The Break-Up

20nothing.com has quit this bitch and moved on. Just like Brad did to Jennifer.
It has been fun wordpress.com. It’s not you. It’s me.
Ironically, it is my longest relationship yet.
But never fear – just like a hangover, 20nothing isn’t going away. To keep viewing, please skip on over to www.20nothing.com and read all about my one night stand with Zac Efron.

Fuck Me I’m Stupid.

Whenever I am reminded that Germany onceuponatime tried to take over the entire world, I think, “Seriously? How can anyone be that stupid?” And then I remember that I once got one mark out of a possible twenty on an exam purely because I remembered to write my name on it and I realize that no matter how capable you perceive yourself to be, you are still just a human being that makes really stupid mistakes.

When you attend a university that uses beer as a religion, it is blasphemous to not drink at every possible moment. I once took a flask of scotch to the library because I thought it would help me study. And then I realized that, no, alcohol actually makes me stupid and I have an overflowing file of instances to prove it.
Like the time I lost my shoes in a river and then literally ran into my professor while doing the walk of shame barefoot;
Or the time I put aluminium foil in the microwave;
Or the time I went looking for a bathroom in a boyfriend’s house and walked straight into his parent’s bedroom. Naked.

My girl friend and I decided that the smartest thing we could do was see how much alcohol we could consume before going out in public.
“We are going to have the BEST night!” we boasted and then toasted.
Three hours later my shirt was falling off and I was making out with a boy on a podium who had taken it upon himself to self-style his own shirt into something that can only be described as a “midriff”.
“Who the Hell was that?” My girl friend asked when we realized that another shot was the smartest thing we could do to improve the perception of us in public.
I had no idea what his name was and then remembered that I had previously met someone hotter and younger who I desperately wanted to kiss.
“Come and meet my friend Nick!” I dragged her across the bar.
“Hi, my name is Sam,” He told her.
I ignored the apparent need to make potential dates wear name-tags and started making out with him immediately. After twenty minutes (or maybe an hour. Or a week. Who knows?) of dry humping him against the wall next to a pool table, he thought I was an appropriate person to introduce to his own friends.
“Sall, this is [Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy Who Has Every Right To Think I Am A Dick].”
I have always been interested in what my reaction to shitting myself in public would be. I now know.

After I successfully destroyed any chance of the first boy I have [really, really, really] liked in almost two years seeing me as anything other than something that must be sprayed with bug killer, I fell outside to have a cigarette.
Sam, for reasons I will never understand, followed me.
“How do you know [Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy Who Has Every Right To Think I Am A Dick]?”
I have never before been in a situation where a possible fuck buddy turns into a therapist.
“He is my crush. And I already destroyed the chance of him being anything more than that at the beginning of the week. And now This. So now I simply must go and stick my head in an oven or drink detergent.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he encouraged, ignoring that fact that I was beyond controlling it. “Just go and talk to him and explain yourself. You can fix it.”
I have never before been in a situation where a possible fuck buddy turns into my pimp.

Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy Who Has Every Right To Think I Am A Dick walked away after only a minute of me digging my own grave.
“That was kind of rude,” my boy friend scoffed.
“Yeah. How dare he walk away from the girl who has yelled at him, accused him and then later made out with his friend?”
The truth is, I would have walked away from me to. I am grateful that he gave me even a second of his time.
“I think I have turned asexual,” I drank more. “Because I fucked my own life.”

I held onto the bar, metaphorically drinking straight from the bottle, watching Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy Who Has Every Right To Think I Am A Dick and his friend make out with new girls right in front of me. I left because even I knew that staying any longer was stupid and a mistake.
The next morning, after I realized I was still drunk and had run directly into a wall on my skateboard, I crawled back into bed and accepted the fact that I single-handedly made someone I like hate me. I have always wondered what that would be like. I know now.

Clothes Pony.

When I was two years old, I made AM late for her one-day-a-week of work.
“What happened to you?” Her boss asked when she finally arrived flustered sometime after midday.
“I just wrestled with a toddler over what she would wear to preschool.”
“Why didn’t you tell her what to wear and just put it on her?”
“I tried. But she refused.”
Meanwhile, I was relaxing in story time wearing the eclectic mix of a Cinderella costume with gumboots and a straw hat.

RG has raised me to believe that people judge books by their cover and therefore I should brush my hair.
“Hygiene is not just a tall girl,” he said to me every morning of my childhood when I refused to have a shower or take off my Batman shirt for the eighth day in a row.
I, however, live by the belief that life is too short to waste time standing in front of a mirror with a straightening iron and like to grab the closest shirt possible when I wake up in the morning, forced to go out in public.
“Did you pay good money for the rips in those jeans?” He asked one day when I was getting dressed to go to a job interview.
“No. They are just old. And one sudden movement away from becoming curtains.”
On the random occasions that I have been forced to go somewhere formal, I feel like a lady if I remember to wear underwear and look in awe at the women who know how to curl their hair.

Sometimes I wish I was one of those girls who can wear white and not spill on it or spend an entire day concreting (or similar) and never get a hair out of place. Instead, I buy cheap white shirts because I know that with my hand-eye-coordination they are going to have the life span of about six weeks. I once believed by friend when She told me that girls get their hair shiny by putting glue in it.
“How can someone who understands Logical Mathematics get herself into this situation?” AM asked, perplexed, as she massaged conditioner into my head to save my hair from being shaved off.

When Mary-Kate Olsen started dressing as a hobo, I felt like someone finally understood me.
“I want to be a bag lady,” I told hairdressers when they tried to put something called conditioner into my hair. They would always avert their eyes to my ironic Fendi bag and misinterpret my instruction.
I loved that there was a female ambassador for looking like a derelict and when She landed on the front cover of Vogue, I officially threw away soap.
“This is nothing to be proud of,” AM scoffed.
Meanwhile, I relaxed in a university lecture wearing tracksuit pants and three hundred dollar shoes.
“It doesn’t make sense,” she shook her head.
Some things are beyond logic.

One of my biggest fears about growing up (aside from an increasing age gap between me and twenty-year-old boys) is the idea that We have to dress our age. I get flustered when I am told that certain aspects of appearance are age specific and it is not acceptable to wear a cartoon T-shirt to work. I could not be told what to wear as an infant, so an employer doesn’t have a shot in Hell of convincing me that a uniform is more appropriate. If I had a Fairy Godmother, I would ask her to destroy the concept of acceptable dressing instantly because Lady GaGa’s efforts are taking too long and I may have to seek employment long before it is universally acceptable to not wear pants.

I was holding onto a bar after drinking too much at it when a boy approached me. He was wearing a suit and had shiny hair.
“Are you wearing a parka and high heels at the same time?” He asked.
“Yes I am.”
“OK,” he looked me up and down. “It kind of looks stupid.”
He asked for permission to buy me a drink but I refused.
Life is too short to spend time with people who will judge a book by its cover.

I Want You!

I once told a boyfriend that I didn’t need him, I wanted him. What followed was an education on how to throw a brilliant passive aggressive tantrum. I took notes, packed a lunch and calmly waited it out.
“Do you want to stay over?” I asked when I thought enough time had passed for him to grow the fuck up.
“Do you need me to or do you want me to?”
“Well…I don’t necessary need to have sex and you are making it easy for me to not want to have sex with you, so I don’t really know…”
I went to sleep alone that night reading a childhood copy of a Babysitters Club book while wondering why something I thought to be positive was such a non-negotiable negative to someone else.

I have always fantasized that in the event I Do/Date/Divorce Prince Harry, The News Of The World can print pictures of us drunkingly falling out of a club under the headline “When Harry Met Sally”.
“If I believed in fate, that would encapsulate it,” I told my girl friend.
“What? Billy Crystal and fake orgasms?”
“I have faked orgasms with someone who sold ice cream for a living. I would have no ethical problem faking it for a prince.”

People fake entire relationships. My parents, for example, continue to maintain that we are biologically related. I have had so few boyfriends in my life because of an inability to pretend that I am That into someone if I am really not and, let’s be honest, other peoples inability to spend an extended amount of time with me.
“If I want to be with you, it means I have acknowledged the possibility of one day falling in love with you,” I have said. “I don’t play pretend.”
My relationship number is so low because I simply don’t need a boyfriend, while my magic list number is much higher because I am proud to acknowledge that I occasionally do need to get laid.

My boy friends continuously tell me that boys want to be needed.
“But I don’t need them,” I insist.
“That doesn’t matter. Pretend that you do.”
“So…lie?”
“I am just telling you how it is…”
“That it would be better to play pretend than enjoy your own company?”
“Do you want to get laid forever or not?”
I do. That is why I am single. Who knows who my next great sex will be?

Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy I Probably Should Never Have Talked To has [unfortunately] joined the list of boys who only needed to exist for twenty minutes in my life rather than become the one I want to exist for much longer. The honesty between us appears to have been on a “need to know” policy and, as I don’t want to deal with drama in the birth of a relationship, I realized that I also didn’t need to.
“That sucks. I am sorry,” one boy friend appeared to be genuinely sympathetic.
“It is OK. I am disappointed but it isn’t the end of the world.”
“So…Who do you want now?”

Human beings have a bizarre obsession with maintaining the status quo or accepting scenarios because they are told they are normal. If this mentality was successful, royalty would still only be allowed to marry royalty and I would not have a shot in Hell of ever being a princess. Instead, evolution of thought and society has been the successful route paved by people who say, “What the fucking fuck? No, I’m sorry. Not cool.”
Whenever I am told that men don’t want strong women, or that honesty is not the best policy or that people should change want they want just so they can have a relationship, I have to wonder what peoples standards for themselves actually are. It isn’t simply gender specific and I refuse to believe that any man worth dating (hello, Prince Harry) needs to feel powerful by way of being a necessity. If I was with someone because I needed to be, I would feel like I was fucking my babysitter.

Having a crush or a boyfriend can be so much fun. When you suddenly don’t have That anymore, there are many positives that exist to make what could be a negative situation much more fun, starting with the mystery of Who your next great sex will be with and even more free time to find out what You want.
I think I want ice cream.

Go Fish.

My boy friend gave me his fish to baby-sit and my mother relented after ten years of begging to say, “If you can keep It alive for three weeks, you can have a goldfish of your own.”
“I am on a reward system for a fucking fish? What am I? Eight?” I stamped my foot.
“Have you fed the other fish yet? Have you ever fed your dog? In fact, do you even eat breakfast yourself? No. Deal with it.”
She made a valid point.
I stormed to my bedroom and slammed my door while yelling, “Yeah, well, if I was allowed to drink scotch for breakfast you know I totally would!”

Archimedes somehow survived and I am now the proud mother to my first batch of adopted children, Maddox and Zahara. My bedroom is now the location of fun game called Who Will Die First?

Being a single-mother-of-twins means that I now must stay in, cook organic food, be caring and meditate or similar. I was doing just that by sitting on the couch next to the fish, eating organic cookie dough straight out of the packet and watching “Taken Out”, a new cable dating show. My fish were bonding in their near-by tank while I was in a trance at the level of stupidity being displayed by my peers on the small screen and immediately vowed to home school any children I put in a tank in the future.

One night, my friends and I were exhausted by the dramas of our own lives so we played The Game Of Life.
“The only way I want a kid-thing if I adopt a seventeen and a half year old, spend six months teaching It everything I know and then can take It out for a drink,” I declared as my little board game car quickly filled up with fictional children. I continuously landed on the most matrimonial of boxes and realized that while playing a game, my life doesn’t go in the direction I want it to.
It was an important lesson.
I would never go on a dating show because I don’t have boobs and therefore, via the evidence I have seen, I would loose. I don’t like loosing but I hate playing dating games even more. I can’t be bothered to do it when there isn’t a camera present, so I fail to see the attraction when one is.

Over the years, I have had countless realizations that I have been played for a fool. The moment I realize that We are not on the same page is the moment I declare, “I didn’t want you to be in that pile [read: mound] of people I have only had sex with. But, you know, welcome.”
Participating in game playing means you are allowing someone else to set the standards of how you want to be treated and what you deem to be appropriate behavior. I can’t be bothered to do that with any other people, so I fail to see the attraction of doing so after sex. No one is That pretty. I don’t like dating losers but I hate being a loser even more.

Games are only fun if both people know the rules. Otherwise someone is playing football and someone is ping pong and the only result will be an unnecessary kick to the balls. The childhood game of Cowboys And Indians is a perfect example of people only being villains by perception: everyone does something bad, but everyone also has a reason to. Understanding those reasons is the challenge of a relationship, not begging someone to like you. It is the only game that should ever be played.
The truth is that any relationship worth having is easy, at least to begin with. The hard work comes eventually and even when it does, it is real. The four relationships that I have found myself in started with an attraction and days later we were sharing the same toothbrush. You can never guess what the eventual outcome will be, but those first few days are fun and only successful in the absence of a game.

Spending an evening alone is rewarding when you have to look after something other than yourself. I poured myself a scotch for dinner, started to teach Maddox and Zahara everything I know and then realized that over the years of dating, I still know very little.
“Yeah, well, if I was allowed to just play the game my way I totally would,” I enlightened.
I fed them and fell asleep satisfied that I have at least learnt something.

Living The Dream.

I walked into my kitchen and found a note.
“The car is yours for the day. Why don’t you drive to the beach, have fun with the pretty surfers and enjoy some scotch?”
I threw on my oh-so-chic denim overalls, grabbed my Marc Jacobs bag, kissed the pretty boy who was still asleep in my bed Good Bye and revved the shit out of the Mercedes until I pulled up next to someone who could play Kelly Slater’s understudy in real life…
And then I woke up.
Alone.

I once had a dream that I won lottery, cured cancer and had sex with George Clooney all in the one night. The day I had to live in reality paled in comparison and I spent every waking hour bitter that my life resembled something close to Hell but my dreams are an experiment of what it would be like to be a supermodel with a science degree.
Sitting at my breakfast table, eating Coco-Pops and wearing hot chocolate-stained tracksuit pants, I thought about how our subconscious has the power to create a far better paradigm than our conscious appears to.
It almost put me to sleep.

Last year was, for me, The Year Of Sex. From Chinese New Year, it was twelve months of fantasy, where commitment was replaced with condoms and conversation was discarded in favour of kissing. But, like the economy, the fun ended and my sex life now resembles the pound: useless to everyone involved and not worth the paper it is written on.
“I want to have a sex life like the Euro,” I told my girl friend. “That way everyone would enjoy it, somehow it would defy trends and I would be in the hands of foreign pretty people.”
Back when my love life was crashing like the US Dollar at the hands of an average American male, the idea of a relationship was a nightmare and copious amounts of sex became my crack: It felt like a dream while I was hitting it, but the next morning usually involved a heated conversation with myself and a headache.
The Dow Jones and I went down at the same time and the only thing on the up was my magic number.

In our early twenties, we wake up to the fact that we are able to control our own lives. So it comes as a shock when a situation presents itself that is foreign and out of our pretty little hands. The moment You are dumped, for example, is usually the moment that you realize how much you want Him [/Her] but now there is nothing you can do about it. You become a Wall Street broker for your own broken heart, but all the screaming in the world won’t buy the love back.
Then, whether through indulgence or sex, you get your life on track and hopefully find the power to create a far better paradigm individually than you ever did as a duo.

Casual sex is ideal because it is a practice in stern self control: You say when and then you leave. But the moment emotions become invested, the fantasy ends and real life can start.
This year has been, for me, The Year Of Honesty, where I acknowledge my own emotions and put bullshit to rest. For the first time since The Year Of Sex started, I have the ability to enjoy having a genuine crush on someone I am genuinely interested in. My ego has recovered from being pounded and I am no longer fearful of loosing some emotional control in return for greater sex.

Realizing that you have the power to be comfortable with your feelings trumps sex as one of the greatest feelings in the world and creates a glow that money cannot buy. It is the ultimate reality, a paradigm your conscious created, that even a supermodel with a test tube can’t deny.
You are living the dream.

Location, Location, Location.

I have a habit of biting my nails that I desperately try to curb by smoking.
One day, my mother slapped me in public.
“What was that for?” I asked, dumbfounded. My parents have never hit me. Despite many opportunities welcoming it.
“Don’t bite your nails. It isn’t ladylike.”
“Oh, but hitting someone is?”
She then threatened to tie my hands behind my back until I threatened to enlighten her on the last time in my life that wasn’t a success.

My parents have started to get excited because their youngest child (not me) is about to graduate, move out and become an adult.
“This time next year, we will be kid free!” AM squealed in excitement one evening. I ignored my cue to pack up and leave.
“What on earth will you do with all your free time?”
“We are going to have sex all over the house!”
I started packing up my belongings, vowing never to sit on the couch again, and threatened that if she ever said that again I would tell her about all of the places around the house I have had sex.

I once did It with someone on the balcony of a backpackers hostel. Which sounds questionable until you consider the hygienic nature of those beds.
“That is nothing,” my London BFF recounted. “I had sex on my school oval at lunch time.”
“How!?” I was genuinely interested. And impressed.
“Where else are you going to do it when it is noon, you’re horny and your bedroom is still where your mum likes to hang out in search for washing?”

I have had very few experiences of sex in public places, as I find it really hard to get turned on when your faux husband is running past the tent of blankets to throw up, claiming his drink was spiked with alcohol. I have made my way through Europe naked, I know some nightclub bathrooms far too well and I am acquainted with my pool table Biblically. But I am yet to have a, “And then the police arrived…” story that involves a very specific type of gun going off.

Real estate is all about location, location, location. RG has always advised me to buy the cheapest house on the best block to garner the best investment. But anyone I have known to apply such logic to their sex life has ended up with a gynecological condition I can’t even spell. I have always reasoned that a bed is a safe asset.
“I have had sex in a park, in an alley, on the beach, in a cloak room, on a mountain, in a driveway, in a spa, in a barn, under a fish net, inside a fridge and at an aquarium,” a boy friend told me.
“Should I start calling ahead when I meet you in public?”
“I have rarely fucked in a bed.”
I started to feel really generic. I reconsidered my parent’s threat to make me homeless, reasoning that it would at least enhance my sex life.

I always aim to make my sex life interesting.
I left the house, put down the scotch bottle and broke through the walls of self-imposed resistance to arrive at the location of someone I actually like.
I am not an advocate for drunk driving as I worry about the innocent party who can be threatened by an idiot at the hands of a wheel and gin bottle. But I have always been behind drunk sex. And in front of it. Beside it. Underneath it. Upside down…Anyway, I am a fan. I find it interesting, fun and believe it to be hilarious more hilarious than any public park ever could be.
“I have not had sober sex since August,” I guestimated to my girl friend. I started biting my nails.
Bored of the process I have become all too familiar with, I allowed myself to discover the craziest location of all: a sober brain and boy I actually want to snuggle.

“What was that for?” I asked when my friend gave me a hug.
“You are growing up!”
We stood in from the beach, walked through the park, arrived at the driveway, and like a lady, I put my cigarette out before I walked inside the house.

Maid In Memories

I was wearing a bikini, a headband, a 99Cent Store facemask and picking up dog poop with a rusty shovel when the cute boy I have been playing daily ping pong with walked into the compound known as my house. I always assumed that my enclosure was a Hot Man Repellent as so few seem willing to venture in on their own accord. I guess I was wrong.
“What are you doing tonight?” He asked after throwing up in his mouth, debating whether to run out the gate and pretend that This never happened all in the matter of three point nine seconds.
“Cleaning my bedroom,” I said flippantly as I tried to fling a piece of stubborn shit off the rust.
He observed the scene again, regretted not taking option number two and running for the hills, and silently admitted to making a mistake. “I hope that works out for you.”
The poo finally relented, flew off and landed on the fence.
“Yeah, it is going to be great,” I sighed.

When I was younger I was scared of spending my Friday nights alone. But then I discovered do-it-yourself hair dye kits and a whole new world of terror was opened up to me. Loneliness paled in comparison.
Onceuponaletssayatleast2006, I would fret if I didn’t have anything (or one) to do on the ultimate night of the week. But then I discovered how much I enjoy my own company and a whole new world of beauty was opened up to me. The conversation has been brilliant ever since and boredom subsided around the same time midgets started uploading data onto YouTube.

When I had my own car, I stored my entire life in it. It was my mobile bedroom in more ways than one.
“There are rednecks with trailers who would be appalled at your lifestyle,” RG scoffed.
“I wish I had a tennis racquet with me,” someone random would say somewhere random.
“Oh, I think I have one in my car!” I would almost instantaneously pull the desired item out from my boot/glove box/under the accelerator.
“I didn’t know you played tennis,” the random someone would say.
“I don’t.”
Appearing to be Mary Poppins with a magic car was how I once made friends outside of creating them.
I don’t know why I stored hiking boots, red lipstick or a tie-die T-shirt in the Batmobile either. But I like to be prepared for any array of crap I may find myself involved in (Aside: See Hard Hat under the seat circa last relationship).
The excess junk in my trunk meant that I was lucky if I could fit my own trunk into the drivers seat. The key-to-ignition process usually involved the misplacing of several perfectly comfortable Marlboro Lights boxes and, sometimes, a puppy.
Onceaponalisteningtocountrymusic, I threw my phone somewhere between the Just-In-Case bottle of scotch and Who Knows When roller blades. As science is always against me (see aforementioned hair dye hate), my phone bumped the scotch bottle, called my then-crush and left a rendition of me singing The Dixie Chicks followed by a conversation involving only one voice on His voicemail.
My secret was out: I talk to myself. He never called back. He possibly tried to forgot It ever happened.

If Dorothy had just bothered to clean out her closet, she would never have had to go down the yellow brick road because the process is a perfectly enclosed trip down memory lane in itself.
“What the Hell is going on here?” AM screamed when she stepped into my bedroom carrying a bottle of wine and a glass that could easily be mistaken for a bucket.
I was wearing a bikini, a headband and had a 99Cent Store feather sticking out of my head while laying sprawled on the carpet. I was flicking through photographs I had intelligently hidden behind a box of discarded shoes the last time I cleaned (Aside: Otherwise known as 2004).
“I have never acknowledged this before, but I was an incredibly unattractive teenager.”
AM bit her tongue as she tried to accept the feather and unwashed hair all in the space of four point six seconds.
“I am cleaning out my life and realizing how embarrassing it has been actually going out in public to live it.”

Every now and then it is fun to stop making new memories and remember to treasure the old ones. Aside from cleaning being an exercise in shopping without spending any money (“There you are Hooker Heels. I have been looking for you!”), an abundance of crap is found that has been stored away after the applicable situation is over.
There is the My Little Pony dolls you were given for your twenty-fourth birthday by your dad;
There is the ‘I’m With Stupid’ shirt you once wore with pride instead of irony;
And then there are the photographs of your evolution from Idiot to Idiot With A Sexual History.

I sat back with a scotch surrounded by a past I was bored with putting away and thought of the mess and the memories I had spent my evening rummaging through. I decided that, no matter how ugly, every moment has been worth it, as it has forced me to arrive at where I am now.
Which is great, I sighed.

Crush Test Dummy.

Before I had graduated high school and ever entertained the idea of doing one degree let alone three, I told my mother that I wanted to be either a Check Out Chick or a Crash Test Dummy when I grew up, failing to see the painful irony in my choices.
“You want to sit in a car and be thrown against a wall for a living?” AM asked, feeling as though she had somewhat failed as a mother.
“It can’t possibly be worse than being a vet and sticking your finger up animals poop holes all day. Dummies, probably, have perks.”
Because we all know that there appears to be an abundance of rewards for the idiots in real life.

When I started studying for the third time, everyone bar my professor asked if I was going back to school purely for the hot boys and hotter sex.
“No,” I demanded. “But it is a nice perk, isn’t it?”
Throughout my entire university career, sex and academia have correlated. Which probably explains why I have a fantasy of doing It in the library up against the woman’s liberation reference books.
The two previous degrees were dedicated to boyfriends – a bachelor and masters of Falling In Love – but studying philosophy somehow encouraged a much more free thinking approach to sex and I have remained single by choice (and, probably, circumstance). I am possibly sitting on a Credit, at best.

My LA girl friend and I decided that sex is linked to ones intelligence after we were both going through a drought and running into walls.
“You can totally fuck yourself smarter,” she told me. “It clears your mind and makes room for information.”
I like making room for things and so I agreed, despite a lack of actual evidence, and declared, “I want to be a genius!”

During my second semester of studying Plato, I simultaneously realized that I had not had sex for one month and had lost at least one third of my vocabulary. I went from having an abundance of sex words at my disposal, to make the act sound intellectual, to simply dry humping air when trying to articulate myself.
When I woke up and discovered that another month had passed, I wondered what number followed ‘one’ so I could give an accurate time reference to my situation.
“I think that memory also fucks off in the absence of *insert dry humping here*,” I told LA girl friend. “Because I can’t even remember who I last did It with.”
It was no longer a recreational hazard: I was officially dumb with no tutorial in sight.

It is no secret that orgasms make people happy. You can always tell who is having them: Fucking imaginary friends is replaced by skipping down the library hall. Speaking at all is substituted by constant smiling and nothing really bothers you.
“You failed the exam,” you may be informed. But who cares? You did It doggy style four times instead of reading!
Sex can also, apparently, cure the common cold. If we all had our way, flu medication would be obsolete and pharmaceutical companies would be filing for bankruptcy while we all came up for post-coital air.

When one is not having sex (like me. Hi! Welcome. Try the chicken.) a preoccupation with It develops. It pushes out vital information like what ingredients are necessary for macaroni and cheese and makes room for endless fantasies. Simple questions have no answers because You (me) are too busy daydreaming about throwing the text book out of That nerds hand and replacing it with your entire body.

I frequently try to awaken people to the reality that someone can be both intelligent and sexual at the same time.
“Just because She [/He] has a desire to have things lay on top of her [/him] does not mean she [/he] is an idiot,” I explain when I am at my intellectual peak from laying on top of things. While it may not be obvious at the time (and I pity the fool who attempts to read John Locke while doing the reverse cowgirl), a whole world of a person exists outside of the immediate act. Any intelligent person will agree. A way to spot them is by finding the girl or boy skipping past the computer lab flu-free.

When I have a crush, I have only one smart plan of attack: I don’t dry hump anyone else. I focus on my prize at hand because my inability to multi-task means that I can’t read, write, scout and cum simultaneously. It means that I can end up the horny idiot in the corner, sure, acting as the intellectual beard for asexual party-goers. But it also opens up a possibility of indulging in the stupidest idea humans ever came up with: monogamy.
When Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy I Have Now Talked To was just a pretty face I had never conversed with, I had only fantasies that involved no clothes and no thinking. But after putting two-thirds of my vocabulary to good use, he emerged as a Crush Test Dummy with the ability to unlock my brain and take off my pants. Gone are they days where I just want to throw him against a wall and welcomed are the perks that come from having a genuine crush.
“Finally, you are putting that education to good use,” AM beamed, feeling as though she had somewhat succeeded as a mother. “Maybe you really are a genius.”

The Average And Overused Lie: A Chad Kultgen Review.

Disclaimer: I have not written a book report since I was 12. Wish me luck.

After reading the novel The Average American Male, I gifted it to my then-boyfriend.
“Here is your unofficial autobiography. Enjoy!”
A few months later, when we had broken up and presumably after he had put down an accompanying (yet necessary) dictionary and recovered from the lack of pictures or pop-ups, he contacted me to inform that he had not only finished reading the book but that he identified so much with the main character that his life now seemed justified.
“That isn’t a success. That is scary,” I responded.
The Average American Male is a faux expose on a cowardly man who lied to those who genuinely loved him so that he could continue fucking strangers up the butt.

The author, possibly the only man on the planet I am scared of, Chad Kultgen, has returned (somewhat swiftly) with a new book: The Lie. If I had the courage, I would inquire directly as to whether his book titles are based entirely on my last relationship or if coincidence really does exist.
“Who are you going to gift this one to?” A boy friend asked, noting the absence of communication between The Ex and me.
“Everyone!”
“Woah!” He swallowed. “Won’t you get tired? And loose the ability to walk?”

The days after my initial introduction to Kultgen’s work involved endless assuming as to what guys where thinking about when they looked at me, fearing that I was mentally being ridden like a farm tractor every time I walked into a store to buy my Marlboro Lights. In His world, every organism with a penis views a woman as a walking carry case for the prized appendage and I desperately searched for confirmation that this was an elaborate fabrication.
“What do you think about when you see me?” I asked a general acquaintance. “Tell me honestly.”
“Honestly? I think about carrying you over my shoulder and the putting you down in the kitchen and reenacting the scene from 9 1/2 Weeks. Maybe because you remind me of Kim Bassinger. Or maybe because I have a desire to fuck you against a fridge.”
I wasn’t insulted. I can’t cook so I may as well make myself useful in a kitchen.

Both of Kultgen’s fictionalized worlds are wordy anecdotes to the cup being half empty, where every deed, no matter how seemingly moral or amoral, is plagued with bad intentions and selfish dishonesty. Men and woman are just as sexually active as the other, but the men have the power and the women have the reputation. Sex is not for pleasure, but for demise.
The Lie is a painfully honest and dishonest sexpose on college-aged relationships: They Meet, They are insecure as to whether the other is really interested, They fall in love, Bad stuff starts to happen. Danielle Steele would probably not get through the first paragraph of this romantic-tale-for-the-generation-raised-on-Pamela-and-Tommy-Lee unless she had both single malt scotch and a botox needle on hand.

I have three fears in my life: Snakes, pleather pants and the reality that men view woman as sexually inferior: that all the fighting for sexual equality and research into comfortable contraception was futile and we may as well accept an eternity of hand jobs: cooking pies and orgasms simultaneously.
“Did you pick up a whore last night?” I have heard a onceuponatimes roommate ask while I was in the bathroom.
“Yep,” was the response.
I stormed out of the bathroom and successfully made a point while wearing sparkles and the previous evenings mascara, explaining the seemingly obvious reality that it takes two people to tango (read: have fun and spontaneous sex) and unless he could remain satisfied with masturbation, a girl is a necessary participant.
“Even if you don’t consider it, she still has an opinion,” I offered a positive answer to the tree-falling analogy.
“But she is still a whore for fucking me,” he shrugged.
“No, just an idiot,” I conceded, my ears burning as I walked back into my version of the real world. I later mailed him a homosexual dating agency catalogue with a note assuring him that This way he could get laid in the absence of a whore. Because, apparently, the title only applied to females.

Kultgen’s stories may superficially read like fiction – people will always dispute the numerical reality of sexual thoughts per day or if random girls are really willing to have anal sex in a public bathroom instead of going to class – but the extravagance of detail is irrelevant. Only the essence is applicable.
The point Kultgen is making for anybody willing to read between the lines with a book or with a life is to not focus on the sex, instead look at the motives and the person who is screaming for attention not satisfaction. Kultgen’s characters, no matter how charming or vindictive, all work on protecting themselves out of fear and behave accordingly. They fear rejection for their real qualities and willingly stand up as stereotypes. It is for this reason that, despite the X-rated descriptions that would make Hefner blush, the book is based on fact.

I have spent over a year trying to research whether Kultgen represents Our reality, delusion or demise. For every boy who has called me or any other educated and three-dimensional female a whore, another has been respectful and mentally evolved enough to at least keep his opinion in his pants.
“Sex is a two person sport,” I have often said.
“Yes, but a man has the power. He is the one penetrating,” boys have reasoned.
“Ok. Remind a girl of that ‘fact’ the next time your little friend is in her mouth. See what happens…”
I can’t accept societies preoccupation with damning the woman. And I have concluded, beyond reasonable doubt, that Kultgen is just as appalled with hypocrisy as I am. He just doesn’t want to cowardly hand the reality to the reader and finds pleasure in the mind fucking.
“So, with all of this vulgarity, why do you want me to read this book?” I was aksed.
“Because, it is almost scarier if you don’t identify to it.”

Chad Kultgen, The Lie, http://www.averageamericanmale.com