Wow. Okay, kid. I guess I have to spell it out for you.

This question is in reference to my tweets that “I’m gonna go steal a box of cigars today,” and “Anyone who refers to Michael Brown as a robbery suspect is gonna get one of my stolen cigars and a fucking lesson in victim blaming.”

You’re confused because you fail to understand that this is not a cigar of reward. It is a cigar of shame.

If someone refers to Michael Brown as a robbery suspect instead of a shooting victim, that asshole gets a cigar to prove a point that says, “Here. I stole this cigar. Now you’ve got a stolen cigar. Are either of us any less human? Do the police suddenly have the right to murder us in the streets?”

Whether Michael Brown shoplifted a pack of Swishers from a convenience store is completely fucking irrelevant to the excessive use of force by police, and it’s disgusting that the Ferguson Police Department would try and use some petty teenage misconduct to shift attention away from their murderous violence.

Maybe, but don’t think of it as a good enough reason to look through her phone. Think further ahead than that.

If you take those first steps and violate her privacy, then you have to be willing to follow through with a potentially relationship ending intervention.

Are you prepared to face the consequences? Because whatever turns up on her phone, this shit isn’t gonna end well. It’s either gonna confirm what you already know to be true, or it’s evidence that neither of you can trust one another in the first place.

You’re fucked either way, so you know, do what you gotta do to keep her safe right up until you’re done, and once you’re done, stay fucking done.

I’ve never cried over a celebrity death before. I’ve struggled with depression and suicidal ideation my whole life and I guess it really just hit home. Don’t really have a question but fuck. Maybe I will get the help I need and he will have saved others who feel the same way.
It’s okay. You’re supposed to cry when you’re grieving.

Do you have a favorite Robin Williams role?
Mr. Keating in Dead Poets Society

I only met Robin Williams a few times (went to camp with his daughter) but he was one of the most kind, compassionate individuals I’ve ever had the good fortune to interact with. He was the kind of person who actually looked at you and saw you when you spoke, and cared about what you had to say, no matter how trivial. His death is hitting me hard even though the last time I saw him was years ago, and I know it probably is for everyone else too. The world lost a beautiful human today, and it breaks my heart to think of him living in so much pain for so long. I also recently read an article about David Foster Wallace, and grew up knowing the Hemingways and I watched my dad slowly kill himself with alcohol and…I don’t know. It seems like so many of these brilliant, tortured artists end up killing themselves, whether indirectly or outright. And I know it’s stupid, but I’ve felt the depths of despair and depression and I’ve felt the draw of suicide, and watching all of these exceptional people succumb to it….do you think maybe there’s something to it? Like maybe they know something we don’t? Or am I just being an asshole and romanticizing a chemical imbalance? Or that such highly sensitive people (as artists are wont to be) take in so much of the darkness around them that it becomes too much to bear? Sorry for rambling, I guess I’m just trying to make sense of this shitty situation where there is no sense at all to be had. It’s also my dad’s 4 year death anniversary tomorrow so I might be projecting, just a little. What are your feelings on suicide and depression? Do you have any light to shed?
I’ve answered plenty of questions about suicide and depression, and everyone is gonna be rushing to shed light on that shit for the next couple days. Honestly, I don’t feel like adding to the cacophony.

Robin Williams lived an outstanding life. He also lived a full life. However much pain he was in, I just hope he was at peace. I have to trust that he was ready, and in the end, the particulars of how he chose to make his exit aren’t any of our fucking business.

What logic? Your sad-sack bullshit is nothing but a string of excuses for wallowing in your own self-pity.

She wasn’t IT. There is no “person to end all persons.” She’s just some girl you fell in love with, and yeah, it hurts like hell when that kind of thing falls apart, but at some point you gotta get your shit together, dude.

There’s no such thing as soul mates. At best, we find a life partner or two, and this last girl isn’t gonna be one of yours. Another girl might be, but you gotta pull your head out of your ass and move the fuck on.

Also, relationships aren’t a zero-sum game. This shit isn’t a competition. She didn’t find someone better than you. She found someone better for her — in other words, someone with whom she is more compatible. That’s not a reflection on you unless you need it to be for all that wallowing you’re doing.

The only way to really fuck up your life is to let yourself stay emotionally paralyzed. Don’t be a fucking loser. Start moving on, and quit looking for reasons not to grow and change.

(Oh, and that shitty little voice in the back of your head that just whined, “moving on is easier said than done,” that’s the voice you need to start telling to shut the fuck up.)

It’s not that the grass is all that much greener when you’re off sowing your wild oats. (It’s pretty much the same shade of green wherever you happen to be standing.) It’s that the other side of your particular fence has a lot more roses to stop and smell. More thorns, too.

Whether you’re sowing wild oats, gathering ye rosebuds, or just looking for some greener grass, there isn’t a clichéd gardening metaphor that’s going to help you figure this out. You’re twenty. Even if you’re willing to acknowledge your limited ability to conceive of forever, you still don’t know shit about the person you’re going to be in ten years.

Your problem isn’t that you’re missing your window to explore your sexuality with other partners. Your problem is that you’re still naive enough to think that this is your only window. It’s not.

Life is gonna fuck with you, kiddo. Your circumstances are going to change. So will you. I’m not saying it’ll be better or worse. I’m just saying it’s gonna be different in ways that you aren’t even capable of predicting. In other words, the forever you’re imagining with this guy is a fantasy.

Your heart is going to get broken one day. You may think that’s bad news, but it’s not. It’s all part of the experience. Hell, this guy you’re with right now might not even be the one who breaks it. Who the fuck knows? Point is, this isn’t gonna be your only relationship. You’ll end up sowing some wild oats. It might be a few years from now, but it’ll happen.

Just promise me in the meantime you won’t do anything stupid like get married (or worse, knocked up), especially if you’re in the kind of relationship where you can’t even be open with your partner about your sexual and emotional needs because you’re afraid of his “conservative nature.” That’s a recipe for a miserable fucking life.

Aww, poor baby. Did I generalize you?

I’m proud of you for trying to use your big-boy words, but your overwhelming need to put me in my place for being mouthy pretty much proves my point about how you guys typically talk to us.

Oh, and for the record, it’s not that I’m a misandrist. It’s that you feel so entitled to constant, positive reinforcement of your male ego, you can’t tell the difference between a woman who doesn’t give a shit and a woman filled with actual contempt for men.

Oh, please.

You’re confusing dominant for simply not being submissive, and what you consider “crushing” and “mocking” is really just a tone no less condescending than the one men typically use with women in everyday interactions.

It’s fascinating that you would think I hate men when, at worst, all I’m doing is matching their level of respect.

Fuck no.

Tell your stupid boyfriend to mind his own fucking business. Tell him that if he doesn’t trust you to have a working relationship with your ex, then tough titties. His delicate male ego and petty jealousies don’t get one ounce of priority over your ability to earn.

Don’t put up with hissy fits. Scold the shit out of him when he acts like a little bitch, and if you feel like twisting the knife, tell him that if you were ever really gonna cheat on him, it wouldn’t be with the guy you cheated on with him.