was going to write an "All things considered year-in-review" this blog, but I'll write that at the end of this week. It goes without saying that it will be a super extraordinary collection of life enhancing musings that will surpass your compendium of dream-fulfilling amazements. Get ready for it.
After reading the subject title and jeering at the image above, one might draw crippling conclusions. The kind that could undermine the venerable achievements I've made while celebrating my manhood in this blog. Therefore, it is with critical care that I preface this entry by saying you are impossibly wrong.
Any presumptuous declarations made about me becoming a sensitive man should be treated not unlike a vicious rumor that involves playing leap frog with a mythical Unicorn pet. Reputations become deflated for life after people learn of such tendencies.
Irony has more resonance than reason, therefore I'm embracing my sensitive side for this blog, on this one occasion only. It's been promised by a female collective that opening myself up and broadcasting my vulnerabilities to the world-wide-web will create a gleam of disbelief that will ooze with incredible joy for readers from afar. This promise also maintains that I will acquire instant accreditation as a premier authority in heterosexual comfort. I wish I could paint this blog pink and decorate the interface in such a way to go all out in being sensitive. I'm so painfully, profoundly self-aware (some may say narcissistic, but that's neither here nor there) that I can't even express emotion without being self-deprecating. But I will try.
With that said, I will address central themes of emasculating tenderness that I have sidestepped with emotionally inept grace for the majority of my adult life.
These topics of discussion include what happens to me emotionally and physically when I pick up a puppy, love letters written to old tacos, my journal entry if I were a 14-year-old girl, music heard while rainbow watching, NBA Jam poetry (the arcade edition), a guide to being a gentlemen around wild beasts, and the anatomy of a romantic walk.
The high quantity of mojo that typically bulges from this blog, like a rippling bicep, will be reduced this week. But for good measure. I'm about to explore my feelings like an adventurous Magellan navigating his adolescent youth, touching himself while dancing between earnestness and satire. Let's Go! (*Note There really won't be any touching, other than hearts and souls. Zing!)
A Love Letter Written To A Two Day Old Taco, Now Gone
I was told it would never last. People advised me you had expired, too old for my years, but you, spicy supreme taco, are my Demi Moore. Your seasoned age and beef reminds me that everything is better with thyme. After all, it is the spice of life.
When I first met you, I was younger, (two days younger) and more naive, sure. I figured everything not fresh tasted bad. I was wrong. I tried you on a whim. You didn't seem like anything special. But you were available, and I was hungry. So I picked you up, oblivious to the delight you would bring to my inexperienced mouth.
The second your stale tortilla met my lips, I knew there was no turning back. People scoffed when they saw me holding you next to my mouth, ravaging you in a public display of affection. I overheard, "That's sick" and "He's desperate and really hungry" but I paid no attention to it. I didn't see them with a taco in their hands, so they were simply jealous.
The limp lettuce and blackened avocado spilled from your folded glory, but that just reminded me that you've been around the block (or on the counter) and are full of wisdom and experience. I admire that. Some say because you have been left unattended for far too long, that you are damaged goods, and that you no longer have that youthful crease that tightly holds everything together. I love bohemian messes though, and you remind me of wryly disaffected, sloppy art.
It was a short lived affair, but I loved it while it lasted. Sure, I can go out and get another cheap taco, late at night from Taco Bell in some dark, shady area of town, paying next to nothing for instant pleasure, but I'm not exactly into that. I am not morally derelict. I have standards and I'm afraid what I might catch, eating something from the East side that's not fresh. No telling what happens to old food from there. Ebola, SARS, or venereal diseases abound. But you satisfied me in my rage of hunger and desperation. Don't let anyone tell you differently. You tasted just fine and you rekindled a flame in allowing me to eat to my heart's content.
-- signed, Two Day Rule
Walking You Through My Romantic Walk
Considering I've never taken one, I was wondering how far one's testicles would have to ascend in order to achieve moving from point A to Point B, romantically on foot. I'm sure if I were to experience a romantic walk it would involve a crisp fall morning, with cobalt blue skies rolling in like a Pacific tide crashing gently. The sun would swell over the horizon as the mild air fills with newborn baby joy. Birds would be crooning and rabbits would be procreating openly. A Polaroid perfect setting so lovely (fuck yes I said lovely!) that I will be inspired to write Chuck Norris erotica, but I won't. (I would want to, badly though).
Then I'll look at the crook of my arm (you know, the bending nook between the bicep and forearm muscles) and ask the rhetorical question, "Why the hell would anyone wanna be anywhere else other than in my arm?" If the back of girls' necks were made of metal, the crook of my arm arguably had more magnetic pull than gravity.
I would extend my arm and begin said walk, with the lucky girl through the park, (only because the beach was not available) and I'd begin with a slow steady pace, paying close attention to nothing but what's locked in the crook of my arm. Girls seeking a romantic walk appreciate subtle details of life, like the endearing mispronunciation of words, sand between their toes, and intoxicating rose scents. I will bring none of these to the table. Working to not bring up the weird thoughts that bounce around my head is challenging enough. It's key to repress my thoughts because they would squander any romantic mood, instantly.
I would try to think about romantic things, like French mustaches, French wine, French kisses, French vocabulary, French horns, and triumphant lyrics stolen from Cold Play but alas, all I will be able to think about is an episode of MTV's "Best Week Ever" and the events from the night before that involve ping-pong thunder shorts and doing cartwheels in them. This will inevitably prevent me from experiencing a romantic walk.
It would prove to be a futile effort after she complains about my arm creating a lot of sweat and discomfort on the back of her neck. As a result, I will get slightly embarrassed, but more amused, and feel compelled to place her in a headlock and begin a moderate power walk, thus ending any hope of being romantic. Days later, I will remind myself that I actually tried to experience a romantic walk. I will then be flushed with shame and remorse. This secret would then be blogged about on my own accord, haphazardly, because I have no shame.
When Obsessive Behaviors Demonstrated Towards Your Emotions Get Creepy
Calling your common sense and hanging up, repeatedly. Driving by your sense-of-humor's house at 2 a.m. Leaving unsigned notes on your grief's car while it is at work. Following your bliss home, late at night. Writing long 'I-hate-you' letters to your anger, then tearing them up. Spreading rumors about your sympathy. "Bumping into" your compassion at the store and getting a cheap feel. Calling the police and reporting your curiosity for animal abuse.
My Secrets Revealed, Minus the Details I've sat through an upholstery class. I've asked myself before "What would Martha Stewart do?" to escape a baking debacle. Girls need to challenge me. In Checkers. Or riveting thumb wars. Or trivial pursuit. My goal in life is to climb a mountain - not Everest - without the slightest urge to write a book about it. I've watched scrambled porn for longer than 15 mins. before. I've sacrificed a goat and summoned Satan with a cowbell (joking). I'm slightly less threatening than a Care Bear, thus I have never been challenged in a fist fight. But that doesn't mean I'm not intimidating in other ways. I monitor my heart rate for reasons not relating to health. There's something endearing about awkward moments. I know more about the plot to MTV's the Hills than I should.
Effects of Picking Up A Puppy
The most jarring sign that my sensitive posturing has interfered with my masculinity was evident when I said the word 'cute' which was followed by ridiculous baby talk. It was a puppy that caused me to do it, too.
Furthermore, the reactions I experience when coming within a five-feet radius to puppies is debilitating. Puppies can turn a grown man into an irrational wheezing wimp. I'm allergic to dogs and swell and scratch more than a DJ without Benadryl when they lick me, too. I also don't openly profess my emotions.
So when I picked up a puppy recently, I died. Yes. Died. Keeled over, physically. Gasping for air. That was after I felt an overwhelming desire to thumb through a Crate & Barrel catalog and point out "fantabulous" and "adorable" home furnishings. Using suspect vocabulary I've never been able to incorporate into any sentence before, I felt like giving everyone hugs and licking their faces, much like the way a puppy might. Damn puppies!
I've made the most diminutive gestures of compassion towards puppies in an attempt to breathe normally and stave off my asthma. Not to mention not get all mooshy when I hold one. I maintain this to be ironclad when I say puppies bring out the worst in me.
Taming the Beast: A How-To Seduction Guide, Told From the Perspective of A Gentleman
Fellas, we all have that inner beast that tends to get out of control at times. You know, you let your emotions get the best of you in a fit of rage, or a display of inappropriate behavior around the ladies, or perhaps you simply look like a beast. Well, this is something you might be interested in then.
The goal of this excerpt is to remind everyone that I am a distinguished gentleman of refined character and manners, and not a pig. But if I were a wild boar, pig, warthog, or any other type of swine that wallows in its own feces and says the wrong things to court girls, then this might be a guide on how to correct everything.
When situations permit, and you are at a bar full of wild animals, stop and ask yourself what it would require to not come across as a pig. For example, the Bengal tiger sitting with its legs crossed is not suggesting anything to you. Sure it will be alone, not talking to anyone, surveying the scene coyly like the predator it might be , but refrain from accidentally brushing your arm against its fury leg when you walk by. Simply say hi instead. Do not mention you are tired of relationships and only want to share moments. Do not ask if the tiger needs a ride home, no matter how attractive her striped coat might be. You're a gentlemen, not a pig, remember?
Or the panther across the room. You don't need to be discreet, but don't gawk either. Buy the panther a drink, not to lower its inhibitions, but to talk. Flaunt your comfort with commitment and your desire to be fiscally stable by offering another drink. Spark a conversation about the inaccurate portrayals of panthers in Disney cartoons like the Jungle Book. But then say you need to leave soon after its tail rubs your leg. Tell it that it was a pleasure talking. Do not mention what you've heard about panthers being known as experimental and borderline degrading in the bedroom. You pig. Don't do it.
Then there's the African elephant taking up the entire bar. The fact that you approach it speaks volumes that you're making giant strides in not being a pig. Get an elephant smiling and you've got it loving you. Feel free to compliment its three exquisite toes on its hind legs. They like that. Also, mention how an elephant never forgets a friend, and that its just made one more.
Finally, the lemur. Its been following you the entire night. Its had its eyes on you. They are incredibly shy. You will have to do all the talking. Just be a gentleman and write a poem on a napkin. It might reach for it slowly with its tiny paws and stick it in its mouth. Don't embarrass it by laughing. Instead pet it with your index finger. All the lemur wants to do is snuggle. Give a sigh of contentment and take the lemur out for lunch sometime.
And there you have it. Fellas, being a pig gets you nowhere. Unless you want to put yourself in the "smokes more than one pack a day" subgroup. Have sex in public. Tell the doctor you don't need your liver. Buy a motorcycle. Get married in a chapel on the outskirts of Reno. That is the life of a pig. You're better than that.
My Music Play list If I Were An Unused Broken Crayola
Since this is a blog pertaining to my feelings, I have selected various songs that reflect colorful walks down Lolly Pop Lane and everything you would expect to find on a more sensitive guy's play list. But the music is still dope shit, so don't even trip.
NBA Jam Poetry Expressed In A Break Up (The Arcade Edition
Not sure how to end a relationship when I was 15, I took an ex to an arcade because it was the most reasonable thing to do. I dropped my quarters into the machine. I removed my jacket and pulled out a rose when my ex-girlfriend looked at me in terror and disbelief. She saw it coming. I challenged her to NBA Jam.
"Razzle-dazzle," to thine own heart of exaggerated hoops be true, "He's on fire", with unlimited turbo and 360 head-over-heals slam dunks, "Boom-Shaka-Laka", tossing flaming balls, impossible to miss, I bid you adeu, "At the buzzer", the first half ends, your heart still jumps, "Is it the Shoes?" begs the question of my greatness, in our affair of two-on-two, "Nail in the coffin", our love is done, with no refs or fouls, I steal your heart, Fade away jumper, "nothing but net" and sadly we part, Seconds are waning, I ascend for a "Monster Jam", buzzer sounds and I freeze in mid air Get thine self a rebound or two, get over me, I dare
Excerpts From My Journal If I Were A 14-Year-Old Girl
Dear Diary,
I like chocolate. I feel fat. I'm like so sad, and maybe a little fat. Why is homeroom class so boring? I think I have cankles but so does my BFF Sarah. I think she's fatter than me. And more pimply. She totally has cankles too. I hate her. She smells like a humpback whale. I think I'm going to spread rumors about her having an eating disorder. I can't wait to get my braces off. Maybe the 9th grade boys will notice me. Maybe I'll get a boyfriend then. I'm pretty, and in shape, why aren't guys checking me out? Rugby practice was so fun today. I think I can leg press more than some of the guys now. Coach asked why I shaved my head and I was like, "fuck off". But I was so awesome at practice, that Julie kept butt slapping me. I've never had a guy's hand touch my ass before, but girls are kinda cool. I wonder if she's having anther sleep over this weekend. I wish I had boobs. I'm so emo.
Love,
Gertrude
Thanks For Comin' Out!
So there it is people. The longest blog ever, and you can no longer say I'm an emotional rock. My sensitivity and masculine sides were drawn together like darkness to a single, flickering candle flame that's lit by lightning flashes of humor. Yup. Not everyone can pull that shit off either.
Few things belong together like peanut butter and jelly, which, when placed face to face, meld like an almost sexual union of opposites. Sticky and sweet no longer compete, but instead congeal into a mortar that warms the roof of the mouth while plugging the gaps in the heart's levee. The snack sandwich a giggling brother and sister share after Mom has cut off the crusts. That, my friend, is essentially what this blog entry is ... peanut butter and jelly ... emotional and masculine fornication. WORD!
Dope ass shit, at its finest. Look for another blog to be written this Wednesday. Oh and if you're wondering, my pet unicorn's name is mythdemeanor. It's a tough-guy unicorn.
Why is this blog so dope? It would be mad foolish of you to chide this question by rolling your eyes, since the pleasure of habitually returning here lies in my exuberant refusal to give a damn. I know that sounds self-absorbed and bent with attitude, but I feel I have established a grand reputation of boisterous bravado that can not reasonably be matched.
It's a characteristic that affords me the luxury of not having to answer such mindless questions that birth obvious answers pertaining to why this blog is strikingly dope. In case you were wondering though, the dial-tone you hear when reading this blog is just a reminder that it's off-the-hook. But if you are genuinely seeking an answer to the posed question, let me redirect you to an in-depth explanation to the hype that surrounds this blog, as follows.
You already know this, but I'm equal parts brash ego, miscalculated intellect and mild self-deprecation, congealed into a form of intoxicating sophistication that exudes triumphantly. Like a waft of sample cologne lifted from the pages of GQ magazine during a glorious session of joyous bowel music played while sitting on the toilet. (Crucial and clutch, more than a welcome reprieve, too).
Yes, I smell good. And I deliver punchlines faster than FedEx but more importantly, unlike other blogs, I don't blow hot air like an A/C with no freon. I'm a rich source when it comes to recognizing original items of interest and sharing bizarre thoughts in great detail. In short, I am here to help you enjoy life by inviting you to spend several unfiltered minutes with me because you won't get this shit anywhere else.
Since this is the hype issue, I'm writing this afternoon to detail recommendations about things, from film, music, hairstyles, food, zombie strippers, activities and other fucking rad (don't hate, I like the word) things to help provide material to talk about when standing around at a party. The astronomical capabilities that these recommendations of wicked wit and abstract rumination have will devastate you. I simply ask that you discard your perfunctory desire to stimulate yawns. This is the hype entry, so get excited!
When it comes to hype, or the next big thing, I'm going to assume that you are inconceivably clueless. Continuing that thought, it's safe to say a lot of people rely on me when things aren't exactly fruitful, lively, or wildly ridiculous. My hunch is they're too busy getting inhaled face first by the mammoth monotony associated with the dull duties of everyday life, which takes you to a place of boredom. Pardon the unexpected element of offensive charm that just slapped you but you can't deny it all either. You want what's real, what's hip and what's edgy.
Here's a complete guide to my own recommendations to things. Again, I'm operating off the theory that your interests are about as exciting as long division. Do the math, it's a formula for basking in Napoleonic splendor if you heed to my recommendations.
The Girls Will Flock
If you're a barista, the girls will hunt you down. I highly suggest picking up a second job at a coffee shop, where your time will be well spent growing massively pretentious and incredibly nonchalant to issues not relating to bikes. Girls love bike-sexuals, and by working as a barista you will join the bike-sexual ranks which teeters on the brink of gayness but doesn't quite fall in. Your skinny pants dreams, ironic T-shirt acceptance and inner 'litster' (hipster + literature nerd) will be realized.
Just imagine, sitting in epiphany chairs, writing poetry and reflecting to the dripping sound of coffee and art rock music. And if the mood strikes, you can juggle stale scones and make ostrich sounds for no good reason, too. Girls dig the guy who serves specialized premium imported coffee that contains Arctic seal tears and goat sweat because it makes them Indie as fuck. Girls also love a guy who can make a mean prune punch that purges sin and a soy sock-it-to-me estrogen extravaganza that will polish your aura.
A girl's level of attraction sky rockets when she finds out that you have grand ideas that will never materialize or that you won't even remotely come close to an attempt at achieving them. And she will literally be eating out of your hand, like a perched bird of song, exposing colorful plumage when she finds out that you are a talentless writer or musician.
And I know you're flattered that your picture is posted here, but that's my soaring bird camera pose and I would like it back, please. Were you aware you have a giant coffee ring on your shirt? Jokes.
Urban Slang
At the corner of childish 'your mom' jokes and clever 'that's what she said' commentary sits a pensive library of urban slang that I have created and its gaining heavy rotation among gangster rap circles. The coinage 'That's what your G said' is a response to a female who is acting 'bootchy' (bitch + scary jock itch). G refers to a Gynecologist. Here is an example illustrating how an expression is used in everyday conversation as well as cautionary note for crude, inflammatory, or taboo expression.
Hoodrat: "Daaauym, Oh-no-you-DID'UNT white boy! You stepped on my Pumas. It's about to get ugly up in this bitch!" Non-hoodrat: "That's what your G said."
Refrain from using this expression when an incident like such actually happens. Because she will actually go and get her G to kick your ass.
Another term that will earn you points in conversation is 'Kumquat glory', which refers to a man shoving oblong shaped vegetables with weird names down his pants in an effort to subdue excitement that may have developed after a graphic joke about forbidden fruit. It's the new ice water down the pants.
I'm not a fan of rinsed out sayings or terms that are sanitized, like 'frack' therefore I fostered a tendency to say 'fuck yes' in celebratory fashion. That term speaks volumes.
The next time you feel compelled to hang out with morbidly obese, gay rappers don't hesitate to toss around the word 'flabulous' like a hot tater tot. And spell it out in song, too. This term needs no explanation.
And remember to always make a fashion statement when in the presence of rappers. Rock a midriff (belly exposed like whoa) knitted, sleeveless sweater with patterns of kittens playing with yarn balls on them.
Fashion
Fashion trends come and go, but here's a trend hasn't come yet and once it arrives, it won't leave. This trend stands alone, conspicuously, yet unaware of itself, like the owner of an ambitious comb over trying to sneak under the radar.
Keeping in mind that I fuse together the right amount of raw eccentricity and self-awareness, I'm projecting that a big trend in men's attire this year will be actually wearing men's attire, instead of raiding your little sister's closet for apparel. Just kidding. Dudes will still shop with revolting homosexual tendencies. I submit to you that wearing decorative pantyhose for men is the next big thing. It's called eMANcipate, if you will, and I hear truckers from afarare calling it the most badass accessory since their hats were featured as hot items of the moment. Truckers say they wear pantyhose during long drives because it feels good, but c'mon, it's for style.
When it comes to hairstyles, shiiiiit, I haven't cut my hair for a sick minute but the cool thing to do these days is to have an erroneous conversation with your hairdresser when explaining to them the style of cut you want. For example, when people pay more than $50 for a haircut at some snooty designer place, they are secretly saying, "If you could make it hard for me to appear in public, that'd be great!" or they genuinely want to look like a clown's apprentice. Art haircuts are awesome! Don't you love it when you ask for a simple cut and hairdressers interpret that to mean you want the style that would emerge if you combined feces and shorbet ice cream. I suggest you get an art hair cut by some girl who sees everything in abstract and prefers to work in the dark.
Recreation
Stoked by sheer pluck, determination and the magical properties of my wayward imagination, I have crestfallen ass first into a new sport that involves grabbing my crotch upon victory and requesting opponents to suck the nether region, while flipping heavy desks, and barking out an offensive play calling cadence that says "I-Quit-42, Blue 42" SET-I-QUIT!" It's called 'Desk Rage' and it's quite fun and exciting to play, though you can only compete while at work.
Another activity I find myself doing that's gaining ground among the kids these days is losing personal belongings like phones, wallets, ID and money, and organizing the largest search and rescue mission possible, only to reach a bitter and disappointing end when you discover that it was lurking in your back pocket the whole time. The neglected back pocket on your left butt cheek. This activity is most often enjoyed when swilling massive amounts of alcohol. Fun little drinking game that's ironically more fun when you suspect your ID is being couched by zombie strippers at da' club. No comment.
Finally, I offer to you the entertaining activity of listening to me. This form of entertainment has its pros and cons, but it's important to note that my sartorial infractions squander the negative eminence. Want to talk about Obama and how a black man has just received the nation's worst job? Great! How about you listen to me explain the super string theory about no-strings attached relationships? Or maybe we can talk about other geometrical shape love relationships that don't include triangles. You love candy corn too? What the fuck's up with their new album?
What can I say? People listen to me. I can tell you to wear a kangaroo jump suit to work and stuff your Joey pouch with marsupial feces and you'd do it, if it were written in this blog, at least I hope so. There is no limits to my demands. I mean, I once ended a relationship by hand picking a guy for her to date, and she did. Word!
By now everyone is familiar with the hype cycle. You know the drill: the ginned-up enthusiasm of publicists combines with word of mouth (and blog) to create something not unlike a baby
Articles appear, posing one of three questions. For the new artist: Is this the next big thing? For the established artist: Will stratospheric expectations be met? For the figure whose stock is down: Can a comeback be staged?
As for my music. I'm listening to too much, that I don't even know where to begin. I'll add that shit later today. The next blog will be up in a few days. Yes, really this time. I will post again this weekend. By popular demand, I'm not even joking about that. Shit, someone even asked to contribute to this blog. My own contributor! So to answer the question, fuck yes this blog is dope!
Time to go eat, the newest flavor of food that you've never had:
There's no dodging it. The economy sucks. The sagging effects of the economy even managed to hit my Monopoly board the other night. There was a housing crisis, one person collected all the money and refused to redistribute it, the $200 pass-go bailout was eliminated and the credit crunch forced me to nudge my fingers under the board and flip it with angst. I even crumpled a $500 bill and ate it to prove an immature point. I can't lose at board games. Sorry. 
Assure her that you're disappointed too. And then ask her to take a seat like the gentleman you are. (You sold your chairs on Craig's list, so comfort her with a pillow to sit on).
Rule #1: Money can't buy love, so if you're trying to impress her, do it the right way, like with some dope ass poetry that you've compiled from the lids of Sweet Leaf Tea bottles. Not by buying her a silver fleet yacht or a fuckin' diamond. 
