So after three months of dragging my ass into Etobicoke every day I'm finally getting some benefits at work. I dropped off my form at the one-woman HR department today and she noticed I didn't fill out the beneficiary for my life insurance. So I grabbed the form and wrote down a name.
My ex's name.
I realized a while ago that's it's weird to best friends with somebody you dated for 36 months, lived with for 22 months, and had cats with for over a year. I asked around a bit, and apparently putting your ex on your life insurance is pretty whack.
Now let's not blow this too far out of proportion. I'm 24 and, despite this stupid nasal infection and my heavy partying, I'm in good health. Plus it's just my work insurance which won't pay out much cash anyways.
Regardless, it does send a strong message. But hey, when I think of who knows me well, who I trust, and who could arrange for a gorgeous funeral he's at the top of all three.
The funny thing is, he's still my first and only ex. Maybe not being jaded from other relationships helped me leave on good terms. Maybe leaving before things got bitter was a good idea.
Or maybe, unlike most relationships, we were both good people, and neither of us were assholes or whack jobs.
Anyways, I've given him the relevant instructions: If I bump off tomorrow, throw my body in Lake Ontario and spend the money on a kick-ass party. I'll see you there!
Image courtesy of germanyengland.
Since I hopefully won't be going out for a few weeks, I figured I'd share some interesting, and sketchy, photos I captured this weekend. There'd be more, but you get yelled at for taking pictures at The Zone.
I went shirt shopping a few short hours before Sonic and discovered this gem. The plan was to wear it and hope somebody noticed. Instead, in true loser fashion I went around ordering people to read my shirt. It was still fun.
A nice photo of the upstairs bathroom at The Zone. Notice the countless number of discarded baggies and vials. Trust me, they're all empty. I looked.
And last but not least:
Comfort Zone mittens! Wow man, that is freaking HARDCORE. At least it's less conspicuous than the let's-advertise-that-I'm-a-sketchbag Comfort Zone shirt.
I look forward to bringing out more sketchy pictures in seventeen days or more *checks watch then looks around nervously*
This just in: people love talking about sex. I'd say I spend around forty-five times more time talking about sex than I spend having sex. Yes, I'm including oral.
So in the spirit of keeping it up (teehee), take a look at these 21 things you didn't know about sex.
Now, to copy the list, add a little flair, and call it a day.
According to the Kinsey Institute, the biggest erect penis on record measures 13 inches. The smallest tops off at 1 3/4 inches.
I am terrified to report that I've fooled around with someone close to that lower bound. If you can call that fooling around. Really, I felt like a pedophile and he was my age. Should I call Guinness?
The most common fantasy is oral sex.
This is a pretty sad state of affairs, isn't it? Is it really that hard to get one of these in 2007?
8% of us have regular anal sex.
I'm guessing 7.9% of those surveyed were gay men. The other 0.1% were women saving the good stuff for marriage.
60% of men and 54% of women have had a 1-night stand.
40% of men were lying.
Women buy 4 out of every 10 condoms sold.
Because their partner insists on buying the extra-large magnum condoms to impress the cashier.
In 1609, a doctor named Wecker found a corpse in Bologna with two penises. Since then, there have been eighty documented cases of men similarly endowed.
I spent four seconds thinking about whether I'd want this, then vomited all over myself.
Men say the average erect penis is 10″. Women say it’s 4″.
Maybe if you took care of yourself it'd get up to full size, sweetheart.
A female orgasm is a powerful painkiller (because of the release of endorphins), so headaches are in fact a bad excuse not to have sex.
On the other hand, back hair remains a powerful deterrent.
56% of men have had sex at work.
Quite frankly I don't see the appeal. Unless you're a stripper or something.
Among the Mangaians of Polynesia, 18-year-old couples make love an average of three times a night, every night, until their thirties, when the weekly average drops to a mere 14.
Sounds like somebody's been putting Viagra in the water supply.
1 in 3 of us have had an extramarital affair.
Never getting married. Seriously.
62% think there is nothing wrong with affairs.
Including me. I'm my father's son.
The maximum speed at which erotic sensations travel from skin to brain has been clocked at 156 miles per hour.
I want to read the grant application for this gem.
A honeymooning couple are suing Holiday Inn for ten thousand dollars, claiming their sex life is now dysfunction because an employee mistakenly walked in on them on their wedding night.
...And caught them dressed as furries. Seriously though, if your sex life was that fragile something was bound to fuck it up sooner or later.
At least 500 Americans die each year from asphyxia in an attempt to lessen oxygen flow to the brain in order to induce a more powerful orgasm.
Suddenly the fact that I have 90% of my sex high seems less perverse.
England’s King Edward VII, a man of considerable heft, had a special table built so that he could comfortably engage in sexual intercourse.
With the way the obesity epidemic is going these are going to be en vogue very soon.
29% of us are virgins when we marry.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA...yeah. Did they conduct this survey in Utah or something?
The average sexual experience lasts about 39 minutes.
"We wanted to go longer, but some asshole kept banging on the stall door!"
58% like dirty talk during sex.
Yup, count me in.
22% rent porno flicks at least once.
People still pay for porn!?
Given today’s average frequency of sexual intercourse, it would take the typical American couple more than four years to try every one of the 529 positions described in the Kama Sutra.
Honestly I still don't have a thorough understanding of how vaginal penetration works...And I hope I never do.
I always go out one too many times.
I need to smarten up and know when to say enough is enough. In the last three weekends I've been out around 48 hours. Forty-eight. I think I'm going to have to limit myself to two consecutive weekends maximum, and stick to every other weekend whenever possible. I've lost enough weight, I've depleted enough serotonin, and I've spent enough money.
Unfortunately it seems I can never have enough fun.
When you go out all the time, it's too easy to let everything else in your life slide. Back when I worked at the evil bank, I pretty much lived for the weekend. The only way I could get through my horrible day was to think about popping pills and dancing on the weekend.
I'm not nearly that bad now, but in the loop it's a lot easier to forget about the fact that most of my stuff is still in Ottawa, that I need a new bed, and that my financial situation is moderately dire. No matter how bad things get, I can have a blast every weekend and forget about it all.
There are some many lost souls at Comfort Zone. It's sort of like The 6th Sense: they don't know they're lost. Except they're in their late 30s, in go-nowhere retail jobs, and living in some shitty apartment with second-hand furniture. But damn do they know how to have fun.
I think it's time to try sleeping every night for the next couple of weeks. I have to learn to have fun doing other things again. I'm not going to stop partying anytime soon, but there needs to be a balance between partying and real life.
If only real life didn't suck so much.
I suck at hair. If hair was a game, I'd be in last place. If hair was a performance, I'd be boo'd off the stage. And if hair was sex, I'd accidentally fuck your ear.
I'm that bad.
To people who've known me in real life, this isn't news at all. Things have improved from my younger days, when I'd just let it grow until it got in my eyes, then head over to the Aunt's house for a fresh bowl cut. But it's still pretty bad.
I just don't know what to do with it. Do I spike it? Give it that messy look? How the hell do I get it to do those things anyways? My hair never seems to do what I want it to. If I want it up, it goes down. If I want it down, it goes up. It reminds me of when I couldn't control my erections in high school.
The funny thing is, I can clearly spot a guy who has nice hair, but when I'm trying to style it myself all my objectivity goes out the window and I can't tell the difference between Flock of Seagulls hair and something worthy of Tobey McGuire.
As a result I just leave the "fuzzball" most of the time. Unless a friend who can style hair is around. Then I make them do it. Of course this isn't a sustainable way to manage one's hair.
So what the hell should I do? Is there a class I can take? Does somebody want to mentor me?
In the meantime I took my usual cop-out. I took my hair, which I've been dutifully growing since Hallowe'en, and had the nice lady buzz it down to the height of an M&M. I've got that Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting look. Except it's not the eighties.
Anyways, I've won the battle for now. But the war isn't over until I'm bald or I can coif as well as the stereotypes say I should.
Image courtesy of Drawings Of Light - Paul.
As if you needed another reason to avoid Georgia, the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals has upheld a Georgia law banning the sale of sex toys.
Seriously, what year is it in Georgia?
I mean even if you think it's gross. Even if you think it's reprehensible. Even if you think it's unbelievably wrong it's still a freaking waste of time to pass, enforce and uphold laws like this. Honestly, of all the societal problems we're battling right now, I'd have to say sexual depravity is pretty low on the list. Now I can't claim to understand the unique challenges facing this backwater bigothole. But I can tell you that getting between women and their vibrators ain't gonna solve 'em.
So now you're going to pay Georgia. I will not visit your state. I will not watch sports featuring your teams. I will not speak kindly about your southern hospitality. And worst of all, I will not travel via your beloved airport hub. Of course I've never done any of those things anyways, but thanks for keeping me on course.
First man to mail the governor a butt plug gets a hand job from me.
I can dance for hours at a club, sober even, and not give a crap what anyone thinks. So why is it that when my roommate catches me dancing in the living room I'm embarrassed as all hell? It's my living room. It's my music. And my dancing isn't as...erm...broken robot-esque as it once was.
Besides everyone dances at home, right? Right? *chirping crickets*
Image courtesy of genewolf.
