Getting to be that age: or all of my friends are getting married now.

Dear anyone who misses The O.C., people who justify buying $400 worth of goods in addition to your initial $5 purchase at target, and Ronda Rousey:

Wow. November.

The time these days does appear to be flying. And oh my god was fall not awesome?! What with the seventy degree days and all those wonderful football injuries that fucked you over on your fantasy leagues?

It could be worse! You could be me! I just spent the last four months going to weddings.

Let that sink in. August to November. Seven weddings.

And when I say I went to seven weddings what I mean is collectively, I was blessed to sit at, and take in seven individually different celebrations of love for people that I love, people that I know cordially, and people I also found myself asking, “who the fucks wedding am I at right now?” for.

And I don’t know maybe it’s me, or like maybe it’s the way my mind works but I totally saw myself married by now. I’m 27, but I feel 43, and the time that I have been alive, I think might be greater than the time I have left.

It sounds fucked up when I read it but these are the thoughts I had sitting around and watching people celebrate their confirmed dedication to each other for the rest of their lives.

THE REST OF YOUR LIVES.

Guys. Do you know what it’s like to sit and watch people get married seven times in four months?

It’s exaugsting.

It’s nauseating.

Not for the married couples. For me.

And no before you all get angry and say things like “Well fuck Alex that asshole should have stayed home he’s not even that great, why did we even waste money on him to sit at a table and eat our caterers food.” No stop that’s not what I mean.

And don’t kid yourself, even if you didn’t invite me I would have shown up, because I don’t understand boundaries.

I didn’t mean it like that though. I’m eternally grateful that you all invited me to be part of your special days. So I could sit. And watch. And think.

Wait.

No I don’t want to think.

Is this open bar? I’m not drinking?

Shit.

Fuck.

So I think my life dilemma right now is that you guys figured your shit out before me. And maybe I’m a little jealous? I mean I’m happy for you guys it’s truly great that you all are in love and this all went swimmingly but now I’m entering the holidays and all I can think about is, should I have gotten a diamond ring instead of that bowflex machine? Have I been taking the right steps in life while I sit idly by and watch all my friends and all of my significant others friends tie the knot? And all of the “I’m sorry you’re a distant cousin to who and you’re marrying that guy who I will likely never see again but he’s a Giants fan so kinda win win?” get hitched?

I’m still riding public transportation and I still get butt hurt when the McDonald’s drive through people get my order wrong! I’m not an adult I can’t function outside of my domicile where my three cats keep watch over my emotions and I can sob into calico fur pillows and pretend the smell of dog is like that of the honeysuckle and bliss I assume all you married couples constantly detect indefinitely five minutes after you say “I do”.

Marriage is terrifying! I got a smattering of ceremonies that ranged from “hey you down?” to forty five minutes of bible scripture and just shy of a Grey’s Anatomy season finale emotional roller coaster.

And you’re telling me this is all something I have to commit to doing someday?

And going with my better judgment and a survey of my co-workers I have abandoned my original plan to grade each individual wedding and lose friends, and just go with an overall questions, concerns and advice proposal to recap all that I learned about sitting in two churches, four banquet halls, a barn and a field of snow.

1. First and foremost how do you guys decide who sits where?

Like I understand the hierarchy of family first and then non immediate family but then you have to remember where you sat people you don’t like who didn’t get along with so and so last Christmas and oh god the in laws need to be near the parents but not far from aunt Margery who is off boozing away at the wine bar because you couldn’t find a spot for her at the family table so you put her with your roommate from college that had two kids one by a guy she met at a dirt bike convention and a second with your fourth cousin twice removed but now she’s single and loving it.

It’s just a headache. Why not put cards out and let people pick?

That seems like it would alleviate a lot of problems too especially since people don’t like dancing and that way they can just chow down in the corner and spend the rest of the night watching what their friends on Facebook are doing that they aren’t.

Also why did you seat me in the background? Do I smell? Were my chiseled features not good enough to make an appearance in the “natural” looking wedding photos?

2. I need a five minute sit down with your caterers!

Your weddings, although glamorous and glitzy gave me just cause to file grievances with the department of health. Do you understand what eating copious amounts of prime rib and dinosaur BBQ does to ones waistline?!

Like who the fuck do you think you are feeding me all this delicious food?

I was a 36 in July! A 36!

Now, I am waiting for thanksgiving to roll around and I have already surpassed my holiday weight gain limit and here I am over in the corner of my future in laws a-frame cabin in Tennessee pouring tears out of my eyes and into a bowl of stuffing and mashed potatoes that I know doesn’t need any more salt but fuck it what else are these tears good for?!

And you get to offer buffets to your guests?! Do you know who needs to eat a buffet?! No one that you expect to dance for four hours afterward! I’m honestly not sure how people didn’t barf after half of these gatherings. Like if Jason Derulo wasn’t enough to get the party going you had to offer me smoked brisket slathered in sweetened pork gravy love atop a pile of puréed cheddar potatoey goodness that has enough roasted garlic in it that nasfuratu would shit himself upon it being plated in front of him?

Dammit no. I want my abs back.

Ok I never had them but still! My restraints in life come from two things, knowing when to stop listening to Justin Bieber in front of women and knowing when you don’t NEED to buy that shirt because you have bills to pay this month, and frankly I’m kind of struggling with one of those.

Point is, can we all just pick something light and cheap like Tyson anytizers or like literally anything off the dollar menu of Taco Bell?

My food consumption is an issue. I’m lookin at you Mazzone Catering, with your after dinner and dancing sliders and fries. Knock that shit off. It’s too delicious to say no to.

3. Go home ceremony length you’re drunk.

There is one smidgeon of a question I had from all the weddings that I want to take note of, and it pertains to the actual ceremony. You know the part where you pledge your undying love to each other before you whip and nae nae your sweaty bodies all over the place like you know culture because the YouTube showed you how!

Is there like a time frame the wedding ceremony itself is supposed to go? Because I feel like as the months passed they just got progressively shorter, like some higher being was looking down and thinking, “God these people aren’t gonna make it, just let them get drunk and forget that they haven’t been sexually active in months. Let’s go pastor Bill, make the upper hand joke and get these two in front of hundreds of people clinking their champagne glasses for the rest of the night”.

And a side note. I know it’s cute to have an outdoor wedding. But snow. No. Just no. Have a backup. I’m still nursing a knee injury from a pop warner game back when I was fifteen and it doesn’t know how to hang below thirty eight degrees.

Time heals all wounds my ass.

4. Please for the sake of me choose your music carefully.

Band or DJ is the quintessential question at hand here and honestly unless you hit the big payload from the lotto or you work at Regeneron I wouldn’t bank on booking Bon iver to woo your guests into magical wedded bliss with his sensual voice.

Plus who wants people having sex at their wedding?

No listen, if your DJ has the Macarena, the chicken dance, the cha cha slide or the Cuban snuffle or whatever other jalopey might instruct you how to dance in their playlist, give them the boot! Anyone can see that a DJ who grabs a top twenty playlist off iTunes immediately resorts to the regular charades about ten songs in, they cue the twist! Make them soulja boy! Now quick! Everyone who’s married start dancing and I’ll just start counting and you’ll sit down when we have passed the number of years you have been married.

I don’t have the time. Obviously there are some old ass people here and your inability to count by fives is going to take at least a half hour away from time I could be hearing the weekends new hit single! Btw ‘unforgettable’ by Nat King Cole seems to be the go to song for the guess who has maintained putting up with each other longest game.

And if you go live band, is it appropriate to see if they can switch songs spontaneously and groove their way from back to black into backstreet boys? Like honestly I myself am holding out for Lou Bega to hit me back in regards to performing at my wedding. But if that falls through I can always ask this guy Paul I work with to croon everyone with his hits of the forties.

5. Are your wedding photos sacred?

I am genuinely sorry in advance for any and all mistrust and confusion that I may cause by inserting really awkward faces and messages into any and all of the memories you hoped to preserve on your special day. I fully intend to continue this trend into my own wedding photos if it’s any condolence.

I just have this awkward face and all of these glorious moments where your cameras just seem to focus on me. I can only look pretty so much!

Honestly, let me just say this. All of your special days were lovely and I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t get to celebrate with you guys. None of you got drunk before the ceremony. None of you needed that extra Xanax to get you down the aisle. And none of you vomited in a bathroom to the best of my knowledge.

You all get an A. You’re all Glen CoCo and you all go.

But if someone asks I’m officially wedding-ed out. I hope your love and happiness lasts forever like the profound impact that ‘wrecking ball’ had on me when it came out.

Until next year. Like October next year. When I have to actually be in a wedding for the first time. As the best man.

And try ever so hard to not fuck that up.

But in case I do, I at least have this blog to share about how it all goes down.

Sincerely,

A guy who is really sorry in advance Kurt and Rachelle’s wedding guests.

P.s. Most things are garbage.

 

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Culturally Insensitive: or something like that.

Dear Post Coital Couples, anyone who has strawberry blonde hair that I have referred to as a ginger, and any men who can grow a beard bigger than mine, which I know isn’t hard but still fuck all you guys:

Pop culture is one of those things I can generally do without in my life on a regular basis, but it’s also one of those things I really fucking love being part of my life. It’s a conundrum, I know. But good god it’s a really large issue for me.

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And honestly it raises questions internally that I come to find I have about myself. Like when I’m standing in a group of friends three days after I tell my girlfriend that pop culture doesn’t matter that much to me, and I’m trying to play it cool, glaring at friends through my horn rimmed glasses and flicking the cherry of my clove cigarillo, listening to all of them go on and on about the drivel that takes up their lives and then one of them says something like “ugh I can’t believe the Kardashian’s are even still relevant” and then something clicks inside me and I feel this need to defend the honor of these strangers I don’t even know and I come back with something just undeniably ridiculous like, “Excuse me what the fuck do you mean by that? The Kardashian’s are one of the most relevant groups of celebrities today!” And then I see them judge me and I’m quick to cover my statement and make it sound like I was truly just being sarcastic by following that up with “Kim gave one of the most memorable blow jobs of our time!”

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Everyone lol’s. Crisis averted.

For now.

But then I remember how close I was to admitting I have a problem.

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I think my brain gave up hope on trying to justify my cultural likings. Obviously I won’t be that guy who justifies going to see the next Nicholas Sparks movie because honestly fuck Nicholas Sparks and fuck his movies. Did you even bother taking time to see ‘A Walk to Remember’? That was the last culturally relevant movie that was made based on a book of his. You can put eight million Zac Efron’s and twelve Ryan Gosling’s into a Nicholas Sparks film but no matter what the context, even if you make them have the all time greatest homosexual on screen romance with graphic animalistic sex scenes, but you cant top the performance Mandy Moore gave to that film. Honestly, when she died, I died.

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I don’t believe anyone that says they didn’t.

I digress…

The problem, is that my tastes, while firm and finite in my mind, are scattered all over the fucking place like the lost souls of celebrity children who end up cutting their hair, experimenting with drugs, and filming themselves taking it on camera.

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For example. because I know this isn’t going to resonate with everyone, lately there have been a multitude of things that hit home for so so many in their heart of hearts. But for so many other reasons than the actual ones that I enjoyed them for.

Like ‘Hotline Bling’.

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You remember it. Drake, came out of the woodwork following some bang up tracks that put Meek Mill’s name to shame when he was trying to have a disgustingly simple rap battle over the interwebs. And suddenly, in all it’s glory, there was neon glow, backgrounds, and Drake. Dancing alone.

Why on earth was it so good? Was it good because of it’s healthy and incredibly catchy tune? Yes.

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Was it good because Drake is a cultural icon for anyone that feels the need to continue finding beer pong relevant and require background jams to get them through the fact that everytime they miss a shot they are admitting to the world just how inaccurate they are, both in sport and in life? Yes.

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But the reason it resonated with me? Drake officially gave his okay to white men everywhere to get drunk at weddings, bar mitzvahs, or whatever culturally boring event they want and dance like they are five stanky legs away from shaking out that bowel movement they have been holding in for an hour. I can literally scoot my pelvis around, point my fingers, and generally just wave my hand in different directions, and no matter what happens, if someone tries to call me out on it I can just start singing “You Used to Call me on my Cell Phone…” and they chuckle, and I continue my generic whitebread dance, and we all get along and go home after the wedding or four year old’s party at Chuckee Cheese and the whole world falls sleep saying something like…

“Damn, remember how awesome Alex was at dancing that hotline bling jig?”

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Straight up I have an issue with how I view things in the entertainment world. Are you enjoying watching American Horror Story this season?

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Awesome, me too! But guess what, not because its quality television! This whole baby vampire plot line was some twilight bullshit that Ryan Murphy ripped straight from the headlines of every article about how Twilight made a lot of money and teenage girls wanna watch Vampires scrump and feed on each other.

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And thank GOD we found all the hot gay actors to use as an opportunity to make GAGA appear well suited for the season, am I right ladies? Because that’s totally gonna work out when you become famous and come face to face with Matt Bomer and he feigns interest so he can keep scoopin on your male date’s wing-wang. Because how else would this season work, what with all of the awesome garbage they’re visually stimulating our eyeballs with, like blood, bleeding, and things covered in blood. Go team GLEE! You learned how to scare five year old kids with no imaginations!

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Want to know what does it for me? I am watching eagerly because I am hoping that eventually there is going to be something that genuinely scares me. I have such hope after the first two seasons that there is going to be something that would genuinely scare me, and then they went and put out two seasons filled with timid characters trying to find their ‘real selves’. I know…

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Gripe Gripe Gripe.

But seriously that’s the draw for me! I want that horror that genuinely instills fear in me. I haven’t seen an actually scary movie in SO LONG. I used to do a podcast centrally focused around movies and I even said on there that the horror films that get put out today are just a gross misrepresentation of what directors think we will be most afraid of, like gore, and sex, and gory sex.

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The Human Centipede series was legitimately the most mind numbing thing I have ever seen, even watching a persons mouth be pulled by needle and thread into the anus of another human, only to consume their poo and continue on in life as the nazi science project they are. Still no scare.

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Horror has lost its edge man. You wanna step back on the band wagon? Make some horror films about scary ass shit. Make me a horror film where you pull up the McDonald’s Drive through and everyone inside has been murdered and its late, and you know you cant go in there but the sheer fact that you wont be able to get that Big Mac you showed up for in the first place is just fucking terrifying lets be honest.

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Do you see where this is headed? I am a confused man child who cant get a grasp on what it is he likes. The good movies bore me. The boring movies make me horny. And porn just doesn’t cut it anymore. Give me plot! Stop picking up girls on the side of the road and banging them in the back of a van. There is nothing sexy about that.

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That’s how you get the clap.

Am I honestly supposed to believe you just pick up these women who look like someone that has been rode hard and put away wet, and your first thought isn’t ‘How do I know this woman is clean?’

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You’re just going to chance it? BangBus I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.

I am going to be the guy that likes Batman v. Superman or whatever because Ben Affleck gives a stellar performance that I can actually hear because he isn’t grumbling through his overbite like that half bit hack Christian Bale used to. (Thank God)

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I am going to be that guy who gets stoked when the next Adele record comes out because I want to hear a female singer that might actually put out an album that doesn’t have more than one song on it about how a guy did her wrong. Adele already did that. I have high hopes that this one is going to have like A SINGLE song on it that references whatever sad bro gave up on a thicky thicky thick girl and now she hella famous and he’s shootin smack on the weeknights because his rent check bounces.

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I WILL STRAIGHT UP BE THE GUY WHO GOES TO SEE EVERY SINGLE TYLER PERRY FILM WHEN IT HITS THEATRES BECAUSE THOSE FILMS ARE EMOTIONAL GOLD. Not to mention the plot twists and sincerity that goes into the man’s work is just inordinately good! I give zero fucks! If you cant Madea then friends we can’t be-a.

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Do you understand internet? The straightforward course that you’ve all been running is misguided!

And now I’m here to fix it.

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One post at a time.

Sincerely,

Someone slowly slipping into the depths of irrelevancy.

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Be Underwhelming: Rules for Impressing Lovers on Vacation.

Dear Mom and Dad, Wegmans and whoever plans to travel soon,

I wanted to let you know that I heard your caution to take things slow during this new relationship. The advice you gave was clear and concise and any normal human being would heed your warnings.

But much like the time you told me not to try making s’mores in the toaster oven, and though I still maintain they would have tasted great regardless of the house burning down, I have chosen to ignore your decree.

And so in an attempt to woo my new lady of the night (no she’s not a hooker she just works until 6 so I usually only see her in the evenings), I asked her to go on a vacation.

I know what you’re going to say…and honestly, I feel like we have known each other for years! I really feel as though I know enough about her to invite her on a long car ride to meet family members I usually wait until the second Christmas to introduce.

I believe it was the wise Chris Brown who once spoke of amorous feelings when he said:

“I’m on some new shit, I’m chuckin them deuces up.”

Such wisdom. He most certainly does not GAF.

(Mom this means ‘give a fuck’)

And so we set out on a drive down the east coast to Virginia Beach for one unbelievably relaxing vacation. I figured I would just update you and let you know about all the rules I learned about vacationing with lovers and the plethora of events we got to experience together making our power couple status comparable to that of HOV and Bey.

Rule 1:

You’re going to want to get an early start on your vacation. In this case I made sure to accommodate our circumstances well. When I say circumstances I mean she drove the whole way. So as a surprise, and in order to ensure she wouldn’t have to hit rush hour traffic or be driving late into the evening, I set my alarm for 4:30 a.m. just to make sure she was wide awake and ready to cart our asses around.

Don’t worry, I used Miley Cyrus for an alarm ringtone so she would wake up really happy.

We stopped at McDonalds for breakfast, and I couldn’t decide which breakfast sandwich I wanted her to buy me more, bacon egg and cheese on a bagel or a biscuit, so I just ordered both with a coffee and I definitely should have gotten the biscuit only, the bagel was sub-par but whatever I didn’t buy it.

Well, whatever the mud they called coffee actually is, it ran through me quick and I had to stop at a rest area. Plus it gives your beau a half hour to stretch their legs while they cart your Ms. Daisy ass around.

Rule 2:

If you stop for bathroom breaks, take your sweet time. You’re gonna be on the road a while, and even if your partner doesn’t have to go, you don’t want to rush.

Also, in the event you clog the rest stop toilet, I know you are wondering and yes, definitely tell your boo as you exit the bathroom. They will be proud and they will congratulate you with things like:

“Those things are made to take down anything and everything…just…how?”

“You’re so pretty”

Rule 2a:

Fart.
Fart a lot.

Rule 3:

If you stop anywhere for an hour or two, and there is a mall nearby, and you’re a man, prepare to be there for three to four hours. I don’t plan these things well, and I like shopping, but somehow whenever my new boo takes me to the mall to grab

“a strapless bra”

it really means

“new flip flops, a maxi dress, wait maybe this maxi dress, or this maxi dress, can you pick one of these the navy with gray striped maxi dress or the navy with charcoal striped maxi dress, never mind I’ll get both, new hat just in case there’s sun, probably a soda, but no not that soda, I want the soda from that place, ew this one has zero carbonation, probably a haircut at this Sears salon would be cost affective and convenient because we’re here, don’t you need sweatpants oh well whatever I’ll just wear them, oh I work here so I get a discount we should walk the perimeter of the store eight times just in case I can use my store discount maybe, do you think it’s warm enough for flip flops maybe I should return them, oh and did you want to stop in the Chik-fil-a we originally came here to eat at?”

Rule 4:

As a passenger, it is your absolute duty to entertain the driver. They are going to get stressed, and you are going to hit traffic, and when you hit this traffic and they double down with exhaustion and anxiety and all they want to do is sleep and stop driving, that’s when you have to up your game and prove you are the best car co-pilot ever as well as a useful lover not just during the secks.

Tell them how good they’re doing. Things like:

“Honey, you’re overreacting you just need to learn how to merge properly.”

“That was the exit a half mile back you just chose not to get over so we’ll just find the re-route.”

“Your emotions are surprisingly tame for having your period, that in itself is something you should be proud of.”

And when THAT doesn’t work, pull out the big guns, and distract the other drivers trapped in the gridlocked hell by smushing your beautiful face against the passenger side window. Your driver will laugh through her tears and that four car fender bender you cause will be a distant memory in thirty to forty minutes.

Rule 4a:

Definitely take a lot of pictures of your girlfriend even if they don’t want you to, like in the rain or when they’re trying to “snuggle” or whatever.

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Rule 5:

No matter how good of a person you are, don’t fuck with the universe by saying things like “we made it safe and sound” a block from your destination…

…because the universe will summon animals, like Bambi…

…and your driver/girlfriend will barrel into Bambi’s skull at a high rate of speed…

…and she will have another panic attack because this is the first deer she has ever hit EVER and she will of course, have just been talking about how nothing has ever gone wrong with her car since she’s owned it just before this occurs.

Definitely keep your thoughts on safe arrival to yourself.

And whatever you do, don’t refer to your lover as Bambi murderer or Venison creator for the rest of the trip.

Rule 6:

Take some time for you. Get a pedicure. They are fantastic.

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The chairs assault your back like you owe it money, and they do all kinds of things to your feet that you never knew you could do. Like shave them, lotion them, and give your legs a massage that could make a paraplegic moan with joy.

Rule 6a:

Don’t make paraplegic jokes. Ever.

Rule 7:

Visit all the novelty gas stations/grocery stores/fast food joints you don’t get to in your shitty overbearing town of Albany, like Wegmans, WAWA, Wegmans, Sonic, Wegmans, White Castle, Chil-Fil-A, Wegmans, IKEA, and Wegmans.

Seriously, Albany, fucking Wegmans. Stop being so lame and just sell booze at the grocery stores this is ridiculous.

Rule 7a:

Something to keep in mind when traveling is that your bowels are on a fairly strict regimine. Disruption in the form of temperature change, altitude change, or even the stress of having to criticize someone else’s driving for a week can block you up for some time and that can get uncomfortable.

Definitely DO NOT get food at the above locations and pile it on top of the compounded issue.

UNLESS! You have never tried them before…

In which case, in order get the spicy chicken club sandwich with waffle fries, IKEAS Swedish Meatballs and a salmon dill wrap, McDonalds at least twice, a buffalo chorizo based egg dish for breakfast at a kick ass diner, any and all breakfast sandwiches at WAWA, seafood at the Virginia Beach shore in grilled and fried format, a gigantic bagel sandwich at a cute sandwich shop, a giant bagel schmeared with cream cheese also because YOLO, and a creamy chicken and spinach Alfredo.

But be warned, piling this internal organ layer of food together leads to the next rule.

Rule 8:

When you stop up your hotel rooms toilet, you absolutely positively need to notify your lover first. It doesn’t matter how invested in the current episode of ‘Flip it to Win it’ they are, you shut it off, look down at the ground shamefully, and then inform them that you’re going to have to be a little late to the free beverage and cheese hour at the hotel lounge because there is an inch of toilet water on the floor in the bathroom.

Then call maintenance. Priorities.

Then when maintenance arrives, say something to the effect of:

“I have no idea how that happened”

or

“Does this happen often?”

Then, because your insides didn’t suffer enough the last five days, go eat enough cheese and creamy pastas to block up someone with IBS comparable to that of Pompeii’s eruption.

Rule 9:

Because you got a great deal on Priceline from that guy from Star Trek, you are located on the 8th floor, in a private bode where silence is encouraged and loud noises are frowned upon.

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Take this opportunity to prove to the world that even though you’re not super well endowed (thanks a lot mom and dad), you can still get the job done.

I’m not saying to have the sex loud and rambunctiously while you’re on vacation, but I am saying you should at least spend some time slamming your palm against the neighbors wall while you make noises similar to the ones you’re going to hear when you visit the zoo the next day.

You’ll feel better. I promise.

And you definitely won’t cry by yourself eating leftover room service from the night before because your girlfriend “needed to hit the steam room for some alone time”.

Rule 10:

When you visit the museums your bae wanted to see, definitely opt for the audio tour. Even though they will complain afterwards about how much of a pain it was, it earns you an hour of silence while you pretend you’re listening to your tour but really are enjoying not hearing about how “tired” someone is from all the driving she has done.

Rule 11:

Other states don’t have the concept of always being hungry grasped, so you need to be aware, places like Richmond and Virginia Beach, close down their restaurants at 2 p.m. right at peak “grab a samwich somewhere to tide us over” time and then they don’t re-open until 5 when it’s dinner time.

You should definitely look like a man in front of your new girlfriend and freak out because you’re hangry and there is no where to get a god damn peice of food that isn’t from a seven eleven and you should definitely blow it out of proportion and pout because girls love that shit and when they tell you to stop being dramatic you should definitely blow that shit out of proportion and say things about how you should just break up then because obviously she doesn’t value your relationship when you can’t get a fucking sandwich after walking around all goddamn day and only eating a handful of goldfish.

(I used to have a temper problem and I’ve really been working on it at the request of my mother, and I think we can all agree looking back on rule 11 that we learned a really valuable perspective on how well we’re doing because we haven’t had an outburst like that in a while, and we are super fortunate to have a girlfriend who will at least wait until we get back home to break up with us so that we don’t lose control in a foreign state)

Rule 12:

If you do get pouty, definitely make sure when getting off your exit to go back to your relatives, that you exact revenge on the driver for calling you a princess and telling you to calm down by telling them you know where you’re going, and then saying left here, right there, for fifteen minutes before you end up in a church parking lot and then admit you have no idea where you were going and then when your girlfriend gets upset you have the upper hand and can say things like:

“Now who’s being the drama queen?”

You win.

FINALLY, Rule 13:

Make sure you tweet everything that happens. Broads love twitter. Document the trip, you’ll be better off:

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Still taken but unsure why,

Me.

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Leggings as a Thing: a Response to Fashion Week.

Dear Dolce and Gabbana,

It’s fashion week here in the Most Things are Garbage household.

This means three things.

Number one: the repercussions from Super Bowl are the devil. All that salsa laden food covered in various cheeses and seasonings probably influenced by salt has all settled in the mid section of my body, and it is holding my waistline hostage somewhere on the tipping point of a 31 spilling over into a 32.

But cheese. Dear god the cheese.

Number two: my cat and dog are not my biggest fans. Don’t get me wrong, dressing them up is great and fashion week is all about the looks, but my dog is super comfortable when he is naked and roaming free in life, and really who the hell isn’t?! It just makes it easier for him when he decides to embarrass me in front of all the dates I bring home from the Internet as he pleasures himself at their feet while we watch Amelie on the couch.

Number three: Research!

I believe it was Spider-Man who said “With great fashion comes great responsibility.”…

…or something like that.

I mean it’s 2014 now so I feel as though fashion is unbelievably lenient now-a-days, and that there is a lot more room to be flexible.

Personally, I’m usually an all dark everything-all black everything kinda guy usually. My standard wardrobe would make the interior of Drake’s Maserati blush.

As far as dress goes though, I am not on the up and up with the latest trends or the hot styles now. It is complicated and written a long while back, but if you really want to know the progression of my fashion technique, you can read this.

Basic gist: My mom picked out my outfits until I was 24 and I made those sex-bracelets out of soda cap things to wear, and then passed them off to my parents as me being creative and not at all slutty. Also, those bracelets didn’t work and I usually ended up breaking all of my own while I played with my action figures on a nightly basis. Then I made progress somewhere after an ex-gfs insistence that I dress human, I understood how important the world of fashion truly was. There’s only so many times someone can say, ‘Stop shopping at Delia’s’ before you finally start listening.

Blah blah blah, a few years later I’m basically Tyra Banks.

So I basically understood all things fashion except one:

When the fuck did it become socially acceptable to wear leggings as pants.

Mom! You didn’t prepare me for this!! I’ve seen some horrible things!

To me saying leggings are pants, is like saying cotton swabs make a good substitute for pepperoni as a topping on pizza. No, just stop it doesn’t make sense!

I had to get to the bottom of it, this fashion phenomenon that has been sweeping the world.

Well as I generally tend to do before I believe anything I’m told, I heavily considered setting out to conduct a very detailed experimentation. I weighed the pros and cons of actually wearing a pair of leggings as pants for 24 hours, and was quite hesitant but a friends Facebook post pretty much solidified the decision for me:

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Sold.

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Luckily for me, I gave up on shame several months ago. I mean really what does in matter in the long run, grand scheme of things in life, a male wearing leggings out as pants should be considered normal right?

Well staying true to the daily experiment, I began by purchasing a 10$ pair of jeggings at target in the women’s section. It was not awkward for I had my female companion in friendship in attendance with me. I grabbed a bag of gummy worms and a copy of Bridget Jones’ Diary for checkout so there would be no misconstrued notions about what I was doing.

“Ten dollars?!? Where did you find these?” exclaimed the female cashier.

Somewhere between shirts that look like dresses and accessories I have zero idea how to utilize.

One, two, skip a few and here we are at D-Day. I made sure to wear my leggings to bed so that I awoke physically wearing them for the start of my 24 hour period.

I fixed myself a pot of coffee and a hearty plate of bacon because, well these have an elastic waistband and who the hell am I trying to impress really?

I mean with the exception of that OkCupid date at Starbucks but was there any doubt that I wouldn’t kill that?

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And so, as their time wound down as house guests, Kurt and Rachelle in all their marital bliss, invited me to join them around the Capitol Region while they ran errands.

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I figured since I was basically going to be miserable wearing basically no pants all day, I may as well take in some pre-wedding bickering to really twist the whole knife of joy lodged in the torso that is my life.

Well we made our way through several locations to collect data, as will be evident below in the results. To begin, in the car I did the only thing any reasonable person would do when conducting an experiment of this caliber:

Post about it on Facebook.
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I apologize to no one. I have done everything right up to this point.

Next, I took a ‘from where I stand‘ photo to post to the Instagram at a later date after results were concluded.

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It was eerily reminiscent of the majority of shots I tend to see on the Instagram, so I knew I was doing something correct.

Suddenly, and without warning, my 00’s pop princess mix on Spotify was interrupted by the buzz and buffering of multiple notifications. Apparently, my post on the Facebook had caused a stirring in the loins of many females, and opinions began rolling in a la the form of comments:

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I am not saying no more pants is a bad thing. I’m also not saying the female who posted this has never taken her pants off in front of me.

(She hasn’t. I got friend zoned when I was like 9 for saying the word ‘vagina’ in front of her on the summer camp bus. Boys are gross.)

What I am saying, is that females rushing to the defense of their sacred skin-tites was not enough to convince me!

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Well you know women…20140210-155346.jpg

So of course there were many more opinions to be given:

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Obviously by this point I was welcoming any and all opinions because I knew in the long run half the research would be done for me. Part of the plan all along.

There were funny opinions:

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There were honest and sincere opinions:

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There was sassy-ness:

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There was classic disagreement amongst the female species:

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Obviously there would be no final group consensus as we all know that females can never just agree on something.

I knew that the fate of leggings as pants lay I’m the hands of me, and I had to get straight to business.

Below are my findings:

Daily itinerary by location:
Big Lots
The family Dollar
Michaels Craft Store
Starbucks (OkCupid first date)
Home

Variables:

Constant– me, my beauty, my ass, my sass, hair.

Changing– butt uncovered 50% of the time at each location, customer type in store.

Reasoning and rules:

1. The golden rule.

Leggings being worn as pants is applicable first and foremost ONLY if the booty is covered. It is scientifically proven, and therefore is the first regulation to this process. See scientific findings below:

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Booties are meant to be poppin, but not in leggings ladies. Covering your bottom makes all the difference out in public.

See:

Hot:

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Not:

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2. Present yourself well!!! 

Choose your outfit carefully. Whatever the fuck tunics are, they are apparently closely associated with the legging ensemble. I chose a tank top under an oversized sweater. It was sensible and not too ragged. It requires a certain chutzpah to pull it off in public, and while you may feel comfortable, the attitude makes all the difference between:

‘Look I’m lazy am I doing the shopping right oh god what is my life I miss my cats time to go home’

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And…

‘Look I’m basically Beyoncé you’re just frontin’, I AM Sasha Feirce and yuh jealous’

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3. Know what to expect.

There is a very good chance you are going to get some looks. Am I right or am I right ladies? You have to be aware of your surroundings, and science proves that with certain places come certain levels of judgment. In reality, we all know the real judgment free zone is not planet fitness, but Walmart.

Below are the findings from my day:
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If you notice, places you would expect to see leggings as pants (Big Lots, Family Dollar) are more judgmental than those places you are expected to be creative and different (Michaels, home). This is because your brain loses the ability to give a shit how you look when you go to locations you fully expect to see a lazy ensemble.

4. There is a direct correlation between pockets/zippers and comfort: 20140218-090744.jpg

Where sweatpants are basically the closest thing to allowing your bottom parts to feel more free than my refills at Starbucks, jeans can be binding and constrictive. Leggings comfort level becomes clear when put in these terms.

5. Say no to UGGS.

Look I’m not saying UGGS look stupid with leggings, I’m saying UGGS look stupid. You need to own this look, and frankly everyone looks foolish in UGGS.

Be a boss, sneakers for the win kiddos:

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Final verdict:

LEGGINGS ARE COMFY AS FUCKKKKKKK!!!

Here’s the bottom line though. If you love your body and you’re comfortable, who gives a shit what you’re wearing.

Odds are you’ll end up reclined in front of Netflix anyway.

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Honestly, with the amount of criticism put on body types and choice of dress nowadays, I personally vote for the whole if you like it, wear it at this point.

Science agrees:

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Just do you, learn to love the skin you’re in, and you’ll be fine.

And take lots of selfies…always…

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Bless this mess,
Alex.

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Throwback Edition: Excuse me, do you have this in a size impossible?

Dear Paris Hilton or anyone who starts a fashion line,

I dress like an asshole. I said it.

Now feel free to judge, although who are you now, really?

I was brought up on a budgeted shopping style and if my mother taught me anything, it is that everything goes down in price eventually. She calls it “bargain shopping”. Some refer to it as “being fiscally sensible”.

So it is no wonder that when I enter a store with the sole purpose to pick up garments, I legitimately b-line for the clearance rack faster than a Kardashian’s farce of wedded bliss.

I will admit, that in highschool, amongst the superior Abercrombie and Hollister models that walked the halls, with their frayed strapped flip flops, AE logoed ball caps, and seagull encrusted zip-zip hoodies, I adorned the most comfortable shoes I could slip on without using the laces at all, jeans that ranged, from falling off my ass, to putting my testicles in an ever-lasting chokehold with their tag team partner my thigh, all to be topped of with a t-shirt, usually of the graphic orientation.

I know. Teenagers, am I right? And like it wasn’t that I didn’t WANT to wear the clothes that the large chains had to offer, it was just that I usually waited until they appeared on the marked down rack in the local Marshalls.

“It’s just a phase, he’ll grow out of it.”

Absolutely. And no sooner did that happen, did I graduate from college and, you know, never have to see people that would care again. But did it make a difference? Of course not!

Let’s check out my old styling pick up lines:

“Hey Ladies, who wants to date this attractive man, donning a pair of DVS skate shoes covered in muck from working late nights at Cold Stone?”

“Bet you never saw a smurf-parody of The Sopranos on a t-shirt before, generally more attractive woman than me.”

“Really though miss, are these pants that look like they could be my mother’s really not doing anything for you?”

Thank the lord I was not able to walk into bars/clubs/opiate dens back then. I would have been chewed up and spit out, trying to product place my face into a girls memory, no matter how sloppy of a mess she was finishing off her 8th appletini.

Then came that wonderfully awkward point in life when I realized, while trying to actually start shopping for myself when it came to clothing that wasn’t a standard jean or t shirt, that my body is just ever so delightfully the shape of a pear sitting in an ice-cream cone.

Pants? Forget about it. What you mean you can’t find a size 42 waist with a 32 inseam? You mean, I will never be able to wear anything they even sell at the chain named stores because they only go up to 38 waists and their button ups are slim fit? Are you really trying to tell me that some men have large chests, and are just screwed if they happen to have a small body for the large width, they were ever so disgracefully granted in their genes?

A big-and-tall section, will not, and never has been a savior to me.

Im not sure what it was exactly that sparked the change in body shape but I got there eventually, to the point where I could actually fit into the clothing I WANTED. I didn’t have to spend fifteen minutes choking back tears in a dressing room anymore after realizing that none of the eight pairs of pants I brought in with me were going to fit.

I still have not adjusted to the what to wear when, what patterns should not be worn with which patterns, and how stripes work, but I am a work in progress as far as my style is going. Find me without a mismatched pair of neon colored socks, and it probably means I’m at a dressy event-wedding, interview, etc. I have officially managed to blend into the adult world now. Shirts tucked in, belts on, dressy shoes kept clean and shined. Pick me out of a crowd in their cubicles, you could not, unless you know me obviously.

Still to date I haven’t managed dressing appropriately for the cold weather. So that is why I delved into this diatribe against my dressing decisions, because I am officially sick. Laid up, in bed, with a head full of more pressure than a math major’s expectations for her son in school.

(sorry mom, I’m trying)

With Love,

Alex

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