(Which I’m sure you’re reading on Thursday.)
Please send your questions to email@example.com. We’re running low on material and you know what that means… an excuse for me not to blog.
Let’s get to it, shall we?
Is marriage the sex killer?
Not enough do in the I do.
Timeless question, and certainly one that challenges me as a sage giver of wisdom and insight. Here’s how I see it:
When I go to a restaurant and the server brings out the dessert menu, I immediately see ten or fifteen things that I want. My first instinct is to throw caution to the wind and order them all. Why not, right? (Well, I’ll tell you why not. It’s called low self esteem that causes one to eat her feelings. You may think there is joy in that icing, but it turns out there isn’t. There is fat. And no one likes a fat kid.) Anyway, what I inevitably end up doing is getting insanely overwhelmed and choosing whichever stresses me out the least. I think I’ve chosen well. It’s going to be good. I’m going to be happy.
But then everyone else gets their dessert and suddenly I want to try those too. I’m so busy thinking about all the desserts I’m not getting to eat that I’m not interested in the dessert I have. It starts to look boring and available. And no one wants to have sex with eat something that’s available. You want to have steamy sex with someone eat something aloof and noncommittal. That’s why marriage is such a problem. Even Angelina Jolie gets in bed, puts ChapStik in her nose and thinks, “God, I wish you were George.” And why is that? Because George is unavailable. He doesn’t like Angie. And that makes Georgie irresistible to poor Angie, stuck with that aging schmuck Brad.
Sometimes, though, you do order the right dessert. It’s so delicious and rich and chocolaty that you scarf the whole thing out of a trash can when you think your dad isn’t looking. But then you get a tummy ache and you start thinking of all the ways you hate that godammnedmotherfucking dessert. You’re tired of it. You ate too much. Now you need something salty to take your mind off of your OD.
So yes, marriage is the dessert killer. Or sex killer.
But you can combat it. You can put a paper bag over his/her head. Maybe wear masks or role play. Or maybe ask your mate to pretend like he/she hates you. Then you ought to want to do her.
Hope you get some.
Should I get on Facebook?
Born in the 60s and still resisting
This should help. Answer the following questions honestly:
1. Do you delight in the accomplishments of others?
If you answered “yes”, then no. You should not get on Facebook. Your outlook on life may be better suited to chairing the 25th reunion committee or handing out programs at a Harvard Business School graduation.
2. Are you happy/secure/100% delighted in the state of your life?
If you answered “yes”, Facebook may be right for you. Throwing stones is super fun, so long as you’re not living in a double wide. Actually, if you’re living in a double wide, you should get on Facebook. We can be friends. That will be fun for me.
3. Do you have the confidence of a Saudi oilman’s daughter?
If you answered “no”, don’t get anywhere near Facebook. With the reuniting, catching up, poking, wall writing, and messaging comes the realization that you’re a complete loser. No matter how cool you think you are, someone from your graduating class, or some kid you met at a networking event, will announce that he invented computers and it will take a solid two or three days to get over the fact that your boss still mispronounces your name. The moral of Facebook: you are not a champ. Sorry.
Let me know what you decide!