Ground to Bits


Oh my God, so, I just deleted Grindr from my phone.”


I just said that as if it is some sort of grand accomplishment…

As the barrage of mobile hookup apps such as Grindr, Tinder, Scruff, etc. continue to increase, the media is focusing on the apps’ implications for and effects on society. And for good reason. As Details points out, the number of reported cases of “the big three” STDs — gonorrhea, chlamydia, and syphilis — are rising. Fast. Are you fucking anyone who frequents the Chelsea neighborhood of New York? Wrap it, twice. Chelsea has the highest syphilis infection rate in the country. In New Zealand, at least three gay men on Grindr were targeted by a criminal who promised them sex. When the man arrived to the victims’ homes, he threatened them with a machete before robbing them.

If you’re reading this and you still use these mobile applications: kudos! We’re alive! I’m grateful to say I have never been threatened or harmed on Grindr. Nor have I (yet) contracted an STD. My growing issue with online hookup-apps isn’t derived from fear…

Asshole 1

Asshole 2

It’s derived from an increasing number of shirtless, white men telling everyone who differs from them they aren’t good enough to fuck, or even speak to. Let us break this down a bit.

First, take the shirtless, faceless picture. The mystery man, undoubtedly ugly, or perhaps stuck in the closet, doesn’t want you to know anything about his interests, personality (though we can guess what kind of a person he is), or lifestyle. Okay, that isn’t entirely accurate. He wants you to know he’s horny, physically strong, and racist. He wants you to admire something — his body — implying it is more important than his thoughts and interests which ultimately make up what type of person he is. He wants you to know that your skinny or unfit body doesn’t deserve his attention.

Asshole 5

Asshole 6

Next, the “whites-only” or “no fems, blacks, asians, etc.” tagline. I completely understand having a “type”. If you look at the roster of men I’ve dated, fucked, kissed, etc., most of them are white, have a little bit of scruff, and are shorter than me. I won’t call it a coincidence, but those traits certainly are not the only ones I actively seek out. If I had to choose a “type”, the traits I find attractive include: skinny, heavy, hairy, non-hairy, black, asian, white, latino, masculine, feminine — but more importantly, intelligent, driven, a good listener, honest, but not sarcastic, and capable of dealing with my moodiness. I’m not embarrassed to admit it took me awhile to open up to such a broad group of people. Like these close-minded torsos on Grindr, I was once in a dark place where rejecting others actually felt comfortable.

Before first coming out at age 18 and even a few years after, I loathed drag queens. I didn’t understand why a man would want to portray himself as a woman. I couldn’t grasp exactly what satisfaction a man derived from putting on a dress and a wig and heels. Anyone who knew me in college can attest to me overusing the phrase,“If I wanted to date a woman, I would do so.” As I grew older, moved to the passionate and very-OUT city of Chicago, and began meeting and falling in love with other queer individuals — drag queens included — I began to understand my resistance to people I didn’t understand. Like these faceless torsos, I too was afraid to accept something — effeminate men — as I was fearful of accepting that trait within myself. Once you break that barrier and portray a certain part of yourself to the world, there’s no going back. Luckily, I had open and accepting friends, family, and a job which allowed me to grow beyond my hateful way of thinking and accept myself (and others) for who and what we are. I’m 26 now…I wear heels, paint my nails, and get annoyed with people who mistake impeccable fashion sense as “dressing like a woman.” Perhaps these shirtless, “masc”, seemingly invulnerable group of men work in a corporate world that doesn’t allow gender expression outside the norm. Maybe their religious parents would never accept an effeminate son. Whatever internal issues they’re struggling with, those are far more dangerous and damaging to the host than the rejection I feel as a result of their inexperience with unfit, effeminate, non-whites.

Whether we like it or not, this technology age in which we live forces us to crave instant results from any particular action we take. We hope that ordering a package from Amazon, a cup of coffee from Starbucks, or in this case, an online chat with a stranger, will yield instant results. When a handsome guy messages me, I feel instantly empowered. When a 62 year old messages me asking if I’m “hung”, I feel icky. When I message someone else and they do not respond, I feel rejected and ugly. Think about how this differs from the generations which arrived before us. In order for our parents (and even more-so our grandparents) to feel these same emotions, it took seeing someone, approaching them, talking to them, perhaps meeting multiple times after, then deciding whether or not to continue toward a deeper relationship, or end it. For me and other 80’s/90’s kids, all it takes is the tap of a little yellow icon and a quick scroll through some photos to feel confident and determined or outraged and self-conscious.

I didn’t erase Grindr from my phone to avoid rejection — in fact, I embrace it. When I seek a connection with someone, I want us to meet and get to know one another before deciding whether we find each other interesting or attractive. I didn’t erase Grindr to run from this epidemic of “masc4masc” requirements. It isn’t my job to message closed-minded individuals and tell them their way of thinking is dated and supremacistic. Maybe I am naive to think I will find anything except sex on Grindr. But, regardless of what anyone is looking for on one of these apps, the voices of friends and advocates for gender fluidity and racial equality who use Grindr all seem to be finding one thing: hours wasted by scrolling through a community of bigots who offer nothing beyond frustration and confusion.

Still, even after knowing and accepting all of these details, Grindr is currently back on my iPhone, hiding on the last screen, out of sight, until just the right amount of alcohol (a sip) is coursing through my bloodstream. I just asked a 33-year old if the car he’s in is an Audi. Oh, it’s a “BMW X5”…”Even better. How are you?” I ask. Hopefully we’ll meet up, go out to dinner, then he’ll run me over with his car. When I wake up in the hospital bed, I’ll finally erase this app for good. Maybe.


My Dear, Dear Friends.

How long have you known your best friend? A year? Five years? More than ten? Most likely, you’ve seen each other through everything significant: first love, first fuck, tough times with family members ― or, perhaps they were the first person to put up with your sarcasm and shitty attitude, which, up to this point, most people couldn’t stand. The love between you two is strong because you have seen one another, since the earliest days, at your worst, and neither of you are afraid to share painful truths. And you, knowing they come from a place of compassion, accept their feedback, expressing your gratitude with tears of joy.

But, beware: this nice shit is over.

The days of humility and compassion are dwindling; fading into a machine world of bytes, swipes, and data. In this so called “Information Age”, we are obsessed not with technology as a means to connect to others or to gain knowledge. We instead use phones, tablets, Macs, and their corresponding apps to do two things: lust over people and things we cannot have, and cater to others’ strengths/weaknesses to get the most “Likes” on our pictures and comments.

I’m certainly not innocent of this ― I can’t express the amount of time I’ve spent configuring my dream cars online, ticking and un-ticking the options boxes to get the best price, then calculating what the monthly payments would be. Perhaps worse, people are hyper-obsessed with pointless, brain-melting games like Kim Kardashian: Hollywood because it only takes two hours (honestly, in real-time) to meet a famous “idol” (Kim), gain a manager and publicity guru who start a Twitter-fight with another celebrity on your behalf to, you know, boost your followers, become a model, and buy whatever clothes and jewelry you want.

In this Insta-Age, we use the information that is readily available to give ourselves and others a new perception. Running late? I can order an UberX driver and pretend to be timely. House a mess? I can tap the GetMaid app and order someone to my residence within two hours to clean that shithole right up. Diplo once liked and retweeted a comment I made a few years ago, and my first instinct was to take a screenshot and post a picture on every social networking site on which I had an account. “LOOK AT ME! I’M IMPORTANT! MY FRIENDS WHO LIKE DIPLO WILL SEE THIS AND LOVE IT (OR, BE JEALOUS AS FUCK, WHICH WORKS, TOO!)” We no longer want to help others or share valuable information. We want to buy for ourselves and pretend to be someone we are not. Insta-uh-oh.

Our friends, the ones to whom we should have the most loyalty, are now the most disposable. As magazine covers increasingly showcase chiseled bodies and Instagram features the rich, famous, and most-liked, we try and hide our flaws as much as possible, fearing they make us unworthy of attention or front-page stardom. The secrets of our past, or any association with a D-list lifestyle, has to be eradicated in order to build a new internet personality ― An Insta-Me, capable of on-demand feelings, looks, and emotions based on what our followers want or what we want to show them. Tinder, Instagram, Grindr ― these tools let us find new friends instantly based exclusively on how they look and our perception of their personality. “Shit, he has 4,000 followers, a boyfriend he loves, and is very stylish! ADD!” I met this person I’m describing at a bar recently. He was hanging out with a crowd notorious for shitty and immature behavior. He did not look like the man I saw in the pictures (which isn’t bad, just not what I expected). And, much to my dismay, he ended up pulling me aside, kissing me, and asking me to leave with him. I ran (literally) out of the bar. His poor boyfriend; oblivious, just like I was.

This song isn’t new; “We All Want What We Can’t Have (Right Now).” Fortune. A car. Perfect sex. Beyonce’s “talent”. World peace. So, we drop people, our close friends, because they know our flaws; they’re old news; they don’t have a big following, so their views and opinions must not really matter. We believe we can change the perception of our followers enough to take us with them to stardom. Imagine this scenario: Instead of spending your weekend with your best friend who’s visiting from the east coast (whom you haven’t seen in years), you spend your night drinking and fucking some dude you’ve only known for twelve hours. You oversleep and miss breakfast the next morning. Seven hours later, you are STILL hungover and don’t make it to dinner. Your friend, the one visiting, has typically stood by your side during altercations of this severity, but not this time. This was your last chance to show compassion..your love. But, you blew your chance ― just to blow a stranger.

Long-lasting relationships ― the ones built upon trust, loyalty, and honesty ― are precious. Cherish them. The beautiful person you find on Instagram, the Tindee who also likes Humans of New York and the movie Amélie; while they may be someone worth your time, your longest-lasting and genuine friendships are worth more. More than clothes, sex, or fame. Once these friendships are gone, they’re gone. And what’ll you have? You’ll have 900 followers on Instagram, 875 of whom you’ll never meet, and 850 of whom think you’re someone else.

View more awesome illustrations and photographs by my friend Josh Zoerner at



When a Prude Celebrates International Mister Leather.


The line to get in is down the block…Is it worth it?

This was my third excuse within a matter of minutes to get out of this sleazy, smelly endeavor. Once a year, thousands of sexually-active, bear-daddies come to Chicago for “International Mister Leather” – a gay celebration of the appreciation of new toys, apparel, and furniture men use in the art of sexual pleasure.

Each year when the festivities begin, you see an increased number of middle-aged, pec-throbbed pairs roaming the streets of downtown Chicago; their child-size “large” shirts bursting at the seams. As a skinny, bi-racial “twink” (I do not classify myself as anything, but my rail-thin stature places and keeps me in this category), everything about IML — the bondage, the musk of stale poppers emanating from alleyways — makes me nervous and uncomfortable. I am not very sexually active (perhaps two or three short-term partners a year), and people who frequent IML certainly are not seeking salvation or forgiveness from God for their sins — they are attending these events to fuck, get fucked, and/or find new, pleasurable ways to do both.

Despite my fear, there I was, signing a waiver in front of Bijou Theatre and Sex Club, taking off my shirt to adhere to their admission requirements — “pantless or shirtless” (I stick with the purist one). Waiver signed, my three friends and I cut in front of the long line as one of them kisses the bouncer in a “thanks for hooking us up” fashion. Once inside, dozens of almost-naked men cramp the tiny waiting room as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting for the two inebriated coat-checkers to figure out how to efficiently inventory the hundreds of grocery bags full of our belongings. I slide past them to the ticket window, their beefy, sweaty bodies rubbing against mine, their eyes, widened by the prescription drugs they snorted in their cars before entering, undress the bottom half of my body still covered by pants. I reach the ticket-window and offer my American Express, only to be directed to a sign by the vendor, which reads, “CASH ONLY, $35.” THIRTY-FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS? REALLY?! I squeeze my way back through the steer, wait ten more minutes for the drunk attendants to find my shirt, and head across the street to the too-conveniently located bank. “Guys, go without me”, I say to my friends. “It’s too much money, and I’m not even going to do anything but be a fly on the wall.” One of my friends is on the fence about paying the money as well, so we all decide to get back into the car where bottles of beer and bubbly are waiting for us beneath the seats.

POP! The four of us take a swig of champagne each. Our ages do not differ much — 22, 26, 27, and me, 24 — but I am the only one who never attended an event such as this before. “Josh”, one pleas, “you’re going to have so much fun! I will protect you, I promise!” I give him the side-eye — “Oh, please! You’re going to be face-deep in sphincter after five minutes and I won’t see you again for the rest of the evening.” My other two friends also insist, passing me booze and speculating how each of our nights will go. My mind begins to give in — Maybe (probably) it was the booze…maybe it was the amount of comfort I felt in that very moment with my friends…or, perhaps, the “start living outside your comfort zone” pep-talks I had recently been offering my peers and work colleagues had, at this moment, finally resonated within me. “Fuck it. Let’s go.” One more chug of champagne. $40 out of the ATM. Shirt back off. $35 to the ticket-vendor. I’m inside. I am a shirtless, vulnerable human inside my first sex club.

Penis. From the early 1990s. The first room on my journey contains the movie theatre. Only a handful of the forty seats are occupied, and everyone seems to be just getting comfortable in the space. No one is naked except for the two-decade-old men blowing each other on the 15ft x 10ft screen in front of us. “This isn’t what I expected” I think to myself. “The night is young — this ain’t shit, yet,” my friend says, reading my mind. We exit through a door in the back of the theatre and enter a narrow hallway. To the left, a narrow, metal staircase entices us to the second floor. We instead notice a sign that says, “BOOZE”, directing us outside to the back patio. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in nine-months, but as men in leather straps and chains peek around the fence to see if the corner in which we’re occupying is “open-for-business”, I feel a level of anxiety only a cigarette can cure. It is chilly outside, my nipples stabbing the air like knives. I throw the half-smoked, nasty cigarette on the ground. “I’m going exploring.” My friends finish their cigarettes and follow me through the maze of men, back into the abyss.

Once upstairs, we find numerous corridors that lead to dead-ends, square rooms with benches drilled into the walls around the perimeter, sheer curtains, and oh, the smell — the smell of scrotum, sweat, ass, and balls. The staunch aroma instills a new level of excitement in me. Somewhere, perhaps everywhere, behind the walls, above and beneath me, strangers are fucking one another in an unknown place, with unknown voyeurs watching, stroking their own penises while they pinch their nipples. I hadn’t yet seen any “action”, but the night was still young.

I decide I need to find the dance floor first, as music always calms my soul. My friends had disappeared. Typical. I later found out, two of them, ex-lovers still in love, went off together to lick each others assholes and cocks, inviting others to join them. Meanwhile, I was swaying back and forth alone in front of the stage as house music boomed from the loudspeakers. In front of me on stage, provoking the male gaze of all these horned men, one man was turned away, rump exposed, his arms bound to pipes coming from the ceiling, being spanked with a wooden paddle by another man. His red ass made me cringe, a pain I attribute to being spanked by my mother as a child when I was being an asshole. I ignore the spectacle in front of me, continuing to dance on my own (blatant Robyn reference) for another thirty minutes, telling approachers, “I’m new! My friends made me come! I don’t normally do this type of thing, but this is amazing!” Of course, in my head I’m saying, “Keep your dirty fucking hands away from me!!” The crowd begins to shift. I look over and see four men: one facing me, the others in a line — one blowing the man facing me, one licking his ass, and so on. What a sight! I stare, obviously, and look around at the other gentleman to make sure they’re all staring, as well. Others, strangers, climb on the train, their eagerness yet calmness blending together perfectly, like an experienced runner waiting to fly off the starting blocks at the beginning of a race. Other parties continue to dance, others are sucking and fucking. These acts, once meant strictly for private procreation, are now a means for study — for understanding; for exploration; for pleasure. Despite my continence, I admired the art form…admired the confidence and self-awareness it takes to stabilize your mental amplitude enough to get naked, get it up, and get off in a room full of eager eyes.

I left the dance floor to unhide my phone, as they do not allow picture-taking in the venue and I did not want to be tempted. Prior to coming here, we had drinks at Taverna 750, a cocktail lounge in the heart of Boystown a few miles away. One of the bartenders, a friend of a friend I’ve been unsuccessfully courting for a year now, looked considerably handsome tonight, so I told him so. He thanked me, his eyes showing a vulnerability I had never seen. I told him we were going to “Men’s Room” (the name of tonight’s event at the theatre), followed by, “I hope to see you there.” Now, in this theatre, drunk from copious amounts of champagne and PBR, buzzing on adderall, I found his name in my iPhone, opened messages, and hit “Compose”:

I was going to ask you if you have a boyfriend.”
“Nope. No boyfriend. You guys still at mens room?”
Yeah. It’s scary
You off work?”
“Yeah. We standin in this awful line.”
You’re here?”
“Ha. Yeah. In line.”
Let me know when your inside.”

(Twenty-three minutes later)…
If you’re not coming, I’m going to cab it.”
“We’re in the front. Just took off our clothes.”

The “We(‘re)” referred to him and his colleague — whom I had seen before, but never met. I greet them both with a hug, then take them outside to the bar where his friend takes a joint out of his clutch. Knowing full-well that smoking after drinking spins my brain directly to pukey-hell, I take a hit anyway, letting the smoke engulf my lungs and bloodstream like a wave of ocean water penetrating every crack and crevice of a cliff at high tide. In an attempt to spend at least a little coherent time with my friend, I invite him to come dance with me. He takes my hand, smiling, as I lead him upstairs to the steamy dance floor where even more gentlemen are inside one another. I pull him close to me, forcing his evenly-leveled crotch into mine, syncing my hip-movements with his. Feeling his warm erection in my torso, I slowly, intimately, kiss his neck…his cheek…his lips. Thank God: a great kisser! My mind raced. “I’ve wanted you for so long…how funny it is that our first time hanging out is here…come with me.” The latter thought actually comes out of my mouth. I grab his hand again, leading him through the chains of men connected by phalluses and bottoms, off the dance floor and into a dark room, closing the door behind us. Passion and fire ensues. We don’t have sex. Well, we don’t have my definition of sex. At one point, someone opened the door and saw us, but we carried on, our silence prompting them to leave us alone. A few minutes in, I say, “Let’s go. I’ll hail a cab.” We would finish later.

My two friends, the ex-lovebirds, are still missing in action, while the other, who had some tame fun himself, is ready to leave as well. I order an UBER for my date and I and take us back to his place to sleep. Laying in bed, it occurs to me that despite being acquainted with this man next to me, he is not more or less of a stranger to me than any other man at the club. Then it hits me: I am no different than any of these men — these men that disgusted and frightened me five hours prior — who seek a sense of community and sexual liberation. Although straps, fisting, and hooking up with complete strangers is nowhere on my Kinsey Scale, I long to open myself emotionally and sexually, putting to bed previous feelings and acts of fear, anger, and abstinence brought on by men of my past.

I am turning 25 this year, in July. I sense another trip to a bathhouse, and the beginning of my sexual revolution.


Single? It’s not them, it’s you.


How many people have you fucked in the last month? In the last year? Why is it that, despite constantly bitching about your thirst for companionship, you sacrifice a warm heartbeat pulsing against your bare cheek every night for a thick, throbbing instacock or instapussy once a week? You tell yourself these urges for instant gratification are natural —you also conclude that these people who fuck you and don’t want to date you simply want the same thing as you (which is: a relationship with someone else they can’t have). You are completely correct. However, you keep forgetting to tell yourself the other truth: you can have a relationship with them, you just fucked it up the first time.

Josh, I cannot tell you how many dates…probably a hundred, which, after it ended, I receive a text message from the guy telling me he only wants to be friends. I started seeing a therapist — I was convinced there was something wrong with me. My therapist thought I was crazy…perhaps it’s just the people who live in this area…

…After moving to an entirely new state, the problem persists.” — a friend.

Why is it that this handsome, successful, goal-oriented man with a SEX DRIVE cannot seem to get past, “check, please”? After further probing, it was clear at that moment there was something wrong: on that first date and each first date with a new human, it is imperative for him tell the guy three key things: his profession (he is quite proud…almost pretentious, regarding the company for which he works), his fluency in Spanish, and his mastery of the trombone. When I asked why he feels it is necessary to reveal this information up front, his response was, “because he needs to know who I am…and that I am amazing.” Despite the fact that I agree — he is amazing — the way in which he tries to control these strangers’ feelings and emotions automatically set him up for heartbreak.

No one should ever be afraid to talk about their strengths, passions, and interests that make them who they are. However, the insecurities caused by countless denials from people in which we’re interested causes the utmost fear of rejection; so much so that you do a number of things to sabotage yourself, including:

  • Constantly wearing your headphones in public (if you can’t see or hear someone rejecting you, it isn’t happening, right?)
  • Standoffishness; why say hello to the handsome Barista at the cafe when he is probably judging everything about you? (He is, in fact, because he is also damaged.)
  • Speaking without confidence, discussing topics you think the other person wants to hear. Or,
  • at the other end of the spectrum, speaking so highly of yourself your date thinks you’ve made up their mind for them (we all want freedom of choice! Duh, idiot.)
  • Being really picky over, say, a sloppy kisser, that we ignore the strong connection…that spark we shared before the sloppy porn kiss. (You can train someone to kiss better, but hell, you’re so perfect, that they should already know what to do, right?)

“There is no world; there are only six billion understandings of it.” — Drew Dudley TEDxToronto (2010)

Do you want people to understand you..the humble ‘you’ who is afraid to die alone? Or would you rather they know the perceived you…your hard exterior…your nine to five, your material possessions, your stupid, throbbing, phallic ego? Ask the hundred people who turned you down after the first date what they wanted. You may be surprised.



The internet is a marvelous thing, isn’t it? Shopping – spying – ordering – liking – sending – receiving – paying – balancing – storing – messaging – retweeting – tracking – blocking – grinding – hailing…


Do you remember Myspace? Coming home from school, sitting down at your parents $4,000 desktop PC (which had a single CD-ROM drive that couldn’t even burn discs), dialing up at 52K, opening Internet Explorer, logging into Myspace with your lowercase, digit-less password, and seeing this:


Holy fucking shit. “Sorry, mom! I can’t do my homework because my top 8 (top 16, if you were the fucking pwnzrz at learning HTML on your own) needs me!!” It was the ultimate feeling of happiness: someone cares about me. The smiley emoji comments on my first batch of selfies; the message from some scene bitch on the opposite end of the United States asking how the Set Your Goals show was; the hideous acronyms littered amongst everything (I used “LYLAS” way too often for someone trying to stay in the closet). All of these outlets of outreach were proactive ways of telling someone you were thinking of them.

In 2014, however, it isn’t about anyone else. It’s about yourself.

Your selfie. Your venti no-whip soy mocha. Your new car. Your selfie again, (christ…ten times this week?) The news articles you think are relevant. Your feelings. Your emotions. Your gratification.

Now that Myspace is dead (it is…isn’t it?), Facebook and Instagram reign as the most dynamic and robust “social networking” tools in existence. Shit, people that attended my middle school, who were in no way close to me or my group of friends, somehow pop up in my news feed. Oh, you had another baby at age 23? Cute. JK. SICK. People I work with, old boyfriends, family members, strangers, best friends — they are all a click away. Just a click.

Knowing this, why would I go out of my way to write and send them a letter in the mail? Why would I hop on a bus in the cold to bring someone flowers and an Emergen-C when they are sick, when I can send them an e-gift card for them to use at their “convenience”? Why would I ‘like’ their photo when they’re not even following me on Instagram? Why would I open and read their text message when I can open the notification center, read it there, and leave it “un-read” in order to respond at my convenience (time to fess up, y’all). Why in the fuck, man?

These technologies — these creations of innovative, life-saving software and hardware, are making us anxious, socially inept, and selfishly reactive to other people. I’m guilty, I’ll admit, and have been for quite some time. I have always felt like the shoulder on which to cry, the ear to listen, and the mouth to say, “everything will be fine.” Yet, when it’s your turn to be these things, you pull out your iPhone and tickity-tick away, your eyelids being the only physical piece of you that notices my pain. I think we’re all victims of it — we’re also all guilty.

I can also admit, I am much more eloquent in writing. If I were sitting with someone in a restaurant and this topic arose, it probably would not come out of my mouth as elegantly as you see before you. However, a picture of me or my surroundings with a catchy tagline, or a text message I send you that makes you fall in love with me — that is not me. That is not my in-the-moment attention or advice. That is not my love. That is not my caring nature. That is not the dedication I have to anyone who considers me a friend.

My mother, who has been misunderstood and chastised by society for years due to her religious beliefs, drove miles out of her way on Valentine’s Day to take flowers to an almost-blind, 80 year old acquaintance she met at the gym. Yet, my friend calls me and I ignore it because I am not quite finished scrolling through the photos I missed on Instagram while I was asleep. As your friend sits across from you, begging for your attention and love in the real world, you are becoming an isolationist, double-tapping your way into a four-inch island which is your perception of human interaction.

I think technology is beautiful. I love my iPhone and MacBook — these beautifully designed and easy to use pieces of hardware that inspire and create solutions for healthcare, communication, and learning. But, I can (and will more often) put these devices away to listen to my close-friend’s song recommendation or a compelling, personal story. I fear twenty years from now, when babies are born with a phone in their hand. How will they communicate face to face? How will they, without Adderall, Xanax, and other mind and body-altering drugs, summon the courage to ask that beautiful girl on a date? The sweat, the nervousness, the euphoric feeling of anticipation — will it all be missed because their phone vibrated in their pocket? 

I hope not. Because our world will be Instagauched and Instafucked. 



I encourage you to now take out a piece of paper, write to someone dear, and drop it in the mail. Or, call an old friend to tell them you love and miss them (hopefully they answer, fuckers). After I publish this post, I am going to surprise my sister, with whom I do not spend nearly enough time.


How to Be Number One When You’re Not a Perfect Ten

If you’re reading this, there is a high probability there is something about you that sucks. Let’s face it…your eyes are too close together, your feet smell like Precious’ armpits after running a 5K (I mean, attempting to run a 5K and collapsing faster than you can say, “go, Precious…go!”), and you fuck so many people your dick is actually just one big chancre. But hey, don’t fret! I suck, too… and here’s why:


  • I’m boring. Really, I am. I’d rather sit in my apartment all day and watch an entire series of Family Guy than sit around with a group of people seeking and offering advice to their peers (DESPITE THE VICTIMS KNOWING ALL THE ANSWERS).


  • My vocabulary is absolutely awful…just awful. I remember first seeing the movie ‘The Matrix’, running over to my HP desktop, popping open Internet Explorer, and searching the word “inevitable”. To this day, I still think I’m a cool son of a bitch for using the word :::puts on Morpheus shades:::


  • I’ve never taken good care of my skin, and therefore have opened a new national canyon park on my face. It’s closed now, though. Government shutdown 😦 😦 😦


Despite all of these unfortunate skid-marks God has placed upon us, there is no need to worry…no need to feel inadequate in this society of perfect, chiseled faces and skinny, puketacular need to pick and pick and pick and pick and PICK at the ‘stupid fucking cunt ass bitch’, the man or woman who stole your crush’s heart, because they both suck, too. All of us suck. That is, we all have qualities that someone else doesn’t like. To be honest, if you don’t realize that at this point in your life, you really, REALLY suck, and should think about giving me all of your assets now, because I’m going to cut you. Deep. Some of us could give a fuck less what people think, and continue to live our lives, in the moment, without skipping a beat. Others try to diminish these qualities as much as possible in order to fit in with the rest of the world; makeup fixes the skin, money makes you exciting and smart, deodorant makes you smell like a majestic centaur (I’m guilty of this one. Old Spice, pay me).


Whatever your style, here is a list of things you can (refrain from) do(ing) to not suck more than you already do:


  1. DON’T TALK TOO MUCH. Seriously. If more than 70% of your conversations consist of your voice, you need to shut the fuck up. Keep up the chatter, and you’ll only have yourself with whom to speak.
  2. LISTEN. ACTIVELY. Get off your phone. Look into my eyes. And take your adderall. Jesus.
  3. READ, READ, READ. If you’re dumb and boring, this is the perfect way to not only change your perspective on something to which you are ignorant, but also gives you something to talk about. You dull sap.
  4. BUY SOMEONE SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Be proactive about this. I understand it’s tradition to show your love and appreciation for someone once a year by showering them with glitter and Starbucks gift cards on their birthday, but could you imagine someone’s surprise if you did it right now, and again next week, for no reason other than to say, “I care about you today, tomorrow, and always”? 
  5. LOOK IN YOUR SIDE-VIEW MIRROR BEFORE OPENING YOUR CAR DOOR, AND USE YOUR FUCKING TURN SIGNAL. I’ve been there when the door of a Lexus SUV abruptly swings into a bike lane and knocks someone into a pool of their own blood. Scariest fucking thing ever.
  6. MAINTAIN EYE CONTACT WHEN A STRANGER YOU’RE LOOKING AT LOOKS AT YOU. This one is tough. I’ve had to train myself. It got me laid once…but besides that, it prevents you from that awkward, abrupt look-away that makes you feel like a douchebag. And who knows, you might even muster up enough confidence to say hello to who may be the love of your life.
  7. PLACE THE MONEY IN THEIR HAND. Mmm, that Venti Soy no-whip Mocha Frappa Gay Gay is going to be delicious. “That will be $18.43”, says the smiling, courteous Barista. You reach in your filth, Coach purse and toss each bill and coin on the counter for him or her to pick up and count, one by one. Scene. Barista cuts your fingers off for being so rude.
  8. “PLEASE, THANK YOU.” Please. Thank you.

If any of these are on your list, too, high five. We think about the same sucky things.