words

How to determine whether it is Labor Day or Memorial Day.

You good, bro?

I know nothing about owning a home, or any property for that matter, as I have always rented and, based on how things are looking, will likely rent for the rest of my life. Here’s what I assume owning a home is like:

I OFFICIALLY GIVE UP. For the past few years, I have spent far too much time and money doing things that I thought made me cool. I began working at cafés, looking like I didn’t want to be disturbed. I developed a terrible habit of ordering PBRs at bars even though they’re essentially watered-down horse piss. I’ve purchased several (several) designer t-shirts because GQ recommended that I do so. Fad diets? You name it, I’ve tried it.

However, at the end of all of these escapades, I have come to a single conclusion: I’m fucking tired. I’m folding, or whatever it is they say when they give up in poker, which I’ve never really made the effort to learn. Does folding mean quitting?

Thanks for going on my first run with me. Just wondering, are my feet supposed to feel like I’m smashing them into a pit of burning coals?

Yeah? Ok, cool. Because I’m getting a lot of that right now.

If any companies out there are trying to buy my personal information I would honestly prefer they do it from me directly.

Are you interested in museums and art galleries but dread mingling with the pretentious crowds that flood them? Check out my definitive guide to museum etiquette and you’ll blend in with those art-loving shit-bags in no time!

St. Patty’s Day is now a distant memory and suddenly alcohol doesn’t seem as repulsive as it did last week. While planning a weekend of debauchery, you can feel the butterflies begin to form in your stomach. Maybe you'll drink with friends on an extravagant rooftop. Fancy! Perhaps you'll just have a couple beers at your local bar, further relying on the alcohol as your parlay goes to hell. Better luck next time! Or maybe, just maybe, you'll surprise your significant other with a home-cooked dinner and bottle of aged Argentinian malbec. Look at you!

Wherever you drink this weekend, you will be able to escape life’s problems, even if for only a day or two. But Monday is fast-approaching and these problems will still be there. Haunting you. Lingering over you.

Stop trying to drink your problems away. There’s no use in that because they are, in turns out, already written all over you. And I know them based off of what kind of beer you'll order this weekend.

Those were the days!

You finally did it. You cleaned the whole house. Every laundry basket is empty. Every countertop, decluttered. Every nook and every cranny—swept, Swiffered, and scented. You don’t even have a junk drawer anymore.

You’ve ascended to a tier of domestic perfection hitherto unknown. And now, there’s only one thing left to do: Nothing.

Relax, ya boy has not really joined a cult. I almost did once, though. It all began with a single invitation in the mail. What followed was a series of events so weird that to this day I can’t really explain what happened to me.

My mom is in California for the week, so I’m watching my brother and sister. They’re super chill, so it’s a pretty easy gig. Seems like my only real responsibility has been making dinner and setting the table each night.

The kids are very busy these days. Bella splits her time between the dance team, theater, and media deadlines. Diego just got a PS5, emerging from his room periodically for Gatorade and other sustenance.

Dinner is really the only time we spend together, so I’m determined to make each meal special. I’ll teach Diego how to cook a perfect medium-rare steak. I’ll surprise Bella with her favorite soup (broccoli cheddar). This is going to be a really great week… starting tomorrow. I have a work event so they’re getting mac & cheese tonight.

Dinner is ready early, so I figure I’ll sit at the table until the kids come downstairs to eat. Though alone for only a few moments, I manage to squeeze in a quick existential crisis.

This blog got pretty weird a couple of years ago. The only thing I wrote about was drinking with degenerates because I found them more interesting than anyone else. I asked my Mom to guest blog in an effort to right the ship. Boy, did she deliver.

Museums are fucking awesome and never listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.

Will buying these expensive pants change my life? I think they just might.

Fuck, there are a lot of birds in here.