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Day Thirty-Six.

I broke down today and told Chaz everything; that I’m moving; that Phil died; that I don’t know how to properly use semi-colons.

Everything is better now. He forgives me.

“You can make it up to me,” he said, “by finding us a new drug dealer…”

Nobody but Chaz knows I was there. And you. And I didn’t kill him or anything. I think.

Todd’s calling me. Hold on. Maybe Todd deals drugs now. Not worth picking up the phone to find out, though.

Okay, anyways: Phil died but my mind keeps going to other places. Like, this one time Katy and I were having sex and I called her a whore.

“You whore,” I said.

It wasn’t dirty sex or anything, but Katy was being a whore.

“Don’t—” she said, “don’t call me a whore. I’m not a whore.” I pulled out.

“Dude, you’re having sex with me. Right now.”

“But that doesn’t make me a whore.”

“You were being a whore.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were blowing me not 30 minutes ago.”

“So what,” she said.

“So what,” I said, “So what is that you blew me to the song ‘Caress Me Down’”

Katy wasn’t having any of it. So much for sex the rest of the night— Katy wasn’t much of a slut.

“Baby, I didn’t mean—” she still wasn’t looking at me. “Hey, roll over, slut”. Katy rolled herself back over to look at me.

“Don’t call me a slut, either.”

“You were being one, though.”


“It’s just dirty talk, baby girl.”

“What? No, I couldn’t hear you.”

“It’s just baby talk, dirty girl.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“I’m making a website about us.”

And then I keep going back to that Alan Thickhole guy. The skeleton in Katy’s closet. Maybe this is the reason I break up with her— I thought it was going to be about the facial hair. That was what this blog was about, originally: it was about how my girlfriend grows better facial hair than me.

“You would never write about that,” she said.

Fine, your next boyfriend can tell you about the mustache, I figured. I only first realized the facial hair thing when my blowjob had a little tickle to it. It was like getting blown by a Super Mario Brother.

Every girlfriend, January is the ringer month for them. Christmas happened and fate has always brought me Libras so by January 1…I’m poor. My last girlfriend said it came out of nowhere. Bitch, I wrote this joke two girlfriends ago.

And she asked me “how long have you feeling this way” and when it comes out of nowhere you never want to answer that question— neither the truth nor a lie will save your poor ass now— you can’t pay rent and your new home just became this corner.

And I just told her, to minimize the damage, “uh, a month or so ago” even though I’d been considering it since my first tickle-me Elmo blowjob. They hate that because even though you tell them something close to the truth you now become a sort of criminal mastermind. To them you planned out every last “I love you”, every kiss, and every conversation you’ve had in the last month like some sort of movie villain.

“Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?” Oh god, I hate hearing that. Followed by “I would have done anything for you. Anything for us.” What is this bullshit. Anything for me? I’ve got three things I don’t want to bring up in this break-up conversation that you won’t do for us:

1) Birth control

2) Anal

“And what’s the third thing?” they say in my head.

“The threesome with your best friend.”

Oh shit, did I say that out loud.

“You didn’t just say that.”

“You asked! I shouldn’t have told you, but those things are awesome. And if it means breaking up with you and rolling the dice with a gutter-snipe or two then so be it.”

I’m friends with none of my exes.

None of them date men anymore either— or boys in my case— that’s fucking the truest thing I’ve put on this website. When I told my therapist this he suggested it had to do with my mom or something. Doctor, don’t suggest Freudian shit in this day and age; you’re a fool. I know I’m pretty much claiming to be the foreman of the magic lesbian factor, but pretty much everybody knows that whole wanting to fuck your mom and kill your dad thing is bullshit. Right?