Sunday, July 26, 2015

The Blog About Bulimia

Forcing my parent's dog to sleep with me by picking him up and holding him until he cuddles me is not analogous to my love life but kinda.

I started this blog post not really knowing what I wanted to write about but feeling an urge to write. Which is good because I’ve been sort of slacking on writing or creative thinking lately. May was slow for me at work so I was more concerned about making money in June and July than making art, which is something that every artistic individual can relate to. I’m good now and I never truly struggle anymore, but maybe that’s the real issue at hand: J.K. Rowling started writing Harry Potter on a napkin and I just bought a new Macbook for 2k.

#scruff for your new iPhone wallpaper.
At first I was going to write "The Blog About the Sex Show in Amsterdam”, which I attended with some friends in May while touring Europe. As one can derive from the titular title, I watched people have sex on stage. And while it was well and good to see a Shrek- and Morticia Adams-lookalike go at it doggy-style while drinking Dutch beer, I left the theatre feeling a lot like I felt waking up in some strange girl’s bed in Manhattan on any given Monday: nothing. I got up, peed, walked out the door, and assumed the duties of humanhood.

Which is something that has really irked me recently, not only after watching a girl smoke an entire cigar with her vagina. Because I catch myself being cold nowadays and I can’t tell if it’s me getting older and wiser and realizing that not giving a fuck is a lot easier than giving a fuck, or that I really don’t give a fuck and it has nothing to do with age.

I turned twenty-eight last month and I haven’t done what I said I was going to do six years ago when I moved to New York Ciity with stardust and glamor and a rope tied to a cloud. I haven’t become a Broadway star. I haven’t written a best-selling book. I haven’t had a serious girlfriend longer than a year, or one that hasn’t crushed me into pixie dust so she could throw my ashes behind her and attempt to fly far away. And yet somewhere deep down, I still believe in fairytales.

I got drinks with a girl that I thought wasn’t good for me recently. Two wine bottles in she asked me, “Tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

And I decided to answer truthfully because why the fuck not? I’m twenty-eight. There was a lot to be divulged about the parts of me that stuck to the shadows but seemed to grab ahold in just the right light and that I fought off or suppressed until some days I turned inward or inside out and let the doubt creep in and the world out.
Before my eyes were scarred from the Amsterdam sex show.

“I struggle with suicidal thoughts sometimes. Nothing serious, always fleeting. Like when I sit on a building ledge overlooking the city, my initial reaction would be how awesome it would be to throw myself off of it. For that brief second I’d be flying, or as close as man can get without wings or an engine.”

The girl looked at me. Her eyes reflected the neon of Manhattan.

“I don’t know where they come from or why. I’m sure it has to be rooted in something about how I don’t feel good enough ever. What’s yours?”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to be real…”

I shrugged and sucked on my beer foam. “I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m nearly thirty.”

“You’re twenty-eight, Sam.”

“You’re twenty-two. I could be your father.”

“My father?”

“In some cultures, yes.”

“What culture is that?”

“I don’t know. The indigenous walkabout culture of Fuckoffery. What’s your secret?”

“I’m bulimic.”

I choked. I had come at her swinging with teenage angst and antagonism in the facade of flouted adulthood and all I got was gospel truth. She was twenty-two and older than me.

 “So I want to die to live and you want to be skinnier to be happy,” I said.

“Yours sounds a lot more poetic.”

“It’s just 50 Shades of Fucked Up. I’m not Lord Byron.”

“No you’re not.”

I turned the other cheek. “Women have it rough nowadays, don’t they? I mean it’s fucked up, incredibly fucked up how superficial it has all become. A hundred years ago people were more concerned that their sod house didn’t get destroyed in a tornado, not that their caloric intake was less than their calories burned. Fuck, my grandma grew up in rural Texas with an outhouse and not being able to afford shoes and she was born in the 1920s. When did it become this?”

“I don’t know.”

“One of our distant ancestors must have had some wonk spunk to contribute because I doubt a bunch of cavewomen were running around sticking their fingers down their throats complaining how they ate too much woolly mammoth meat. Where did these ‘I’m not good enough’ thoughts come from? And why do I have them too but in different facets? Is this what makes us human? Doubt? Does the fact that I want to make something of myself make me human, or is it the doubt that says I won't?”

The girl put her hand on my hand. “You’re really cute right now.”

I looped my fingers up around her fingers and looked down at them. “You’ve gotta stop sticking these down you’re throat. You must pay a lot to be this manicured.”
Read. Bukowski.

“I might as well cut off my hands.”

“You’d be a pretty amputee even if you were fat.”

“Thanks for being honest with me. You have a way with words, Mr. Prince.”

So did Bukowski. He wrote: "People owe each other certain loyalties even if they weren't married. In a way, the trust should run deeper because it wasn't sanctified by law."


“It's all that keeps me from jumping off the roof."

I paid our check.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

The Blog About Threesomes

I high kick urinal handles so I don't have to flush them with my hand but I kicked too high and fell on the floor so I probably have Ebola. Is this how Icarus felt?

After my last blog post about controlling Wi-Fi enabled vibrators, I've had a lot of people messaging me, namely friends but sometimes curious readers who follow my blog, wondering if what I write about in this virtual tome of mine is not only true but also if my parents read it. Both answers to these questions are “yes” and I'm fucking happy about it.
Your new iPhone wallpaper.

One of my good friends told me that the idea of one of his parents reading about his dating and sex life would make him sick, but to me my sickness is rooted elsewhere: women I've dated. I find the fact that I have terrific parents who can roll their eyes or look away and smile and realize I'm working on myself out loud to be one of my biggest assets. Not everyone can be so free. But like any man, I built my cage elsewhere.

For my entire life up until now I have always written stories but published them with stifled subject matter because I didn't want to offend anyone, namely the kind of women I thought I was attracted to or the kind of women that I thought I should be attracted to because they looked good on paper and would subsequently help me look good on paper. But the problem is, that’s not the kind of story I want to write. They can keep that stationary because: Fuck. That.

So this blog post is about threesomes. And I've had a lot recently.

Let me rewind to the beginning. There’s an app for everything, especially for dating. Of course there’s Tinder, which I've talked about before, but to me it’s more of a video game I play when I get tired of reading ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror on my Kindle app on the subway because it’s so fucking depressing but also so incredibly interesting. I've met a few girls off of Tinder, but it wasn't anything special—which should be expected from a looks-based dating app. But also when a girl asks me on Tinder what I do for a job and my answer isn’t “finance” I tend not to get replies.
It was in December 2014 that a friend of mine told me about 3nder, (pronounced “Thrinder”), an obvious pun on “Tinder” with obvious connotations: it’s meant for connecting “kinky, curious and open-minded people.” While I don’t consider myself kinky or curious, I am open-minded, and also it seemed like a fun app to have to play with friends at a bar without ever really making any follow through. It’s the same reason I downloaded the “Registered Sex Offender Locator” app: morbid curiosity. Both polyamory and Chris Hansen are enigmatic to me.

I downloaded 3nder, made a profile, and played with it off and on until about March without thinking much of it. I matched occasionally with couples and singles, was occasionally contacted, but I never made any real effort to reciprocate. It was still a video game to me, and like my love life, I wanted my fantasies to happen organically. I have had a threesome before that had manifested itself out of a night out with two girl friends and I had falsely assumed it would happen again.

Then I matched with Ellen and Clara on 3nder.

They were two straight girl friends from college who had a fantasy that better fit meeting someone off the Internet for than daring to ask a real world acquaintance, although I'm sure many guys would be happy to oblige—friend or otherwise. Ellen and Clara are hot. They asked me out for drinks.

We met outside a bar near Union Square one unassuming Sunday night in April. It was starting to rain. They arrived together, Ellen a busty but petite dirty blond and Clara a leggy, dark featured brunette. I was nervous.

“Hey, I'm Sam.” I said. I stuck out my hand out at Ellen for a handshake and smacked one of her boobs. Idiot.

“You just touched my boob.”

“Yeah I did. I did do that. I touched it. Your boob. I'm so sorry…” my hand was still out.

“I’m Ellen.” She looked at my hand like I had offered her a handkerchief after she had sneezed, a bit intrigued at the formality of it but understanding the gesture. We had met on an Internet threesome app.

“I’m Clara.” Clara cut in with a laugh. “You're probably going to touch a lot more than that.”

We drank wine.

It was refreshing to me that sex was on the table with no pretentions alongside a $50 bottle of Chianti. And the fact that all three of us could afford a $50 bottle of Chianti, or more, was also extremely cathartic. I was used to sitting across from not only actresses or models but also “aspiring” ones at that. The check was always unabashedly mine.

“I work at a startup,” Clara informed. “I really enjoy it.”

“I do graphic design,” Ellen added. “You?”

I explained what I did and I expected the worse. How do you explain that you're a self-employed writer and performer at 27 if you're not a “name”? People always expect you to have a side job… but instead of a deprecating look, both Ellen and Clara looked upon with me increased approval.

“Oh thank God,” Clara exhaled. “I'm so tired of finance guys.”

“Guys who pronounce it fin­­­-ance,” Ellen added. “Kill me. Kill me now.”

“Is that a thing?” I asked.

“Yes!” Ellen said as she set her wine glass down. “Nobody else pronounces it like that. It’s like they're a part of some secret cult.”

“Illuminati.”

Clara nodded. “The thing is if they were part of a secret cult, it would be something we've never heard of. Otherwise it would be a terrible secret cult.”

I laughed. “So they are just ostentatious douchebags with an afflicted vernacular.”

“Very much so.”

My eyes lit up. They got what I said in my last sentence. Previous girls I had dated struggled with pejorative words like ‘pejorative.’ “So why are you guys on 3nder?”

They looked at each other. Ellen kind of chuckled to herself. “We just have this fantasy and want it to pan out with someone that we have no strings to.”

Clara spoke up: “But still like enough to want to consider strings, like friendship. You seem to fit that. I think we found the 1% of non-weirdos on 3nder. You should have seen some of the messages we got.”

“I can only imagine. Man, 2015 is fucking weird, huh?”

I repeated that last line as I laid naked between them in Clara’s bed in the Lower East Side.  “Man, 2015 is fucking weird, huh?”

“You're telling me,” Clara said with a laugh.

The rain had stopped outside the open window. A sweet smell drifted into the lamp lit room. We all seemed to simultaneously inhale and exhale with it.

“It’s called ‘petrichor’,” I said.

“What is?” asked Ellen.

"My sexually transmitted disease. It's new. Straight out of Africa."

Clara smacked me.

“I'm kidding. Petrichor is the smell of the earth after rain."

“That’s really pretty,” Clara said as she drew her hand across my stomach.

“It comes from Greek petra for earth and ichor, like the blood of the gods in ancient Greek mythology. I learned that last part watching Xena growing up.”

Ellen laughed. “Yeah?”

“Lucy Lawless always sounded like it would be better suited for a porn star than a television actress.”

“It does sound like a porno name,” Clara agreed.

One of my favorite words, up there with "superfluous."
“Anyway, they say humans appreciate the smell of petrichor because our ancient ancestors relied on rain to grow food for our survival… and now millenniums later, us, the descendants of petrichor, can lay post-coital, three across in a bed in machine Manhattan and pretend that we still have a connection to the earth."

“The earth is just the charger, we're the connectors,” Clara said. "It's only how you want to plug in that makes us different."


It was the truest thing I'd heard in a long time. 

Sunday, April 26, 2015

The Blog About Controlling A Vibrator Over Wi-Fi

Your new iPhone wallpaper, tan edition.
I made eyes with a cute puppy on my run and ran into a tree branch. I made eyes with a hot girl on my run, but realized later it was because my face was bleeding from running into said tree branch. It’s just the way it is. 

I recently have been turning down sex for no other reason than the fact that I like to be in bed by 9 p.m. And before you roll your eyes and mutter to yourself, "How much sex can someone get that they feel obligated to turn it down to be a grandpa?" It's really not that much… at all. 2015 has been a dry year for me, or to put a positive spin on it, I've been more qualitative than quantitative as I've progressed into my late 20s. But the opportunities have been there... it’s just that I've been incredibly lazy. Also I got mad diarrhea from ceviche in Peru two weeks ago and am just now not smelling like zinc oxide and Gold Bond. So maybe I am a grandpa after all.

My 2015 virginity was taken about a month ago on an ordinary Sunday that also happened to be a drunk brunch in NYC. Normally I work on Sundays, but the gays had invited me out and since it was a slow day in news I figured I could at least indulge in a few Bellinis and an egg white omelet. (Admittedly that sounds pretty gay.) But Calvin had other intentions when he picked the brunch spot because his friend Daphne was bar tending and he wanted me to meet her.

The best sex is the unexpected sex. And I don't mean rape. It's like what Mary Schmich said in her address to the class of '97 that was made famous two years later by Baz Luhrmann in Wear Sunscreen: “The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.” It's the same for sex, except instead of getting blindsided at 4 p.m. on an idle Tuesday it's blacking out at 4 p.m. on a drunk brunch Sunday. I don't know much about what happened and don't get like that very often anymore, but sometimes I need to remind myself that I'm 27 and while having a mortgage and a Roth IRA is great, the amount of time I have on earth doesn't accrue just because I spent it responsibly. I’m dying, and maybe this idle Tuesday will be it for me. Who knows?

One other thing I didn't know that Daphne told me later was that she decided she wanted to take me home when I walked into the brunch place. Which is something I still can't wrap my mind around. Here I am, bumbling and wanton, being a dumb, stupid guy and somewhere in her mind she had already made the decision that she wanted to fuck me. Louis CK has done a standup routine about this but the subject continues to baffle me. (Cut to 4:55 in the video to the right.)

“But what was it I said?” I asked her the next morning in her bed in Brooklyn.

It was how I knew I got drunk. I had made the (un)conscious decision to go home to Brooklyn with Daphne. That was like Oregon Trailing it from my place in Jersey. I could die on the way home. Maybe this was the idle Monday I would get dysentery or choose the wrong mode of transportation to cross the Hudson.

“I don’t know. My friend and I were arguing over you and—”

Get in line, ladies.
“Wait, more than one girl there wanted to fuck me?” I asked in shocked disbelief. I was a late bloomer in every aspect of my life and it warped my mind that people, more than one, found me attractive. Exhibit A: the photograph of twelve-year-old me to the left. I still felt I looked like that and that I had something to prove, even to the high school jocks that used to tease me long over a decade ago. Now here I was blowing up Facebook and Instagram with photos of hot babes like Daphne and I imagined them saying as they went back to changing oil at my hometown Jiffy Lube: “Aw dang, Sam Prince is so much cooler than us now” and, “Man, did you see that total babe he is totally boning!” And while my vernacular of 2015 suburban Minnesota may sound oddly like Beverly Hills circa 1995, we can't forget that the Walsh family did emigrate from Minnesota to Beverly Hills for a reason. And I was in New York for the same reason.

“Yeah, I mean… you're attractive, Sam.”

The App Store has everything.
It turns out Daphne had a crush on me, which was really poor timing because I was leaving in two days for South America. And while I wasn't particularly interested in dating her—she was an actress so she broke my 2015 rules of dating—there was a connection of some sort. But maybe it was the hazy recollection of her going down on me in the back of a taxicab on our way to Brooklyn the night before and the fact that I was incredibly sex starved.

It was when she messaged me while I was digging into some free Wi-Fi in Lima, Peru that things got interesting. She wrote: “I have this fun vibrator that you can control over wifi. If you ever feel like it. You have to download OhMiBod and friend me on Google+.”

If I ever felt like it? Abso-fucking-lutely. Every fucking second of every goddamn day I did.

I responded coolly: “When I have some good Internet I'll definitely download it.”

I downloaded it the next day but my lack of cell phone service/consistent Wi-Fi proved difficult in me remotely controlling a vibrator from South America for a girl in New York City. But it was okay because Daphne and I kept each other entertained in other facets.

But when I got back to New York, that’s when shit got weird.

Daphne played coy and proved elusive to making plans. And this is where I know I’m getting older and more mature. Old Sam would have been pissed that a girl had led him on so much only to reply to a text asking to get a drink with a "maybe." But I had learned a lesson about myself and women like her because I had dealt with myself and women like her. And oddly enough it was thanks to the vibrator remote control app that I was able to be reminded of it.

When I downloaded the OhMiBod app to my phone, there were two options for whose vibrators I could control over Wi-Fi organized by who else had the app in my address book: Daphne and my ex Carissa, who I wrote about in the post before this.

So when Daphne finally responded about getting together now that I was back in town with: “Annnnd I’m rain checking. I thought I could but I can’t.” I didn’t get mad. I didn't get even. I didn't even respond. I now knew the kind of woman I was dealing with and knew I was too smart to coerce crazy. But there was still the emotional side of rejection, and fortunately I had dealt with that with Carissa enough so I knew where to turn.

Instead of getting pissed or trying to change Daphne's mind, I changed my mind. I turned to A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson. It was a book that had helped me cope with all sorts of shit like the break-up of my first love and the death of my grandfather. And whenever I opened it I always happened to turn to the exact page I needed. That day was no different. It read: “I had been stood up and I felt the kind of blow to my self-esteem that starts in your gut and shoots emotional black ink through all your veins… The first thing I had to deal with was my own judgment. As long as I was not at peace, my behavior would carry the energy of my conflict. Conflicted behavior cannot bring peace. It can only produce more conflict. First I had to deal with my own perceptions. The rest would follow.”


It's not that I wanted to date Daphne or even really wanted to go out with her, it was just that that I liked being in control. And having someone else call the shots wasn't something I took well. But taking control of yourself instead of trying to leverage a situation always works, and it was a pleasant reminder to do so. Daphne started to subversively nudge me via social media a few days later with Instagram likes and Facebook notifications, but I had already moved on. I avoided that rabbit hole like the fucking plague. Sex is great, but I'd rather sleep.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

The Blog About How Religion is Bullshit

Sam I Am: Swimsuit edition
I'm having trouble connecting to Peruvian Wi-Fi and I’m trying not to be a diva about it. Especially because I passed tin house lean-tos on my cab ride into Lima and my lack of Wi-Fi connectivity pales in comparison to the fact that while some Peruvians try to figure out if they have enough money to eat tonight, I just want to see what the more affable locals look like on Tinder.

I flew down to South America about a week ago with my ongoing band gig, landing in Santiago, Chile with a final destination of Panama City with stops in Peru and Ecuador along the way. And all along the way I had seen the same thing: brilliant city centers of colonial vintage skirted by slums of tin-forged housing inhabited by the ruddy-skinned natives.

I had seen it before in other places I had been lucky enough to travel to for work: American Samoa, Tahiti, Fiji, the Caribbean, southern Spain, and other places where I had ventured off on my own accord, mainly Eastern Europe. But there was a stark difference between the poverty of those nations and their New World counterparts: every city I ventured into in South America had a huge crucifix planted ostentatiously on the highest hillside above it to cast its glare on the city below like the Eye of Sauron.

Of course traveling to these crucifixes was one of the more low-cost ventures to do for a traveling musician, so I visited all these designated holy sites more for a view of the outlying area than any sort of Haj. Since my break-up with my last girlfriend, Carissa, I had come to terms with the fact that despite the good it could occasionally offer, organized religion is for the most part utter bullshit. And it’s not for want of religious opportunity: my mother was raised Jewish by her father and mother, but her mother was raised Southern Baptist and was also the granddaughter of a Cherokee shaman, while my father was a recovering Catholic, leading to my raising in Presbyterianism then my dabbling in Judaism, Buddhism, and ultimately, agnosticism.

Carissa and I had attended a Pentecostal Manhattan church together, her because she was outwardly professedly Christian, and me because I have a deep admiration for liturgical music thanks to my attending a Methodist university. It was a great relationship for us on that front; except for the fact Carissa was also a major female dog. But then again I was blinded by the fact that she was an ex-NFL cheerleader and a current NBA dancer and I thought that was a pretty cool pin to wear. And for her, you'd think for a Christian who worships a Jew she would have treated me better. I'm probably related to Jesus somewhere down my line.

But I remember the exact church service Carissa and I attended where after enjoying a
Dog-bro I befriended.
long set of worship tunes, the pastor informed us that he was so thankful for the band because they all volunteered their time, effort, and talents. And it obviously wasn't for lack of church funding: the church we attended was a hip and trendy midtown Manhattan one that lauded over its famous athlete congregants and whose clergy always looked like they were dressed for New York Fashion Week while in queue for their next tattoo session. As a person who spent four years of his life studying music, hearing an Adam Levine lookalike praise these obviously professional musicians for donating their time, effort, and talents while wearing the official outfit of a Williamsburgian douche made me want to punch him in the throat. My dusty Oklahoma, salt of the earth congregation could scrape together at least $125 a month for a broke ass college baritone, why couldn't these New York elite?

It was the same here in South America, except with more dire results. I knew that the New York musicians were not starving. Rent may sometimes prove difficult for them, but that was part of the New York experience. Here in Chile and Peru, there was no rent; there was Darwinism and there was the church. And the church vehemently denied that the former existed.
As I walked through the shanties towards the top of the hill in Coquimbo, befriending a stray dog along the way like Saint Francis of Assisi, I reached the peak and was ironically greeted by copper statues of Jesus preaching to the poor. Inside the church at the base of the crucifix, inside thick glass cases, were vestments and sacraments of gold and silver undoubtedly recycled from plundered Inca gold.

A quote came to my mind that I had read in Universal Unitarian preacher Eric Butterworth’s book Discover the Power Within You. It reads: “Every man is innately good. Every man is a potential Christ. But only a few know this, and an even fewer number succeed in expressing any marked degree of the perfection of Christ indwelling.” I walked out of the church and gathered the dog that had followed me all the way to the hilltop, poured out some water in a bowl I found for him, and realized that the further I walked away from the cross, the more Christ-like I felt.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The Blog About Sex on the First Date


My roomie moved out and my life hasn't changed much other than instead of walking around naked in fear, I now walk around naked fearlessly. Is that a Katy Perry song?

I recently realized at a dinner with a friend that while while I've had girlfriends, I've never
We'll get to Thus Spoke Zarathustra later.
But read it.
really dated. All my relationships grew out of hookups that eventually became exclusive. The title came out of necessity and usually about two weeks in, where souls forged longed to be something more than jealous late night texts. Defining a relationship was something tangible and was better to hold onto than an iPhone, even if it was only for the night without a charger and you woke up equally uncharged and dead inside.


Maybe that's why I have so much trouble nowadays with nailing down if a date is successful or not, or the meandering delay of if I really want to empty my pocketbook on a second date for someone who didn't reciprocate physically on what I had come to expect as a good-looking, moderately successful male in New York City. It was Pavlovian; a good date equals sex, sex equals a relationship. 

"You know what I mean?" I asked my best friend and confidant, Karen, over a dinner of Thai food. 

"I know that you're full of crap."

"I know. And the worst part is I don't know how not to be. I can't gauge the feelings in my stomach between a crush and indigestion until it's too late and I'm in an unhealthy relationship or have diarrhea. Or worse, both. I'm good at every aspect of my life except managing women and incontinence."

"So what are you going to do about it, Sam?"

That was a question for the ages. But then so was what to do about disillusioned youths joining ISIS. And oddly enough it was the same answer for both of us: start with yourself and start not expecting anything. We were all part of a generation of millennialist youths saying the world's not fair and looking for answers, whereas it never had been fair and there never were any answers. But the difference was that they had turned turned to chopping off heads while I had turned to The Upanishads and Maslow. And even though I am "hashtag blessed" beyond belief, I understood the anger. Honestly sometimes I preferred to choose the darkness. It could be so accommodating because when it was completely enveloping, you had the luxury of not recognizing yourself.

"I don't know. I don't trust anyone and hate the process of dating. I want someone to pop into my life, not from Tinder or OkCupid, but organically... and be a petite, educated, employed, beautiful, physically fit, well-read, open-minded woman who has no baggage."

“You never know everything about someone though, Sam.”

I chewed on a piece of undercooked edamame. It had an interesting flavor.

"But then what's the point? What scares me the most is that someone out there, my future wife potentially, is out there living her own life during a part of her life I'll never know anything about that she'll never say anything about. And how do you reconcile that? She could be having sex with somebody right now and I’ll never know about the kiss that led up to it or the broken condom scare after it. And that freaks me out. I know, I know—live presently—but presently the present is this."

"But what would you call this part of your life compared to hers?"

"'The Wander Years.' Do you think Daniel Stern would narrate it?"
A little Nietzsche never hurt nobody.

Karen rolled her eyes. "You never really know everything about someone."

"That's terrifying. But you're right I guess. You can spend your entire life with someone and end up being married to Dennis Rader. Ugh. I wish I believed in organized religion enough to get lost in it. But I don't believe in Oz. If I met the wizard I'd ask for an Apple Watch. That's tangibility to me nowadays."

"Sam, you know what you have a lot to offer. So quit offering it to those who don't deserve it."

She was right. I knew it.

It was like that quote from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: "One must stop permitting oneself to be eaten when one tastes best; this is understood by those who want to be loved long."

The problem was I felt like my flavor changed daily and sometimes even I didn't like it—somewhere between an orange and a watermelon: an orangamelon, or a warnge. A mixture of the two would be a watery pulp of slop. And you'd never want to eat an orange-sized watermelon; it wasn't enough sweetness. But then you wouldn't want to eat a watermelon-sized orange, either; it was too much acid.

The server came with our food and I drenched my tofu pad Thai in citrus with a lemon wedge. 

"I like to listen to Simon and Garfunkel's America a lot. It's the only song that I completely understand. That and the Helen Keller song by 3OH!3. Because while I'm looking for someone, I'm really looking for myself, and I think America is an allegory for something unattainable. It's like the Atman in Hindu mythos. It's a longing for something unearthlyIt's the same reason why the Europeans came West, and it's the same reason why Americans went West, and when the California coast rose up to greet them, there was nowhere else to go but inward. And that's America: the great-grand-children of sod house pioneers who now pay child psychiatrists to diagnose their children—with names like Ryker, Hadley, and Jago—with ADHD, when it should really be the parents in on the sofa, but all they end up talking about is their struggle with controlling their kids' in-app purchases instead of how they don't find their spouse attractive anymore. I've never been to Saginaw, but I've been a lot of places and everywhere in between. Everywhere is the same. Everyone is the same. I wish everyone else realized that, including myself."

I was awash with the world.  

"Well at least you can vocalize it, and like your blog post said about the kind of women you won't date this year, at least you know when you're screwing up again and lose that mindset."

Yeah. But then sometimes you just wanna say fuck it all and mount the world. I think there's a Katy Perry song about that, too.