Over the last few years I have crossed some depressing age boundary where I no longer open jars of spaghetti sauce by myself.  I give it to my son to undo the stuck lid.  The torch has been passed.

i wear schlumpy pajamas to bed just so he won't get any ideas.  i wear short skirts to work just so somebody else will get an idea.

I accidentally cured myself from my anal sex desires. For years I would coax women into doing it. I loved it.  Them, not so much.

I got married.  I poked my wife back there numerous times.  Then I saw something on the internet.  Women would take a dick in the ass and then turn around and suck on it.  Whoa.

I got my wife to do it.  She was reluctant but tried it anyway.  I though I was going to burst when she took it in her mouth.

A few minutes later we were done and she moved back up to snuggle.  That's when I could smell it on her breath.  I am loathe to use the word, but her breath smelled like you know what.

What had I done?  It suddenly occurred to me.  I was making my wife eat her own *.  I liked her way more than that. It made me feel like such a selfish dickhead.

We have never done any form of anal since that night.  I still feel guilty but at least I have returned my wife's dignity to her.  I think kinky fun is one thing, but not when it is so demeaning to the other person.

I have a movie / fuck theory.  I have noticed there are some women I have taken on the inevitable first movie date who afterwards will sit in the theater for a few minutes while the credits are rolling by.  I like doing that too.  It gives us a chance to slowly power down from the movie experience.  We can reflect for a moment and feel the after effects of a good flik.

Then there are women who when the movie has ended, can't get out of their seat fast enough.  They need to be the first down the aisle and out of the theater.  It's almost as if this was the point of the entire film, the leaving part.  They need to escape as soon as possible and get away from the false movie reality,  back to terra firma.

I have noticed a sex connection.  The women who flee from the movie theater are the same ones who hop out of the bed the moment I have an orgasm.  They can't wait to get to the bathroom to wash off.  They send this message that they are glad the whole sex thing is over and they can't wait to get out of there and put it behind them.

But the women who stay for the movie credits are the same ones who stay for the sex credits so to speak.  They hover in the bed.  They might toy with my sperm with their fingers or tongue.  They gel and linger in the moment.  They send the message that they appreciate to the max all that we just went through and they don't want the feeling to end.  This is such a good thing.

So guys, when you too go out on that first movie date, watch closely to what happens once the film is over, your future happiness might depend on it.

How wierdo guys are created:

In kindergarten through 3rd grade I remember having friends. Good friends.  We'd all hang out in someone's backyard.  We played baseball.  We'd go to the pond and catch things or sneak onto the golf course and look for lost balls in the woods.  It was the wholesome happy kid stuff they put into Disney movies.

In 4th grade we moved to a new town.  It was a few weeks after the school year already began. I recall walking into my new classroom for the first time and within minutes of listening to the teacher talk about long division I announced to the class that I was so much more advanced than them.  I think I said it because I felt out of place.  I wanted to somehow fit in.  I wanted to have the comfort zone I was used to.  This was a school, we were suppose to learn.  So I thought if I acted like I already knew the material, these guys would look up to me and like me. Ha! That right there was enough to instantly cement my reputation as unlikeable.

But I didn't stop, heck no.

In 5th grade I told the teacher that he was stupid and I was so much smarter than everyone else.

In 7th grade I told my class that I was going to take some special entrance exams to a private school, win a scholarship so I wouldn't have to go to the public high school.  (It didn't work out that way.)

In 9th grade even the geek kids were picking on me because I was so obnoxious.

Funny thing was that I did have tremendous grades, mainly because I was alone all the time and had nothing else to do but study.  So I could beat anyone on any exam.  As such,  I thought none of the social interaction stuff mattered.  I thought the point of school was to get the highest test score possible and since I was winning that game I thought I was the big man, the one everyone else was jealous of.

By 11th grade even the teachers had turned on me.  I never thought that would happen.  Teachers were all about academics and I was their super star.  I thought of myself as every teacher's wet dream, but here they were asking other smart kids to work on special community projects with them while leaving me off the list.

By 12th grade when the my-parents-are-out-of-town-for-the-weekend type of parties started to happen,  I was never invited.  That's when it first occurred to me that something was wrong.  I am the best.  Everyone wants to be like me.  So why were they not inviting me to their parties?

College was a disaster. Guys on my freshman hall wanted to beat me up within the first few weeks.  My roommate transfered to another room.  Girls made fun of me to my face.  And suddenly I was pitted against really smart students from across the country and I was no longer the shining academic super star.

I turned miserable.  I began to reflect on my personality flaws and how stuck up I was.  I shuddered.  I felt like such a loser.  I became  embarrassed to be me.

By senior year, I lived in my own world.  I ate alone.  I never socialized with anyone.  I spent all my time studying / hiding quietly in the library.  Still, my grades were only so-so because I was too afraid to ever voice an opinion in class or ask a teacher for help.

I was now aware enough to tone down my self centered view of my "superiority",  but because I had never interacted normally during my high school years, I still didn't have the necessary tools to get along with people the way others did.  I couldn't just go hang out with the guys.  I didn't know how.  And couple that with my profound fear of putting my foot in my mouth and coming across as a jerk once again.  So my solution was to stay away from people.

My journey was complete.  I had became an extreme introverted weirdo.

This has never changed.  Even though it wasn't my major, I began to work with computers because computers weren't people.  I purposely worked through the night and came to work extremely late each day so I could avoid everyone as much as possible.  They tolerated it because at least I was getting a few things done.

Twice in my career a company tried to promote me because I seemed to know what I was doing.  But knowing something and working with people are two completely different things.  Each time it was a disaster.  Both companies ended up firing me.

Now I work out of my home.  As what you might wonder?  I set up a few websites that allow people to access some types of information.  They pay a fee for this.  Note, I never meet these people.  They aren't clients that come into my office or anything like that.  It's not like I have to actually speak to them to sell a product.  No, they come anonymously to a website and if they need more information they enter a credit card number.  Lucrative?  Ha! I earn such a meager amount of money.  McDonalds employees probably make more than me.

Aside from going to the market for food, I go out hardly ever.  A year ago last November I discovered Costco and stocked up on cases and cases of supplies.  I didn't leave my house again until March.  That was 5 months of staying indoors and not talking to a single soul.

Do I like living this way?  I hate it.  Sometimes I cry.  I am a grown fucking adult and sometimes I cry.  I think about killing myself.  You want a good laugh, I worry no one will come to the funeral.  I don't mind the dying part but having no one come to my funeral is what stops me from doing it.

I have built a deserted island and I so much need to be rescued.  If there is a God or even a good Samaritan out there, please take me away from my self imposed exile. I am so sorry I was such an obnoxious prick for all those years.  I am so sorry I walked into my 4th grade class on my first day and acted like I was better than everyone else.

Lord, I need a George Bailey moment from It's A Wonderful life.  I need a do-over.  I promise I won't screw it up this time.

Someone?  Anyone?  PLEASE SAVE ME.

I wonder if Bill will let Hillary get an intern.

I once went to The Big Apple Circus in New York City.  It is a very small circus with one ring surrounded by about 10 rows of seats. It comes around every year and mostly the tickets are bought by all the Wall Street Corporations which they then give as perks to their employees' families.  It's sort of a social calendar must to say you have been.

I hate that crap.  I went with my children because I thought they would like it.  Only no corporation bought the tickets for me.  I bought the tickets myself.  Whatever.

When I went, we sat in the row second from the back.  Something I didn't realize is that the Corporations make sure they get the front rows.  Ordinary folk like me are shunned towards the back where we belong.

But an odd twist, in the very back row just behind me was a group of poor kids.  No other way to say it.  The corporations, undoubtedly to get some sort of tax advantage, donate a few tickets of every performance to impoverished inner city kids.

It is quite a sight.  The first few rows are filled with pretty little 7 year old white girls wearing $1000 wool coats and carrying $2000 Gucci bags.  And the back row has 7 year old black boys in ripped jeans and hooded sweatshirts.

And there was me sandwiched in the middle with my middle class family.  Amazing how corporate America managed to work this out where we were all arranged in economic order even though all the tickets are the same price.

Anyway, during the intermission, as the rich families all mingled and snacked on specially prepared finger foods and sushi platters all provided by their companies, I went and bought some popcorn for my kids. And as I got back to my seat, I suddenly felt like a jerk.  There were the kids in the back row.  They were staring longingly at the food being served to the rich brats.  Their eyes were wide with envy. I could almost hear their stomachs grumbling.

Interesting though, they were all silent, just staring quietly at the front row feast.  I wondered if maybe they were afraid to speak even to each other for fear some rich person would notice them and insist there must be some mistake and they must be removed from the circus tent immediately.

And there I was handing out popcorn to my own kids.  Yeah it wasn't $500 a pound Sobe beef strips to match the Gucci bags, but the popcorn was enough to make me feel like a complete ass in front of these back row kids.

So I handed my kids their snacks and went back to the concession stand.

A few minutes later I returned with a cardboard box filled with a dozen cartons of popcorn and soda.  It cost me about 100 bucks.  It wasn't really easily fitting in with my budget the way it might have for those giant corporations, but it was some of the best money I have ever spent. You have never seen kids light up so bright.

Still, I look back on the whole thing and wonder if the point of the rich people donating those tickets was not so the poor kids could see the circus - but instead, so the poor kids could see what the rich kids had.  

What's that saying about life is like a circus....

I think Jazz is Classical music with spelling errors.

i have never used google.

I don't understand why my girlfriend is not impressed with my Guitar Hero skills.

when i was a kid i clearly remember going to the pumpkin farm on school field trips and when the other kids would pick the biggest pumpkin or the most perfect looking pumpkin, i would make a point of picking out the most mangled pumpkin. twisted, asymmetrical, deformed - i felt so bad. nobody wanted it so i gave it a home. it made me feel good. it was the right thing to do. to me these pumpkins were so much more interesting than everyone else's view of what was right and perfect.

as a grown up, i realize all my closest friends are mangled pumpkins. nobody else wanted them so i took them in. and you know what, i love them and i wouldn't have it any other way.

Sometimes at night I can hear the woman in the apartment directly above me masturbating. I can tell she is alone because I hear only one set of footsteps before her standard 11:00 pm bedtime. And then I hear the telltale slow rhythm of her bed rocking. After about 10 minutes this builds up to a frenzied pace followed by a calm nothingness.

I've met her a few times on the elevator and in the lobby. She is quite good looking. I think she is a lawyer. Knowing these details about her and hearing her rub herself just a few feet over my head gets me rock hard, so I start masturbating.

But it makes me wonder if maybe the person living in the apartment below me - another pleasant looking woman - can hear what I am doing and it drives her to masturbate.

Maybe in fact there is a column twenty stories tall of all these single people in this building masturbating every night to the sound and thought of the upstairs neighbor.

We are all connected, maybe more than we are willing to admit.

I don't want to just leave my wife, what fun would that be?

Here's my plan:

Over the course of a few years I skim money out of the bank accounts, a couple of hundred dollars per week as cash which I hide away.

I also use a blood donation kit to extract a pint of blood per week from my veins for the month leading up to my disappearance.  I secretly refrigerate the blood in the basement beer fridge where my wife never goes.

I do google searches on "How to kill your husband" and "How much does divorce cost".  I buy a book from Amazon on poisons telling my wife we have a rat problem in the basement.  When the book arrives, I ask her to open the box so she gets her fingerprints on it.  

I open an account on Match.com in my wife's name and start dialogues with men.  I list her as a widow.  

I buy an axe on the internet.

I do all this with my wife's credit card.

I do all the computer activity during the day when I am normally at work, but I sneak home when I know she is out, I make the purchases and then rush back to work.

When the ax arrives in the mail, I make sure I open the box just as I am about to go outside, so I am wearing my winter gloves.  I marvel at how heavy it is.  I ask my wife to hold it and to swing it around - getting her finger prints all over it, but not mine.

I take out a life insurance policy on myself.  I tell my wife I want her to be financially comfortable in case I get hit by a bus.  But first I tell her I'm unsure how it all works.  I ask her to email her sister and her friends to ask if their husbands have policies and how do we go about setting one up.

See where this is going?  The day before I disappear, I take some of the blood in one of the plasma bags and drip a little in the trunk of her car.  I also put in a shovel, some garbage bags and some duct tape.  I make sure she has touched all these items with her bare hands in the weeks leading up to this.

On my final day of existence, I do a few things:

I tell her I don't feel so well and ask if she can call my office to let them know I won't be coming in.  I lay in bed until she goes out for her morning coffee.  

Then I hop to action.

I  put on her pajamas.  I take my blood from the plasma bags and pour it on my pillow making sure it soaks into the sheets and mattress.  I pour some on the head of the ax and swing it around wildly making blood splatters appear on the walls and ceiling in the bedroom.  I get some splatter on the pajamas as well and smear some blood on them too. I also pee on the mattress exactly where my mid-section normally is while sleeping.

I take a sponge and wipe down the obvious blood splatters off the bedroom wall, making sure to leave some smaller drops. The clean up job will shine brightly when the police put luminol on it. I remove the bedding and turn the mattress over so the blood stain is on the bottom.  I wash my hands in the bathroom sink making sure to leave a few blood drips in the drain and on the faucet.

I take off the pajamas and place them along with the bedding at the bottom of the garbage can in the garage.  I put the axe with my blood and her fingerprints on it in the garage.

Then I leave out the backdoor and hike through the woods several hundred yards to a place where I have left an old bicycle.  I ride to the train station in the next town and disappear forever.

I grow a beard, I shave my head and start life all over.

None of this is illegal.  There is no law against spilling blood on a mattress and leaving your wife.  Yet, the combination of events will result in her rotting in prison for the rest of her life.

Now what could be more fun than that?

I like having my back scratched better than I like having my pussy touched.

World, get your greedy hands out of my pocket!!!!

- I get a $99 charge on my first cable bill for installation, even through the ad I responded to in the first place says "FREE INSTALLATION".  Dishonest.

- I get a $30 charge from one of my banks for allowing my checking account balance to go to $0. They explain to me I need a $6000 minimum to get free checking.  Duh, do I really need to call and explain to them I don't have  checking account with them? I only have a savings account.  That didn't occur to them so they charge me a fee. Corrupt.

- I buy a rake from the local garden store. I use it for a few minutes when the shaft breaks clean off.  I drive back to the store to exchange it for a new one.  They tell me I can't return it without a receipt.  I tell them I bought it half an hour ago and they didn't give me a receipt.  The price sticker showing the store name is still on the rake yet they refuse to acknowledge it came from their store.  Stupidity.

- I buy a toy online two weeks before Christmas.  I pay extra for two day shipping.  It arrives three days after Christmas.  When I call them to point out I paid extra to have it shipped quicker, they say they did send it two day shipping... only they weren't ready to ship it until the day after Christmas, but they did send it two day shipping so I deserve no refund.  Blow me.  (Never purchase anything online.)

We are not a super power.  We are a greedy selfish nation and deserve to go down in the history books as a failed experiment.

My wife and I have this ritual where I take her birth control pills on the 5 off days.  It makes me feel like I'm doing my part, so the burden isn't always on her.

Christians frighten me.