Didn’t matter how old I was, you always treated me like one of the guys. 

An internal monologue after realizing my apartment is 100% spotless.

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.

Me vs The Guy My Boss Told Me Not to Worry About

While I’d love to sit here and write rugged stories detailing adventures and dancing with dangers, they simply do not exist. It would be pretty sweet if I could tell tall tales about how I’ve survived in the wilderness for weeks with nothing but a pocket knife and some string, subsisting on a rotation of small animals I was able to catch and cook over the fire I was able to start. I wish I could regale you with stories of the many fights I’ve won out there in the cold, indifferent streets. Shit, even something simple and noble like helping a stranger change their tire.

Truth is, I’m not manly in the slightest sense. I’m not that good with tools. I can barely throw a spiral. I know how to start a fire, but need anyone present to take a couple steps back before I try.

Here, a brief description of the man I turned out to be.

The Moon Landing. JFK. Operation Northwoods. Epstein. 9/11. The Covid vaccine.

Ron Funches challenges you to believe in a conspiracy theory.

@xdannyxbrownx shares his thoughts on video games, while I detail personal struggles of self-control around an X-Box and ice cold Miller Lites.

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.

In the era of swiping, my approach to dating is, well, dated.

Name a fad diet, I’ve tried it. Carnivore, liquid, plant-based, paleo, intermittent fasting. I was one of those idiot pescatarians for a while, intent on dropping $60 for sushi lunches throughout the week.

By far the worst of the bunch is keto. My god, what a stupid idea this is.

It’s going to be 80 degrees in Chicago on Monday and local news outlets can’t shut up about it. The weatherman likes to joke that summer in Chicago isn’t over yet. Just last night, one anchor had the audacity to ponder aloud when, if at all, it might start to feel like fall around here.

Fuck that. I’ll call this right the fuck now. Summer was all good and fun, but it’s over, dude. Enjoy your Monday, but rest up. First thing on Tuesday, we’re throwing on our best cardigans, lacing up our leather boots, and heading to the ‘Bucks for a couple of those pumpkin-spiced-whatever-the-fucks. 

Matt Rife shares a story about meeting his hero.

If you’re going to take a month of sobriety seriously, I will, too. 

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?

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.