Sorry for the hiatus. I received a promotion back in March, and it’s been eating up my free time. Please do not congratulate me. There’s absolutely nothing to celebrate. I do 7x more work for 1.27x more pay — what a deal.

I want to quit. But I don’t. Worried being unemployed will make it too difficult to get laid. A quick hop, skip, and a jump and I’m suddenly yelling at women for being golddiggers. Sorry girl in the teal sundress on 49th and 8th.

I eventually deduce it’s not her fault. She didn’t choose to be a golddigger. Just like Freddie Mercury didn’t choose to be gay. Or I didn’t choose to be repulsed by Stacey “The Stegosaurus” Abrams. It’s innate. We were born this way.

Don’t know why I think unemployment will affect my dating life. It’s not like women are hiking up their skirts when I tell them I write emails and get yelled at by my clients for a living.

Still need to grovel on dating apps and in bars. Which is to say absolutely nothing has changed in the last four months. You didn’t miss a thing while I was gone.

It’s possible my job actually hurts my dating life. Groveling requires energy and my job drains me of all of it. Don’t have the stamina to dance for girls after I’ve danced for my clients all day. Too exhausted.

I need the job though. Because I need the money. The money lets me take Naimi, the ethnically ambiguous 19-year old who’s got everything but her nips covered in her profile pic, on dates. It lets me invite her back to my apt with a bedroom and a roof and some privacy.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the salary’s not important. Maybe Naimi would still let me bang her if I brought her back to my tent on the west side highway. I don’t know. Probably not. She likes to dress like she ate breakfast in a sewer, but she doesn’t actually like sewers.

I don’t have to live in a tent. I could sell my bitcoin to pay the bills. But I won’t. Because BTC to the moon.

Or I could move back in with my parents. But I also won’t. It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy living with them. Just can’t bear the look on people’s faces when I tell them I still live there. At the age of twenty-eight.

So I’m stuck. Like every other sucker who loathes their job.

My only hope is an explosion. Large. Nuclear. All modern economies destroyed. Somehow all our friends and family survive though.

Forced back to simpler times. No more businesses. No more jobs. No more waking up Monday through Friday typing emails I don’t want to write, answering calls I don’t want to take, helping customers I don’t want to assist.

Sit by the campfire. Eat. Drink. Be drunk. Never labor through another product steering committee call again.

Check my phone every morning, praying for this day’s arrival. It never comes.

Curse you, Kim Jong Un. Curse your incompetence. Be less incompetent. But not too competent. Kill our economy but not our workforce. You can do it.

(All of the characters and events portrayed in the below post are entirely fictional. Any semblance to real life is just your imagination. They are not my close, recently married friends, whom I love.)

He was sick of Miami girls. They liked bottle service and NBA players, which he also liked, but sharing a table at LIV with Tim Hardaway wasn’t “sick.”

She was tired of dating. Not only was it exhausting, but most of the boys her age were immature. She wanted someone who valued being a good Dad more than partying until 3am.

They met at a birthday dinner. A friend introduced them. He said he liked her because she was “Italian,” but he couldn’t stop staring at her ass.

She was fun like the other Miami girls but not vapid. The best of both worlds. A rising corporate star. She’d never depend on him for money. He made sure to mention he was in medical school almost immediately. She did not find this distasteful.

She said she also liked him because he was “Italian,” but she couldn’t stop thinking about how jealous he would make her best friends. A tall, handsome doctor. And he dressed fashionably, almost too fashionably. She hoped he wasn’t gay.

She pictured one girlfriend in particular, and how much more he’d make her hate herself when she sneaks off to the bathroom at Rockwell to blow the DJ (opener, not the headliner). This fantasy offered her tremendous satisfaction, though she’d never admit it to anyone, except all of her other girlfriends. This friend was annoying though; she deserved it.

They were “arguing” about whose mom makes better tomato sauce when she finally noticed him checking out her backside. He wasn’t being subtle. Normally, she would find this off-putting, having just met him minutes ago, but this confirmed he wasn’t gay. The rest of him was also so clean and buttoned-up, she was happy to catch him misbehaving, particularly if the catalyst for this foible was the allure of her butt. This made her feel special. She smiled.

They danced and kissed a little bit at the bar, but nothing more. Dynamite by Taio Cruz played loudly in the background the first time their tongues touched. He walked her home and then asked her out to dinner before they parted ways. She said she was busy, even though she was free. She’d text him in a few days to say those plans fell through. All in all, she was pleased with the way the night unfolded. Everything went according to plan. She slept soundly through the night.

They eventually go out for dinner. He is a perfect gentleman. She is smitten. They share intimate stories from their childhood under the guise of still arguing about who is more Italian. It was delightful and precious. She decides she wants to sleep with him but doesn’t want him to think she’s an easy lay. She is torn. She orders another martini and decides to “go for it.”

He makes sure to pay for dinner, even though he’s a student and she’s gainfully employed. He doesn’t mind; he’s happy to run up his credit card debt for her. It helps that he thinks she’s cool, but he mostly does it because he hopes it will increase the likelihood she comes back to his place. He’s not privy to the “deeper meaning” behind the last martini order.

They continue dating. She meets his friends from his childhood who she quickly realizes are amazing. But are also drunk retards. She pretends to like them. For him. He never uncovers this secret.

He needs to move to Camden for his residency where he’ll mainly learn how to remove metal bullets from dead bodies in the ER. He asks her to come with him. She will not leave Miami without a ring. This is not a problem; he planned to marry her already.

The wedding is grand and tasteful. All of the awesome drunk retards attend. All of the bridesmaids have boyfriends and believe it’s “unethical” to cheat on them (unless it’s with a DJ, of course). This aggravates the drunk retards and they get even more drunk as a way of voicing their frustration.

They have five kids. None of them are athletic. Two of them get bullied. One of them rubs his nipples whenever he gets nervous. All of them are kind and sweet. They are proud parents and love them anyway, although he sometimes wonders why he couldn’t have just one athlete. He doesn’t hold this against her, even though he has athletic genes and is not at fault.

The baby weight never really comes off; she gets a little chubby as she gets older. He doesn’t mind, similar to the kids, he loves her anyway.

He loses a portion of their savings investing in meme stonks. She minds, at first, but moves past it. Similar to the kids, she loves him anyway.

And they grow old and silver together. And their skin sags and flaps and wrinkles. He gets a weird growth on his pinky finger, but they never leave each other’s side. They live happily ever after.

Says swipe left if you’re a Republican in her Tinder profile. Millennial feminist. Cares about “love and equality.” Guess she doesn’t appreciate irony.

I ignore this warning sign, like a complete moron, because she’s wearing cute, adorable librarian glasses in exactly three of her pictures. Such a decision has consequences; this will end poorly.

What’s most likely to occur is I will bite my tongue, clamp up, not make any jokes, be a complete bore, because I’m worried she’ll brand me a Republican, since I don’t think it’s racist to suggest you’d prefer restrictions on undocumented immigration. Or whatever. She’ll eventually bail because I’m acting dull. I don’t blame her. I’ll become frustrated. I let myself morph into something I’m not.

If I do, somehow, find the gall to speak my mind, she will decide I’m “problematic” and also still leave. Fortunately, this doesn’t end with me getting angry at myself; at least I didn’t pretend to be something I’m not. Unfortunately, this scenario is infinitely harder to produce because I’m still convinced she will like me if I behave in a way that is amendable to her, despite this being a fool’s errand.

We agree to a date. I suggest Lorely Beer Garden because it has a heated outdoor patio. She doesn’t want to go there because of Covid. They didn’t have a scare or anything. Just doesn’t want to be seated near people in general. This begs the question why agree to a date, in NYC, in the middle of the winter, if restaurants and coffee shops are off-limits for you. I do not say that. I want to sleep with an attractive girl so I can feel good about myself. Instead, I say, “whatever makes you feel safe.”

We settle on Central Park. It will be 38 degrees outside. I don’t mind, but I am worried she won’t have any fun if she’s cold. I don’t need an additional obstacle. I have enough of an uphill battle already.

She asks me to get a Covid test, even though I had Covid six weeks ago. 100% of doctors agree it’s nearly impossible to get it again within the first twelve weeks. I explain this to her. Doesn’t matter. My love for appeasement would make even Neville Chamberlain blush. At least I can point to the cute, adorable librarian glasses. What’s his excuse?

I plan an amazing date. Buy her favorite wine. Had to bike to a liquor store in the West Village to find it. Wolffer’s Estate Summer in a Bottle. Also bought snacks — fancy crackers, cheese, and meats. She asked for cheese even though she’s “allergic.”

I pack a yeti blanket for us to sit on. It is large and waterproof. Can brave any element. Bring a second blanket and hand warmers in case she’s cold. I worry I’m trying too hard. Subconsciously compensating for the fact that we have nothing in common.

Morning of the date she says she’s scared to go to Central Park. Apparently, there’s going to be a Proud Boys rally near the entrance. She’s Jewish and “not looking to get hate-crimed.”

I cycle through potential replies:

“The official leader of the Proud Boys is a brown man named Enrique. Are you sure they’re neo-nazis?”

“Skin-heads don’t march in the cold!”

“Who told you my plan?”

The reply I eventually settle on is, “I can get there a few minutes early and give you the all-clear.” I feel my t-levels plummet. I sense her interest in me diminish immediately.

I quickly pull up the picture with cute, adorable librarian glasses. My strength is restored. I hope there are neo-nazis for me to fight today.

I arrive at Central Park. There are zero Proud Boys there. I’m surprised I was told I was wrong the last time I said Ibram Kendi is chasing bigotry’s shadow.

She arrives. She’s wearing a mask and the librarian glasses. The librarian glasses are incredibly fogged up because she’s wearing a mask. She cannot see anything. I suggest she take off the mask. She says she can’t until we’ve found our spot and put our blanket down. I ask why. She replies, “Because I don’t want to die.” I look around, there’s nobody for miles.

We search for a spot. Well, I do. She cannot see. She walks into fences and brick walls. I find a spot. Lay out the blanket. She takes off her mask. It is unclear how the extra three minutes saved her life.

We start drinking. The wine is delicious. I compliment her taste as well as my planning and procurement capabilities. It somehow leads to a conversation about the movie Tenet. She says Christopher Nolan didn’t light John David Washington properly. He doesn’t know how to light black actors because he never casts them in his movies.

I don’t have time time to cycle through responses and compulsively resort to making fun of her for having too many opinions. She giggles. I’ve found the middle ground by accident; don’t tell her she’s wrong, just lame.

We keep talking about movies. She calls Quentin Tarantino “racist.” I scream for the Proud Boys to jump out of the bushes and abduct her. She laughs even more. Can’t believe I didn’t start doing this earlier. What a phenomenal discovery.

She comes back to my apartment. We go to my bedroom. She starts talking about her sick cat. I long for the moments where she dubiously smeared my favorite filmmakers. I’m unsure how to pivot from the sick cat topic without sounding heartless. I decide to walk over to the chair she’s sitting in and kiss her.

I gently guide her in the direction of the bed. She is incredibly displeased by this decision. She swivels in her chair and turns her back to me.

I apologize. Which makes me feel weak. I didn’t do anything wrong. Explain that my back hurt. I was hunched over a small chair while we were making out. She doesn’t care. Seems to think I’m just using her for sex now.

We order food on my credit card. Letting me foot the bill seems to be a central component of millennial feminism and its conception of independence. We eat the food. She makes a joke about how she didn’t think her sick cat would lead to kissing. I’m hoping this bed snafu is behind us.

We go out on my roof. The sun is setting. It is picturesque. I kiss her. She does not reciprocate. Dead fish. I’m confused. Unsure how to handle this. I pull away but don’t call attention to her lack of enthusiasm. Maybe she was self-conscious about kissing right after eating?

We go back inside and continue hanging out. I give her time to go to the bathroom and freshen up. When she comes back I kiss her again. More dead fish. I now feel creepy, even though I’m not. This makes me resent her. I feel obligated to address what’s going on.

I do this by asking her if she’s uninterested or if she just wants me to take it slow. I said I’m fine with either. Just having trouble reading the situation. She responds “both.”

I check out, mentally. “Both” seems nonsensical. I can hear the television on downstairs. The Ravens just scored a touchdown. It is the playoffs.

She launches into a fifteen-minute explanation. It offers no additional commentary around the “both” reply, even though that seemed to be the intention. She might as well have been speaking French.

I get the feeling she was interested and then the bed faux pas, if you even want to call it that, happened, and it devastated her. She stuck around to see if by some miracle, I could say or do something that would reverse the effects of that suggestion and reestablish the dynamic we had when she first entered the bedroom. Which was an impossible task.

Or maybe I’m just a horrible kisser.

6:15am: Wake up. Make coffee and then screenwrite for two hours. It is a long, grueling 2 hours. I tell myself this is my “passion.” I question why I am passionate about something that forces me to sit alone in a room for hours on end.

8:30am: Meditate. The teacher says it’s a “victory” when I catch myself lost in thought. I struggle to celebrate my inability to concentrate.

8:45am: Transition to work. My job. The thing that pays my bills. It begins with me receiving several impassioned emails from clients. They’re angry they bought a product that doesn’t work. They don’t realize that I’m similarly angry; I work for a company who sells a product that doesn’t work. I call them and let them yell at me for thirty minutes. When they demand answers, I deflect. They eventually lose steam until the next billing cycle.

10:30am: Scroll through Tinder. This requires the same core skills as my job in that I mainly have to convince strangers reality is a lie.

“That’s not an acne scar; it’s just a glare.”

“My hairline isn’t receding; I just like to shave my head.”

11:00am: I refocus on work. Another heated email. This customer is upset our product hasn’t shipped yet. I wonder what he’s going to say when he realizes what we’re sending him is defective.

12:15pm: Time for lunch. I go to Just Salad. I feel alone because their marketing and branding does not speak to me; I don’t eat bland, green leaves to “improve my mood” or “boost my energy.” I eat them because, if I don’t, I will balloon, horizontally, into a pale, squatty Oompa Loompa. I will then be forced to go on dates with other pale, squatty Oompa Loompas. I do not want this for myself.

1:30pm: I continue working so I don’t get fired. Need someway to pay for my salads and Tinder dates.

3:00pm: My eyes are dry from staring at a computer screen for the last 9 hours. I convince myself tilling soil in the cold rain is more comfortable than modern office life. I begin plotting my revenge on IBM for creating the first word processor.

4:30pm: Re-open Tinder. More smoke and mirrors. Need to pretend I’m funny and charming and worthy of an in-person sit down. This charade typically last four or five messages. She either gets bored or I say something “racist.” We both move on.

5:30pm: I exercise, even though I’m already low on energy. Letting down clients and tinder matches is exhausting. I run or go to the gym. Like the salads, this does nothing to improve how I feel. In fact, it does the opposite. I’m frustrated and counting the seconds until it ends.

8:00pm: Read. So I can be smart. So I can make more money. So I can retire. So I can eventually lounge around by the campfire all day like people used to do before they had to attend product-steering committee meetings.

10:00pm: Rejoice in the day being complete. And then avoid going to bed. You do not collect $200 when you complete a lap around this board. Nope, you just get to begin again.

11:00pm: Actually go to bed. Get angry at myself for not giving my body the chance to get 8 hours of sleep.

Rinse, recycle, repeat.

I’m in Dallas for work. Four days. Need to find a Tinder floozy who will bang me so I don’t feel like a worthless eunuch.

Start swiping. My revamped profile is undeniable. Matches are pouring in.

Too many of the matches have fell victim to the obesity epidemic. When this happens, they almost always promote their “sass” in their profile. That’s like serving me melted ice cream and trying to distract me with the cherry on top. I don’t even like cherries. I pray for them and unmatch.

Another match is a bald, forty year old man named Jarvis who’s “looking to turn a straight guy.” He is preferable to the overeaters.

Several matches are unfat. I start chatting with them.

A few notice I’m from New York. They ask what I’m doing here. I tell them I’m here for work for the week and I’m looking for a stranger to come to my hotel room and tell me I’m funny and handsome. They unmatch me.

I decide I need a new strategy. I start saying I’d like to re-enact the “draw me like one of your French girls” scene from the Titanic. Except I’d like to be Rose and the girl can be Leo and I don’t want to be sprawled out on a couch when she draws me. I want to be standing and flexing and covered in oil.

This seems to get a positive response nearly every time.

One girl tells me, “She’ll trying anything twice.”

Another girl says, “I will draw the shit out of you.” I tell her I need her to calm down because I will be in vulnerable state when she draws me. She replies, “I promise I will try to behave but anything can happen in the moment.” I wonder, aloud, how many times she’s contracted gonorrhea.

A new match messages me first with a Kate Winslet reference. For the uncouth heathens who may have stumbled across this page, Kate Winslet is the actress who played Rose in the Titanic. I start my Titanic bit. It seems natural rather than forced because she brought up Kate first.

We hit off and text the rest of the night. I say let’s grab drinks Tuesday or Wednesday. She says she’s busy Tuesday and Wednesday. I tell her I’m leaving Thursday morning. She says that’s unfortunate. I complain that I’ll be bored if we don’t meet for drinks. She says boredom breeds character and ingenuity. I reply I want none of that. She asks me what I want. I tell her a yacht and a harem of 19 year old virgins. She accuses me of being basic and questions my writing ability.

For all the hype Tinder gets, these one night stands still seem to be a pain in the ass to execute. I sigh and message Jarvis. He will tell me I’m funny and handsome.

Girl arrives. She’s even prettier than her pictures. That never happens. They’re always fatter. It’s a law of nature, like gravity or Amy Schumer being unfunny.

This is my first bumble date since I revamped my online dating profile. Paid a professional photographer to take pictures of me in the park. Genius move.

Wavy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. No blemishes on her skin. Crossfitter. Is shorter than me.

Went to MIT. Has a high-paying job. Just bought a condo in Hoboken. She will fund my hopeless screenwriting pursuit while I eat and shit in her place rent free.

Date starts off terribly. I realize I may have called her Heather upon greeting her. Her name is Brooke. I do not have the height nor the charm to call girls by the wrong name.

I replay this exchange in my mind. My friend mentioned a girl named Heather in a text message three seconds before we said hello. I struggle with whether or not to address this. She wonders why I seem distracted.

There’s a 30-minute wait for a table. We must wait outside. It’s approximately 29 degrees outside.

I called the restaurant earlier in the day and they said they don’t take reservations for parties under six people. A new rule they implemented during Covid. Something about money and limited seating capacity.

I tell her this. She doesn’t care. She is cold.

We eventually get seated and then we eventually get drunk. I redeem myself. Ten drinks and two hours later, the waiter asks us to leave. COVID curfew. He hands us the check.

The date went well. She did a lot of talking. Which was nice. I usually feel obligated to dance like a monkey and win the girl over.

At one point, a stranger interrupted us to say she thought we were having “just the cutest date.” I was caught off guard. I replied, “Thank you, I like your hat.”

This would’ve been fine, but the stranger was wearing a ratty, old adidas beanie. It looked like it had been plucked from a goodwill basket. She rightfully thought I was being sarcastic, even though I wasn’t. She scowled.

Whatever. The check is on the table. She takes out her credit card and offers to split the bill with me. I tell her no need. I am gentleman. She lets me pay.

I consider this an investment in our future. She will not suspect an ulterior motive when I suggest I quit my job and live in her condo rent free.

We leave. I kiss her goodnight. I think I’ve finally found my sugar mommy.

I text her the next day. She never replies. I am down another $130.

Dear Santa…

For me this year, I would like to be able to fall asleep without tossing and turning for two hours while I replay ten-year-old arguments and embarrassing moments from my youth. Like the time I thought arugula was cheese, not a green leaf.

Dear Santa…

From you this year, I would like a denouncement of the modern feminist movement. On the grounds that if they were born into male gender roles they’d still say they’re the most oppressed gender in the world.

Dear Santa…

For me this year, I would like to get fired from my job with six months severance. The key here is the six months severance. I want to get paid to not work. To sit around and do nothing. Andrew Yang for President.

Dear Santa…

From you this year, I would like an announcement that you are both black and trans. So that RuPaul feels more included.

Dear Santa…

For me this year, I would like new ear lobes. My current ones are too big and droopy. I look like a retired member of the Kenyan Maasai tribe.

Dear Santa…

From you this year, I would like a confession that you’re a “racist pig” because you deliver way more gifts to the white suburbs than you do inner-city ghettos.

Dear Santa…

For me this year, I would like a girl that laughs at all my jokes and compliments my writing on repeat. Preferably one that is Japanese or Colombian and has the metabolism of a 12-year old.

Dear Santa…

I have been a good boy this year and I expect to receive all my requested presents. If I do not, I will fly to the north pole and feed you to your reindeer.

A check is placed on the table by our server. It’s 10pm on a Sunday. I’m smoking hookah at Gardenia Terrace with three girls I met in Bryant Park earlier in the day.

One girl is incredibly hot. A sexy mix of Portuguese and French. Dressed in these edgy goth stockings and cute, adorable booties. Big brown eyes like a puppy.

The second one laughs very hard at my jokes. That would make her hot even if she had Shrek’s waist-to-hip ratio, which she doesn’t, so double-win.

The third one is neither hot nor laughs very hard at my jokes.

One of the woman said her neighbor is Peter Dinklage. This means all three live in an expensive apartments paid for by overworked men trying to win them over. They will think I’m a worthless subspecies until I prove to them I’m successful enough to buy them things.

The check is on the table and the women pretend it isn’t there. I make a move for it because the server is nagging us to leave. We’re indoors and if we’re not out of here in two minutes Cuomo fines the hookah bar for breaking COVID lockdown regulations.

I check the receipt. The bill is $175. Not great. Before I put my credit card in the leather check presenter, I lie to myself and say I’m not going to pick up their tab. I’m just waiting for the right moment to discuss venmos. No need to lose any momentum right now. Nothing kills a conversation like asking a girl for money.

The server takes my credit card and leaves. This is lost on the women. I should be honored to pay for the privilege of spending time with them.

I notice the girl that’s been laughing at my deranged jokes has an engagement ring on her finger. I panic because it will be difficult to pivot to one of the other girls.

The hot girl hates me because she isn’t funny or cool. She thinks my jokes are “crass” and “tasteless.” And I’ve basically ignored the third girl for the last six hours.

The server returns with our check and says we have to leave. Mentions something about a virus. I tune him out.

For some reason, the girls oblige his request. I panic even more. About to go home penniless and pussiless.

Hate myself for not noticing the rock on her finger. If you laugh at all my jokes, I basically start hallucinating. You suddenly become the hottest, most single, most willing girl in all the human race.

Could’ve pulled back on the outlandish humor. Could’ve tried to find a way to connect with both girls instead of one. But I can’t help myself. If even one person laughs, I have to keep going.

We stand up to leave and the third girls mentions the bill. She asks who paid for it and what she owes. I decide this is my in. I will cover her tab and then she will be impressed and then she will come home.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent little time interacting with her all day. It doesn’t matter that I barely know anything about her.

I know that she eats kosher. I can make a joke about that. “Dinner wasn’t the only thing blessed by a rabbi. Dessert’s kosher too.” And then I point to my cock. Boom.

When she asks about the bill again, I say, “Don’t worry about it.” I follow up with an invitation for a night cap at my apartment. She goes back to her own apartment twenty-five blocks north instead.

Ryan Long, a Canadian comedian, released a sketch comedy video this week called Rehabilitation for Vice Bloggers. It’s very funny.

I’m envious. Tried to use noble critic and my screenplays to satirize same ideas. But he did it better. Never thought sketch comedy would be the perfect medium for poking fun at wokeness. Huge oversight. In retrospect, makes perfect sense.

I hate him. I want to smash his face in with hockey puck so he can never go on camera again. Water board him with maple syrup until he chokes and drowns. Chug a steaming hot Tim Horton’s coffee over his lifeless body.

It’s easier to work around the SNL gatekeepers than the Hollywood gatekeepers. Sketch comedy can be made cheap and then uploaded to the internet. Don’t even need SNL to launch your career as a sketch comedian anymore.

Harder to avoid the Hollywood gatekeepers though. More expensive to shoot a tv show or a movie. Should’ve thought of that. Sick and tired of people saying this script is well written but I cannot support its message. Ryan doesn’t have that problem. Just uploads his content to YouTube.

Need to find away around those people. Need to find a way to shoot my own stuff. Seems pointless now though. People will just say it’s a Ryan Long ripoff. It’d be like trying to do standup jokes about being a fat slut after Amy Schumer went viral. You’ll just be called unoriginal. The audience will think your worthless.

Need to stay positive. Television and sketch comedy are different mediums, even if we want to poke fun at the same topics. Maybe those differences will force me to execute the jokes in a way that still seems fresh and new.

Need to spend the next 72 hours figuring out how. Need a bottle of adderall. No time to waste. Clocking is ticking. If I don’t do it, someone else will and I will die penniless and alone.

Wrote a pilot for a miniseries about the Duke lacrosse rape case. Shared it with my screenwriting group for feedback. 90 minutes of torture.

Took a position that I knew would be unpopular with the #MeToo crowd. Wanted to defend my work honorably, but my dick wouldn’t let me.

Feminism’s most important achievement in the 21st century is that it now has young, attractive, skinny women arguing in its favor. Impossible for men to debate succinctly and rationally now.

Need to institute Sharia law for co-ed political discussions. No skin may be showing or men will be prone to roundabout explanations and endless qualifiers. They will take the teeth out of what they’re saying, soften it in the hopes the girls don’t think they’re monsters.

Someone brought up “rape culture.” This is basically the idea that a given environment will enable rape. For example, feminists will say fraternities enable rape by objectifying women.

Wanted to push back. Wanted to compare it to the 90s Christians who said violent video games enable violence. Wanted to say that a comment or a joke about a woman’s appearance doesn’t in anyway mean that person endorses or encourages violence against that woman. Doesn’t mean the people around him do either.

Didn’t say any of that. All because there’s an attractive girl in the class. Don’t want her to think I have a shrine to Ted Bundy hiding in the back of my closet.

She’s pretty. Tiny but not frail. Smart. Articulate. Her feedback during the workshop is always precise, yet somehow doesn’t feel prepared or rehearsed.

Not a great look if you’re the guy defending jokes about the juiciness of a woman’s ass. How you’d like to lather it up in butter and cut it with a steak knife. Yes, it may be crass, but it doesn’t mean you actually want to cut her up with a steak knife.

Words don’t mean shit. Actions do. Harvey Weinstein said the right things. Harvey Weinstein donated to women’s charities. Harvey Weinstein championed female filmmakers. So did Bill Cosby. That meant nothing.

Must’ve been easy to bring up these concerns when feminists where decrepit, chunky hobglobins. Wasn’t even a second thought. Who cares if Greta the Hound doesn’t like you.

But not anymore. So I bit my tongue. Tip-toed around issues. Qualified again and again. Deprived my points of any oxygen or energy. Must’ve came off as dull, meek and uninformed. Nobody wants to fuck that either.

Might’ve been better to present disagreeable points but with bluster and charisma. Probably doesn’t matter either way. Need a lobotomy so I can wholeheartedly believe what millennial women believe.