Thursday, March 31, 2011



That's what read across the top of my pill box.

My pill box looked similar to the one my grandmother owned, except mine was a lime green instead of chalk white.

I had asked Jessica for a green pill box and Jessica found me one. A blond, honey-colored daddy's girl with plastic cash and free time, Jessica was the kind of person that could make things happen.

It was the summer of 2008, I'd just turned twenty years old, and I owned a pill box.

I didn't have a terminal disease, or any ailments really, just some leftover teenage angst and a severe lack of motivation.

Jessica barely worked sixteen hours a week and I was attending summer classes, although "attending" probably isn't the best word for it.

For me each letter didn't signify a different day of the week, it was simply to label a different pill. The "R" was for Ritalin. The remaining letters stood for others, Darvocets and Xanax and Vicodins, but I can't recall whatever method my brain was using to categorize the pills. Perhaps if I took a Klonopin I could...

Did I mention Jessica's father worked in pharmaceutical sales? Did I mention the mansion with a medicine cabinet in every bathroom? It was the kind of house where the voices were amplified by echoes and chemicals, pills lost in couch cushions and thoughts scattered through empty hallways.

I started dating Jessica about a month after my break-up with an engineer named Paul. Both Paul and I had known he was moving away, but we chose to keep seeing each other until the day of the move. He cried as I hugged him good bye and I called him a pussy.

Everyone knows it's better to wait to cry until you're home and curled up in the fetal position in bed with a box of chicken fingers that you don't even want to eat anymore.

I knew I'd be okay when I started dating Jessica. She was hot and ready to party and paid for everything with her dad's plastic. I was immediately attracted to her carefree and privileged life. I'd spent the previous summer working ten hour night shifts in a hot box of a freezer factory six nights a week, so I was eager to dive into her lifestyle. She had a slender frame and smooth skin and a skewed but poisonously positive view of reality.

We enabled each other. I could be the boy at the overpriced restaurant with the sexy girlfriend, she could be the popular girl with a boyfriend who met the expectations of others. We made deals in irresponsibility. "I'll skip class if you go into work late..."

We could share the same opinions about attractive men we passed by day and have inebriated sex in her dad's swimming pool by night.

It was almost romantic. Maybe it would have been if we'd have taken a few more pills, changed the recipe so that our cerebral chemistry was properly in sync.

In August we went to a small concert at a hole-in-the-wall bar near my place. The guitarist was a thin, brown-skinned boy, legs wrapped in skinny jeans and a torso packaged in plaid.

I mentioned to Jessica that he was kind of hot.

She told me that he'd been staring at our table all night and that I should ask him out.

"But I'm dating you."

"Bobby," she said, then paused and tilted her head in that swan-like way of hers, "Just talk to him."

There's something special about that moment when you ask your girlfriend if she's sure it's okay for you to pick up the cute guitarist at the rock show you're attending with her.

When the show came to a close she invited him to our table and we shared drinks. After everyone was settled and comfortable she rose and slid a piece of platinum plastic in my hand.

"Don't let him pay for anything," she whispered.

Jessica wasn't the last girl I dated and the guitarist wasn't the last boy. But just like the pills from my pill box, there are still traces of them and the others floating in my blood, pieces still dissolving under my tongue and leaking into my spine.

Every encounter, every date, every relationship, each one is a pill that, for better or worse, permanently alters my perception.

And even though I know each one will leave me feeling confused and hollow, I can't help but soak in memories of the highs and be tempted by the possibilities of the next. What's the harm in just one more?

Besides, Cole Porter says everyone is doing it.

Monday, March 28, 2011

The Things You Can't Write About

Sometimes as a writer (or to use a much more disgusting word, blogger), there are things you can't write about. I made a list to make it easier for everybody.

  • You can't write about frustrations with your job (or jobs, depending on the day), because that would be unprofessional. Haven't you been watching the news? People get fired for that shit.

  • You can't write about how, in the course of six months, a dominatrix you met through a writing project became one of your most trusted friends. Those S&M leather chicks are freaks. You can't be associating yourself with them.

  • You can't write about the new guy with the outdated name who was funny in the most unintentional of ways. You can't write about how you were sort of into him in that "we just met but he has a positive energy" sort of way, but he vanished without a trace. You'll want to write "Dude what the fuck I thought movies and brews was a good time?" Don't write that. It'll make you look like a dumb ass.

  • You can't write about driving your ex-girlfriend to the doctor's office. You can't write about driving her to the hospital. You can't write about driving her to the police station.

    You can't write about the comment from an officer that she overheard, the comment that left her crying in the car for twenty minutes.

    You can't write about the Lowe's receipt you keep in your wallet as some sort of fucked-up souvenir, the one you received after purchasing a drywall patch to fix the hole you left in her wall when she told you what happened to her.

    You can't write about the dozens of winter nights spent on her couch to make her feel safe. You can't write about sleeping on her couch and entertaining thoughts of being in her bed.

    Because you're like, totally gay, and being gay is natural, so wanting her is completely against nature, right? She's your lesbian ex-girlfriend for a reason.

  • You can't write about the dream you had about him. The two of you haven't been speaking to each other because of what he said. In your dream he's crying, his face buried in your chest. You run your fingers through his dark hair and feel the tears soak through your shirt. You wake up from your dream and decide to call him, and as you wait for his answer you wake up, realizing you had still been dreaming.

    You pull yourself out of bed, look at yourself in the mirror, explore your living room and kitchen to make sure you're awake and in the real world. Your fight with your friend suddenly seems petty and with his current living situation you know he needs your support. You decide to call like you did in the dream. He answers. He says he really appreciates the call but asks if he could call you back. He says he's been "sobbing like a little bitch" all morning, and is embarrassed to be on the phone in such a sorry state of affairs.

    You can't write about this, because events like this don't happen in reality. If you write about this you admit that it happened, that it's somehow real. If you admit that it's real it means you're crazy.

    When your other friend tells you about the coworker who called to tell him about a "really vivid dream" she had about him and his history, laugh along with him as if you think she's crazy, too. Those odd people with their fucked-up dreams... those psychopaths need to get a grip!

  • You defintitely can't write about the sex dreams you had about your crying friend every time you were angry with the person you were seeing at the time. That would be, you know, trashy.

  • You can't write about the events that made up the beginning of the year 2011, especially in the form of bullet-point lists of things you can't write about.

You can't write about anything on that list. Ever. Just don't do it.

However, you can write about how, as March comes to a close, the promotion at work finally comes through.

You can write about the dominatrix who can keep up with your dialogue and reads all the same books and brings you soup when you're sick.

You can write about the new guy with the outdated name who left some really damn good beer in your refrigerator, and how good that beer tasted as you worked on a cover story for the magazine you've been writing for.

You can write about the call from your ex-girlfriend, the one where she said she could sleep in her apartment alone tonight. You can write about how you threw the Lowe's receipt away.

You can write about how you'll always have an open shoulder for the friend who won't stop crying, even though you think he's sort of an ass... an adorable ass, but still an ass.

You can definitely write about the sex dreams you've had about him. That shit's hilarious.

Still don't write about your other dreams.

They make you look like a weirdo.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Social Media is Destroying my Life: Twitter and Friendship

Social media is going to be the end of my social life.

I have a friend. She's attractive and funny and always the first to raise her glass in a toast. She's a little insane, but that's okay, I enjoy the craziness, and for the most part her feet are planted firmly on the solid grounds of reality. What I'm trying to say is, she's a cool chick.

I cherish my time spent with her. We share lazy days, trips to the mall, and late nights composed of poor decisions.

The problem comes when we're apart. We separate from whatever our most recent adventure was, exchanging hugs and good wishes before returning to the usual monotony of our everyday lives.

I'll log into twitter... and it happens. 

JustinsFriend23: stuck in traffic... UGH.

What is that disgusting noise you just made through text? And are you tweeting while driving? Put your phone away girl! That's dangerous! You can bitch about traffic next time we meet for drinks. We're still on for happy hour later this week, right?

JustinsFriend23: who do you think you are, running round leaving scars, collecting your jar of hearts, and tearing love apart...

Oh... lyrics to that insanely depressing Christina Perri song. Do we need to have drinks sooner? Should we cancel drinks and schedule you an appointment with a therapist?


No matter how appetizing your food looks in front of you, the flavor never translates well through photography. But this reminds me, we should get appetizers when we hit up happy hour this week!

JustinsFriend23: Ugggghhhh my boss just gave me a project that I don't want to do! Ugh!

That sound again? Twice? Friend, I understand that you're frustrated with work, and if you'd have complained to me in person (we're still on for happy hour later this week, right?) I'd be completely sympathetic, but when you post something like this online you come off as a whiny twat who doesn't give a fuck about her job. But you're not like that! You're my friend! You're a positive, vibrant person, someone I can share secrets with over happy hour.

JustinsFriend23: UGGGHH this girl in line in front of me at the store is taking FOREVER. What a bitch. #pissed

You know what, friend? Maybe YOU'RE the... never mind.

By the way, I just remembered, I can't get together for happy hour later this week. I already made plans with @JustinsOtherFriend23. We're going to the bar to complain about life. We'll be the self-centered assholes that the bartender's tweeting about.

Friday, March 18, 2011

18 Hours of Fuckery - Chapter III: Guthrie the Dog

After returning to campus from an early morning’s work, you stop at your apartment to gather your books and the flash drive that holds your final paper. You’re short on time, and lose a few minutes after having to break into your room after realizing you’d locked your keys inside it (again).

Within twenty feet of leaving your house a dog approaches you. He’s an orange-colored, normal-sized, unleashed dog. You look around for an owner.

“Dog, where is your owner?” you say. A combination of being tired and hungover and ready to call this day finished at ten in the morning has left you insane. You are talking to animals in public.

You decide that it’s time for priorities. You need to stop at the library where you work, print off your paper, and go to class. There is no time for this dog. You will ignore it, no matter how adorable he acts.

The dog follows you. God. Damn. It.

“Come on Guthrie,” you say, realizing that passing strangers probably think you’re insane, “Looks like you’re with me for now.”

You’ve named him Guthrie after your favorite superhero. You’ve always wanted a dog named Guthrie.

When you get to the library, you bring him into the lobby, which is closed off by a second set of doors.

“Guthrie, I swear, if you shit on anything I will hate you forever,” you tell him. Coworkers and students stare at you in confusion as you leave the dog in the lobby. You print off your paper and return to the lobby to find that, thankfully, Guthrie hasn’t shit on anything. A girl is petting him and asks if he’s yours.

“For now at least,” you say, “Come on Guthrie, let’s get to class.”

As you walk you use your phone to post a craigslist ad for a found dog. Without a leash, Guthrie runs circles around you, occasionally getting distracted by all the students walking around campus. Every few minutes you have to release a sharp whistle and say, “Guthrie, get over here!” as bystanders look at you like you’re a crazy person.

At this point you can’t disagree.

Your class is on the third floor of a building, but luckily the stairway is right at the entrance, so it’s easy to sneak him up the stairs. You make Guthrie pinky-swear that he won’t shit in the classroom, but you’re not sure if you trust him. He doesn’t seem very serious about his promise and his pinkies are questionable.

Your teacher, being a lover of all creatures, doesn’t mind him curiously sniffing around the classroom as she lectures.

After class you find an e-mail from a girl who is almost sure that it is her dog Cinnamon.

You look down at Guthrie, “You’re a chick? And possibly a stripper?”

You never thought to check for dog balls. But in your defense Cinnamon was acting very boyish.

You return Guthrie to his… her owner, who lives three blocks from your apartment, and who judging by her attire, is either a Hooters waitress or a Hooters enthusiast. You don’t think to ask.

She attempts to give you twenty dollars, but you decline.

“Nah it’s all right. Guthrie’s a cool dude. We had a good time.”


Fine. Cinnamon.

You return home and collapse into your bed, exhausted from eighteen hours of “What the fuck?” and “Seriously?”

Man, I should have returned Guthrie after my nap.

I bet he’s the best cuddler ever.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

18 Hours of Fuckery - Chapter II: Stickyfingers, Roundabouts, and Ducks

You wake up on a Friday morning hungover, cursing yourself for staying out so late as you pop a children’s vitamin and eat a cup of applesauce (it’s a hangover miracle cure that you swear by even though it never works).

Today you’re going to a different school than your usual one. Most of your coworkers are students like you, so for two weeks your schedule is sort of strange, teachers swapping shifts and locations to make time for studying and final exams.

Directions in hand, you brush the snow (you could have sworn it was raining as you drunkenly stumbled home five hours ago… Ohio you kooky fuck) off your car and begin your drive.

Your drive takes you a little outside of Columbus, down a country road.

Where am I?

Your directions become useless as you realize every sign is covered in snow.

Fuck. Where the hell am I? Was that a barn?

You drive and drive, looking for some indication that there’s a school nearby, but find nothing but stray farm houses and railroad tracks.

Why the fuck is there a roundabout in the middle of this fucking cornfield? And what is it about having money that makes white people start putting roundabouts everywhere?

A deer? A fucking deer? At a dead end? I am for sure about to get murdered.

Okay… I’m crossing a body of water and there are ducks. There is water and ducks. What the fuck? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

On a lonely road you find an ice cream place called Stickyfingers (really?) and decide to ask for directions. Discovering that it’s closed, you go to the bait-and-tackle shop next door.

A bait-and-tackle shop? Where the fuck am I? Why is it open at seven in the morning? Fuck, it’s past seven, I’m late.

The man behind the counter gives you directions and an orange soda in a glass bottle “on the house,” probably as a reward for traveling to 1958 in your Bonneville.

You pass the school on accident, because it is hidden behind a giant hill and a pond, because at this point, that makes sense.

You spend your early shift tired, ready to leave so you can go back to campus, print off your final paper for class, and turn it in.

Hopefully nothing makes you late…

Monday, March 14, 2011

18 Hours of Fuckery - Chapter I: The King of Twinks

You go out on a Thursday night on a whim. A message from a past roommate brings you to a campus bar for drinks. You have work early at the before-school program in the morning, but it’s okay, you’ll only be out for a few drinks, in bed by ten for sure.

You buy a round, he buys a round, you buy a round. You buy another drink when you run into your favorite coworker from the library. You buy another when you run into a coworker from a media relations job over the summer. Your coworker from the summer is named Emmie. She’s fun and pretty and you can talk about boys with her, so you decide to accompany her to a nearby bar.

It’s past ten, but you’ll just have a few more drinks, you’ll be in bed by eleven.

At the bar Emmie points out a boy she thinks is cute. He is, a boyish, dark-haired, slender silhouette, dancing his heart out with his girlfriends.

“He’s hot, you should talk to him,” Emmie says.

You mumble something about his dumb ass skinny jeans and assume the discussion is over.

After excusing yourself to the restroom, you return and Emmie pounces you in a burst of excitement.

“Justin,” she says, gesturing to the boy in the skinny jeans who is standing next to her, “This is…” and she says a name that you’ll forget by morning. Emmie leans into you and whispers, “He said you were hot.”

Oh my God Emmie I’m going to kill you.

You decide to go with it. Your flirting could use some work and besides, you’re only going to be here for like, one more drink anyway… maybe two. You admire his jawline and his dimples and his hair.

After introductions and small talk, he says, “I’m so drunk.”

He says, “I got these drinks for free.”

He says, “I just broke up with my boyfriend of a year on Sunday.”

Emmie I hate you and I’m never talking to you again. Christ.

Maybe you’ll fuck him just so he shuts the hell up. He suggests talking outside, which you discover is an excuse to smoke.

It’s like you read a manual, “Shit that Makes Justin Not Want to Make Out with You.”

He goes on and on about how he broke up with his boyfriend of a year and how he’s so over it, how he gets free drinks everywhere he goes.

“They call me the King of Twinks,” he says. Apparently you’re in the presence of royalty.

I hate you and Emmie and everything right now.

“The other week a bar paid me to be there.”

Yeah… um… that actually doesn’t make sense and is almost certainly a lie, but I feel like you need to believe it so I’m not going to call you out on how that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and presses himself against you, his face lingering too close.

The King of Twinks, tight-bodied and cute and completely disposable. You could take him home, fuck him senseless (which is very possible, considering it would take you forever to get off with someone so easy to forget), and drop him off the next morning on the first street corner you find.

You think back to January, about the man who shared your name who was charming and handsome and capable of keeping up with your banter, and regret not going home with him. What was your reasoning for that again?

“I’m so drunk. I don’t even know what’s going on,” the King of Twinks says, his ash-laced breath getting trapped in your mouth, “Let’s get another drink. I drink for free, you know.”

Your cock wouldn’t be able to taste the smoke in his mouth.

You think about work the next morning and one of your favorite kids (Oh parents? Teachers always have favorites), the one you always joke about kidnapping, raising as your own for a few years, and then giving back to his mom when he hits puberty and becomes an asshole.

The King of Twinks has no business in your imaginary home. He’d leave his free drinks and cigarettes all over the house. Your kid’s real mom would be so pissed when you returned him and she discovered that not only did her son grow up to be an acne-ridden asshole, but a drunk one that smelled like ashes and butane.

“I have to go,” you say, “I have work in the morning.”

“Just go hungover.”

You look at the time and realize that you’re probably going to work hungover anyway.

You return the King of Twinks to his friends, unharmed and unfucked, and tell them to take care of him and that he’s so drunk. One of the girls gives you a warm smile and rolls her eyes at him as if to say, “That is so King of Twinks...”

On your walk home you find yourself hungry, but instead of stopping at the tempting Taco Bell on the way, you decide that if you’re going to work tired and hungover, you might as well stay up late and make something in your own kitchen. Your cooking isn’t the best, but you’ve been meaning to work on it, no better time than two in the morning when you have poor motor skills and work in five hours.

Because if you’re going to kidnap one of the kids from work and raise them as your own, they’re going to deserve some home-cooked meals.

And somebody who doesn’t fuck people who refer to themselves as the King of Twinks.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Everything's Better When You're Naked

If you're reading this chances are you're one of my friends or a visitor who wandered over here from The Naked Redhead (not porn since 2008).

She's currently out of town and let me take the wheel of her blog for the day. I'm doing my best not to crash it into a ravine.

So if you haven't already, check it out.

Because I know you're just fucked enough in the head to want to read about where I put (and don't put) my privates.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Bud Light Forties, Hockey Pucks, and Big Labatt Blues

Back in January I went to a Columbus Blue Jackets game. I got the ticket free through my job with a Columbus magazine, and took the opportunity to spend some time with my coworkers and watch sweaty, muscular men slide around and smash into each other (and restrain myself from tossing my underwear at Rostislav Klesla).

This is the story of that Saturday night:

 “Excuse me, I think you’re in my seat.”

I looked up to see a downright gorgeous face: blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw, dimples. It was a face that had “Hollywood” written all over it. I really can’t stress it enough. When I use words like “handsome” and “beautiful” and “holy hot damn,” I mean them.

I actually stuttered as I first talked to Hollywood, apologizing for the unnecessary seating mix up and the drink I’d left in his cup-holder. How embarrassing.

He waved a tall can of Labatt Blue, “It’s okay, we both have the same beer anyway.”

The same beer? This is fate, right?

Throughout the game I bonded with Hollywood and his group of friends. Most of them were coworkers in the same office, and a few, including Hollywood, were gay. I learned Hollywood’s name was Justin (we already had so much in common!). I referred to his friends as Hockey Girl, Gorgeous Redhead, Glasses Guy, Buzzcut Guy, and the Couple. The Couple were boring in that way that people who have been dating for a long time but still have mostly single friends are. They probably aren’t actually boring, but compared to their friends still out in the dating world, their stories just don’t compete.

The group and I bonded over Labatt Blue and hockey and celebrated getting free tickets through our jobs. We bonded over mutual intoxication and shouting profanities around children and giant bags of cotton candy.

“Hey,” Hockey Girl whispered in my ear, “You should come drink victory forties with us in the parking garage after the game.”

Like I’m going to say no to that.

After the game finished I left the stadium with my coworkers and wished them a good night. Hockey Girl called me and gave me directions to their location in a nearby parking garage, and soon a small group of us were sitting in a car drinking Bud Light forties.

Justin and I decided we should depart from the group and find a dark corner to make out in. Because if you have a chance to get drunk at a hockey game and have a celebratory make-out session with somebody completely out of your league that shares the same name as you, you’d be a jackass not to take it. He tasted like Labatt Blue and sugar and a smokey flavor I couldn't quite discern, like wood or coal.

You guys, hockey is the best sport ever.

I should really start determining what sports I like based on the sports themselves and not whether attending their games result in sloppily kissing a stranger in a parking garage.

“Justin!” Hockey Girl shouted after several minutes, “Come on! It’s time to go!”

“In a minute!” I yelled back.

“Not you,” she said with her drunken little giggle, “Other Justin.”

The group insisted I come to a nearby bar with them, but I declined, having made plans with friends on campus. I promised Hockey Girl we’d be in touch and I’d come find them later in the evening, and she clapped her hands in excitement.

I ran around campus with some friends, stumbling into house parties and bars until Hockey Girl’s text messages ordering that I come hang out with them became too much for me to resist. I missed Hockey Girl, and in my inebriated state I knew that I just had to see her.

I met up with my friend Niraj, who found the entire situation of going out with strangers I’d met at a hockey game hilarious (although as a mild-mannered, quiet person he finds most of my behavior hilarious), and we called Hockey Girl to see where she was.

We met them at a bar in Columbus’s Victorian Village, a neighborhood filled with old, well-lit homes and small businesses, close enough to the Arena District to be considered part of the city but far enough away to avoid the problems the city brings. The group took a liking to Niraj, and kept trying to get him to drink even though he hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in years.

After an hour of drinking and hogging the jukebox, Hockey Girl decided it was time to get the party moving. We stopped at Glasses Guy’s apartment, collected some Labatt Blue tall boys (for hockey!) and hit the sidewalks of Victorian Village, oversized cans pouring out of purses and pockets.

We danced in front of a fortune teller’s shop to music from Gorgeous Redhead’s phone. We played a game of street hockey with the pucks that had been given out for free at the game, and not having sticks, made due with our feet.

We stumbled and slipped through the park, down alleys, past homes of people smart enough to go to bed at a decent hour and not wander around in the cold drinking in public.

At one point Glasses Guy collected several empty cans off the ground, saying, “You guys, littering is not okay. We have to find somewhere to put these.”

He proceeded to leave a can pyramid on the welcome mat of a nearby home.

Throughout the night Justin would whisper nice things in my ear, take me by the hand, leave kisses on my forehead.

He slipped and fell on the ice, and when I attempted to help him up, he pulled me down with him.

Later, as we walked down yet another street, Hockey Girl loudly whispered, “Justin, You should be careful around Justin. He’s a player.” Justin made a face of mock surprise.

I mouthed the words “I know.”

As the night was coming to a close, members of the group hugged and wished each other safe walks home. Niraj clapped me on the back and said good night.

Justin and I were left alone on a quiet street. He intertwined his fingers with mine, rubbing his thumbs along my hands. With Labatt Blue breath he said, “Do you want to sleep at my place tonight?” Sleep? Justin, you crack me up.

As I imagined his sure-to-be incredible body intertwined with mine, about the inevitable pleasure that he was sure to provide, about a morning that would be slightly awkward but in a sort of charming way that would leave behind no emotional residue, I heard myself say, “No. Not tonight.”

He playfully patted his chest and said, “Ouch.”

“You don’t hear ‘no’ very often, do you?” I asked with a raise of my eyebrow.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

I pulled him into a hug and thanked him for an entertaining night. His body was warm in the chill of the wind and he whispered one more time into my ear.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you talking into my right ear because you know people are more responsive to that side?”

He tightened his embrace for a moment before releasing and said, “You know only players and car salesmen know that. Which one are you?”

He said it in a way that sounded scripted, a line repeated over the years that dozens of others have heard.

In reality Justin and I weren’t really interested in each other. We were interested in making a story. We wanted to be able to tell the story of the time we went to a hockey game and made out with a stranger of the same name who just happened to be in the adjoining seat.

We were just two Justins who wanted to, if only for a moment, be assured we were capable of being loved.

So while I know that Justin and his Hollywood looks weren’t meant to be mine, that we didn’t share the true compatibility necessary to build something real, and while I might ever-so-slightly regret not going home with him, I’ll fondly look back on our one ridiculous evening together. Every time I drink a Labatt Blue, I’ll raise it to him.

We’ll always have the parking garage.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

I Throw Stuff at Your Kids for a Living

At the beginning of the year I started a part-time job with a before-and-after school program.

I have to wake up at six in the morning. I've had to clear the snow and ice off my car in the early morning and endure cold, dark commutes for shifts that are only 2-4 hours.

And the pay? Don't get me wrong, having an additional paycheck is nice, but I won't be rolling around naked in piles of twenty-dollar bills anytime soon.

But this is one of the best jobs ever.

My first day I relaxed in a beanbag chair and had a conversation with some 5th grade girls about how boys are stupid. Because they like, totally are.

I get paid to build roller coasters with K'NEX (almost finished!), draw silly pictures, play board games, and sometimes in gym I even get to throw projectiles at children.

That's how you play dodge-ball. Stop judging me.

A few years ago I spent a night in jail coloring with prisoners. Now I'm spending mornings getting paid to color with children. Somebody call Oprah, because somebody turned this life around. I'm inspirational as fuck.

This week I got my first artwork gift from a student. It's a picture of a dog, and it's hanging from my refrigerator now. It's the best picture of a dog ever, and if you try to claim otherwise I'll break your legs and leave you behind a dumpster (I'll have to hide your body, because obviously I won't want the kids to see).

I'm like a mom, but without the vagina or responsibility.

At this point I decided I need a kid to raise like, yesterday. And a dog, preferably one like in the picture.

But I'm assuming a child falls somewhere under the "no pet" rule in our lease, so I guess it'll have to wait. I have a history of impulsive decisions anyway, I'd probably get bored with parenting in like a week.

Dude get out of here I'm not your dad anymore. You need to go find a new family so I can watch some TV, and I know Arrested Development isn't appropriate for your age group.

For 13 hours a week I'm responsible for the health, safety and development of some brilliant, hilarious, and good-hearted kids. I'll try not to fuck them up.

Everyone else, and when I say everyone I mean everyone, please try to do the same.