You seem like the kind of person that would absolutely hate the vapid people you talk about in your blog. What makes you want to stick around L.A.?

The world is full of vapid people, darling. They’re everywhere. At least in Los Angeles there is a whimsy and caprice that gives the pointlessness a certain kind of charm.

Besides, my heart’s not filled with hate. I’ve come to appreciate the bubbly, effervescent flavor of vapid that’s cultivated out here. It’s a lot more healthy than the angry, bitter version that grows wild in other regions of the country.

Most of the time, I don’t mind the douchebaggery. I can be at a club and Sir Douchealot, king of all douchebags, can swagger up to me sweating velveeta from every pore thinking he’s gonna lay some game and I’ll be perfectly okay with it. I’ll even let him sit down and open with his best move, because that motherfucker is playing checkers when I’m playing chess.

If I’m in the right mood, that kind of shit is fun for me, because everyone is a human being, even that poor, unfortunate little boy trapped under all that Affliction and hair gel. You’d be surprised, even in LA, how quickly people stop talking bullshit and start connecting at a personal level once you make the slightest overture of respect and intelligence.

Nobody is so vapid that you can’t find something to share with them, and quite frankly, every time I convince a meat head to shave his chin strap beard or finish his degree, I make the world a better place.

Any idea how everything was created? I’m trying to figure out what I believe, and it seems that the process of elimination seems to be the easiest way at this point.

I’m not exactly asking for advice, I know, but I figure your advice would be as good as any (and better than some). Thanks for reading, and thanks for the column!

The problem with creation myths is that they’re the inevitable result of a human mind trapped in a four dimensional relativistic paradigm in which the universe has a causal arrow of time.

We can’t help but notice the clock ticking, and being the inquisitive little monkeys that we are, we can’t help but ask ourselves how it all got started. Thing is, I think it might end up being a silly question.

The fact that the clock is ticking in the first place is most likely gonna turn out to be a limitation of our skewed perception. I’m not saying time doesn’t exist. I’m just saying our species has a pretty shitty track record of making assumptions about the nature of the universe.

Hell, it took us a while just to figure out that the planet was round. We’ve made some lovely improvements since then, but I think this linear, creationist interpretation of the universe is merely a stage in our cognitive evolution.

If our species is lucky enough to develop and get a peek at that next level shit, I have a sneaking suspicion that one day, asking how everything was created will be similar to asking what happens when you sail off the edge of the Earth.

What’s the point of relationships? If the initial high is temporary and then you stick together until you hate each other so much that you cheat or break up, then what’s the point? Is there ever a time when people find someone they really love?

The human condition is a fun ride, but don’t ever forget that we’re all just a bunch of talking meat wrapped around a sack of warm shit programmed to eat, sleep, and fuck.

We’re social animals with a biological imperative to reproduce. That’s it. That’s all. Love is a neurochemical response with a shelf life long enough to perpetuate the species.

And hey, I don’t wanna hear you complaining about it either, because quite frankly, you’re one lucky motherfucker to have air in your lungs and the opportunity to be confused by it at all.

The last breath you just took is one more than a hundred billion human beings who came before you will ever get to take again, and one day, the last breath you just took will be the last breath you’ll ever take.

That day is the point of relationships, that day when you cease to fucking exist, because it’s guaranteed, my friend. This shit all ends, so cram as much love, joy, and shout-it-from-the-rooftops happiness as you possibly can into whatever time you can make for yourself.

Meet as many interesting people as you can. Make as many friends as you can. Fall in love as many times as you can. Fuck if it hurts sometimes. You’re one of the lucky ones who’s still breathing.

All we have in this world is relationships with other people. At this stage in our evolution, nothing else matters.

you shouldn’t be such a bitch about grammar. only uppity 15 year old ‘gifted’ girls who reblog harry potter do that. as long as one is intelligible, whatever dude. some of the greatest writers of all time have ignored many facets of grammar. it doesn’t make you an idiot. it just means you are more right-brained, and those people are better writers anyways. grammar is the most mathematical and lifeless part of language. essential, yes, but getting on everyone’s ass about petty grammatical things just shows what an insecure little bully YOU are. have fun with your harry potter, sweet cheeks

I don’t know who’s filling the right side of your brain with this lazy bullshit, but starting your sentences with lowercase letters does not make you ee cummings.

Great writers can ignore grammar because they know it in the first place, and a condescending opinion on top of a shitty attitude isn’t evidence that you know anything at all.

This isn’t about rules. Fuck the rules. This is about fundamental beauty inherent in the system. If you want to deconstruct the language in furtherance of personal expression, by all means, I’ll give you a poetic license to kill, but don’t piss on me and tell me it’s raining.

I can tell the difference between a deliberate and meaningful manipulation of words and the ramblings of some half-retarded teenager who wouldn’t know where to stick an apostrophe unless I lubed it up and put it in myself.

This shit isn’t petty. I’m not walking around with a red pen and a stick up my ass. People write to me for help with their problems, and if I’m pointing out that they can’t string a sentence together, it’s for a reason.

Mastery of language is the primary indication of intelligence, education, and grace, and the inability to effectively communicate is at the core of pretty much all the mental anguish we inflict on ourselves.

Just being intelligible isn’t enough. Style matters. Make all the excuses you want, but whether it’s on paper or on the street, if you come at me all sloppy, I’m not gonna respect you.

I’ve got standards, motherfucker.

I am a self-respecting woman in a happy relationship based on mutual trust & respect. When I masturbate, I fantasize about being treated like an object. Head pushed down into someone’s lap; being taken home from a bar and asked to have a threesome; forced to do things I do not want to do. Shit I would be repulsed by/would not tolerate if it actually happened. Sometimes after getting off, I feel dirty for even thinking those things. I’ve heard the term “rape fantasy” being thrown around; can you shed some light on the issue?

Your first sentence translates roughly into, “I’m not a freak.” Then your next three sentences break down into, “but I like to get freaky.”

I know it seems like an oversimplification, but believe me, that’s your problem right there. It’s called cognitive dissonance, and it’s the end result of living in a culture that still shames women for their sexual desires.

We all have a dark and sticky place we go to in our minds when we’re trying to get off. Every last one of us does it, not every time, but we’ve each got a basement with some dripping nasty shit locked away in it.

Thing is, you feel guilty for it, so your psyche bakes up little Freudian pie filled with repression, displacement, and sublimation and serves you up a hot slice of rape fantasy.

It’s delicious and guilt free, because it allows you to experience all that dark sexual desire without owning it. If it’s against your will, you don’t have to take any responsibility for the shit you want done to you hard and twice.

Of course, after you cum there’s that moment of clarity where there’s really no denying how you got yourself off, so you catch that wave of guilt.

Quit feeling the guilt. You’ve got no reason to be ashamed, and quite frankly, you’re getting off to pretty garden variety stuff.

Now, I’m not speaking for all rape fantasies here, just your type where it’s more about submission and surrendering free will. There’s a whole other level where it’s actually about violence and self-annihilation and other horrible shit that stems from unhealthy places.

Don’t worry. That ain’t you.

Oh, and do yourself a favor. Don’t get all brave and ask your boyfriend to try it out on you. Planning out a role play version of a rape fantasy is an exercise in logical paradox that ends up being a silly Dane Cook punch line.

Trust me, what you’re interested in is called dominance and submission. You’re a sub. Start out light. Have fun.

I’m trying a long-distance relationship for the first time. I really care about the girl, but I have always had a hard time keeping it in my pants. I’ve never really cheated – but in this instance I feel like it might eventually happen. Got any advice?

You’re asking a woman who is at this very moment doing her level fucking best to execute a dignified and graceful resolution to a loving and devoted long distance relationship that has, at least for now, run its course.

Bad timing, shitbird. I’m about to fuck up your whole world.

A long distance relationship isn’t something you casually try for the first time like Thai food or anal sex. A long distance relationship is something you do because you absolutely motherfuckingly have to, and it’s bittersweet and painful and unbearable and you can’t live without it, which I suppose is still pretty much like Thai food or anal sex, but you get my point.

If all you can say is, “I really care about the girl,” that isn’t even close to enough. You better love that crazy bitch with every last ounce of douche you’ve got coursing through your veins. Otherwise, you’re setting yourself up to fail.

And what’s all this about eventually cheating? Quit planning to fuck up. Fidelity isn’t inversely proportional to distance, asshole. There are no teen sex comedy loopholes in real life.

Feel free to work out an open arrangement, but if you decide to go traditional, you better have the requisite integrity. Keep it in your motherfucking pants, or be honest about the fact that you can’t. It’s that simple.

I just spent a solid, passionate year loving someone across hundreds of miles of pacific coast highway. It was the loneliest year of my life, punctuated by the most blissed-out orgiastic episodes of heroin-grade happiness I’ve ever known.

It’s an unnatural thing to maintain burning desire at a distance. You’ve gotta be an emotional athlete to handle the highs and lows. It requires a heart that’s pure and strong, and brother, I don’t think you’re in shape for it.

I’d wish you good luck, but it’d be wasted on your weak-ass shit. Long distance is for hardcore motherfuckers on fire.

You ain’t ready.

What do you think about the phrase “Drill, baby, drill”?

The etymology of the phrase “drill, baby, drill” is derived from the legendary words attributed to Bill Epton, a militant black activist who was jailed for uttering “burn, baby, burn” in response to the Harlem riots of 1964.

Forty-four years later, a political speechwriter with a twisted sense of humor modified the original phrase and used it as a slogan in a speech given by Michael Steele at the Republican National Convention in 2008.

For those of you who don’t watch Bill Maher, Michael Steele is the first black chairman of the RNC. I bring up his race because it plays into a subtle point that is often overlooked with a phrase like “drill, baby, drill.”

Once upon a time in America, a black man was convicted and imprisoned because the words “burn, baby, burn” were an incitement to violence. A few decades later, a black man was elevated to the chairmanship of the Republican Party because the words “drill, baby, drill” were an incitement to jingoistic fervor.

How’s that for irony of the American experience?

I know, you weren’t expecting me to go all college professor on you. You probably just asked about this because you wanted me to talk shit about Sarah Palin. After all, she’s the one who made the phrase popular.

That’s fine. I have no problem with that. Thing is, that empty headed cunt runs around parroting “drill, baby, drill” to her political base of half-retarded right wing nutballs, and I doubt she’s ever heard of Bill Epton. She wouldn’t have a clue as to the ironic etymology of the phrase. She’s too fucking dumb.

I guess that’s my point here. I don’t even have to mention the environmental politics of it all, and I can still make a case that Sarah Palin is too stupid to be breathing air anywhere near the District of Columbia.

So yeah, since you’ve read this far and I’m already up on my soapbox, let me just take this opportunity to finish with my middle finger — fuck Sarah Palin, fuck Michael Steele, and fuck every piece of mouth breathing republican rally meat who’s ever chanted the phrase “drill, baby, drill.”

Okay, that felt good. I’m gonna go finish that bottle of merlot.

From the very beginning you’ve made yourself out to be a straight-shooter with an awesome sense of humor. So, I pose this question: How MUCH does size matter?

Ever met a donkey-cock that flopped in the sack? A tiny guy with the hands (or tongue) of a god? While a guy’s size certainly helps, would you be willing to make an exception if he had other merits?

Gentlemen, please stop assuming that the dimensions of your genitalia are in any way a direct measure of your sexual prowess. Of course size matters, but not nearly as much as porn and late night infomercials would have you believe.

This is a bell curve situation. There is an 80/20 rule at play here, with ten percent at either end representing the really big and the really small.

If you’re wondering whether you fall into either extreme, you don’t. Trust me, fellas. You would already know. Your cock is not the biggest. Your cock is not the smallest. Give or take an inch or two in width and girth, most of you are essentially sporting the same equipment.

Do you get what that means?

Let me spell it out for you: if your cock is neither freakishly big nor freakishly little, by the time we’re in a position to size you up, the proportions of your penis are quite low on the list of things upon which we judge you.

Now, if you happen to fall into the ten percent on either end of the spectrum, the same rules still apply. The bitter insecurity of a little dicked guy is far more likely to ruin the mood than the actual size of his penis, just as the supreme confidence of a big dicked guy is far more likely to impress than the extra meat he’s packing in his shorts.

And yes, we know how easy it is to manipulate you with this shit. You could be swinging eight thick inches of pipe, and we could still crush your ego with three little words, “I’ve had bigger.” Why? Because you know there are a few guys out there with nine inches. It’s fucking ridiculous.

This shit drives me crazy. Really. I can’t wait for the human condition to reach a new stage of evolution where penis size is no longer a dominant cultural motif. Ugh. It’s right up there with world peace and no religion.

You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

After a lifetime of feeling bummed out, I recently started taking antidepressants for some real-er reasons than that. A side effect of the medication is I never want to do coke anymore. I read about it before starting the meds and didn’t believe it was going to be true. Now I never want it and when I’m around it, the thought of doing it bores me. So, I don’t. Also, because I’m not supposed to be drinking alcohol at all, but do anyway I get drunker faster which translates to sicker quicker. Smoking pot seems to work out just fine, but then I also want to go to sleep. So, here I am, faced with the startling reality of interacting with my world with the most sober mind I’ve had in maybe 2 years or more.

I’ve been traveling this velocity for so long, moving with a familiar momentum. It’s always been weekend to weekend, party and bullshit (x9). Ebb and flow. So now I feel like WHO THE FUCK AM I NOW!??!! I almost always learned new things during hightimes that I could bring into the rest of my life and that always felt really good. I think about the life I lived between the lines and key bumps, between the joints and gin and I’m unsure which bits to retain in my sober-er life. Maybe my personality dripped out with the bloody noses or whatever. I just can’t pull my brain together about my new, 80% less hedonistic social life. Like, am I supposed to find a boyfriend or something? Put money in a savings account? Wear underwear everyday? Get places on time? What do real people do? Do these questions make me sound like research for a serial killer or what?

So, you might be thinking “Why the hell is this girl asking me about being sober?” Well, first, most people would use their judginess to congratulate me on not doing cocaine and pat themselves on the back cause their horse is so friggin high. That aint you. Also, I don’t know every thing about you or anyone else and maybe you’ve had a sober stretch and can share something insightful. In any case, my crazy brain says you’re the one to ask. I’m not asking you to tell me who I am. I’m just interested in your thoughts on this matter.

I’m freaked out by possible impending stability! What if I turn into whatever the opposite of a degenerate is?

I hate to break it to you, but you are real people. Also, don’t get ahead of yourself, stability is not impending just yet. Life has a way of making sure you earn something like that. Besides, you’re not freaked out by the impending stability. You’re freaked out by the impending boredom.

Boredom has been your deepest fear this whole goddamn time, and now that you’re checking your mirrors on all the crazy trails you blazed, you’ve come to the terrifying realization that you’re too smart to bottom out like they do on TV. Sure, you’ve got a few respectable scars, but you’ve still got all your fingers and toes. Worse than that, you’ve got your fucking brain, all of it, and that motherfucker is sharp when it pulls focus.

I know. It’s an uncomfortable sensation when you realize that your neurochemistry is finally done letting you try to annihilate it. You feed it the same old shit, and all it gives you back is static and sand.

So now what? Well, you’ll be happy to know this raw nerve phase passes into a mellow acceptance of your own imminent survival. The world becomes a place where neither underwear nor savings accounts seem ridiculous. Don’t worry, you’ll still show up late for shit, because that’s just naturally the kind of asshole you are.

Eventually, you’ll learn to do what the rest of us do to keep from pulling a front page nutty. You’ll partake in an exercise of duality. You’ll make stability your bitch. You’ll build a white picket fence around a house with whatever freaky shit you like to keep locked up in the basement. You’ll figure a way to pay the rent and keep your teeth sharp. Oh, and yes, you’ll realize that the freaky shit is a lot more fun with a partner in crime.

Again, don’t worry. Have no fear. The ebb and flow of party and bullshit doesn’t automatically get traded in for anniversaries and mortgage payments. You get to pick your own standard units of measure. That’s what you’ve earned for coming out the other side on your own terms. You can do whatever you want, because you know how to get away with it.

This whole time you thought you were broken, and it turns out you were unbreakable. You’re not a degenerate. You never were. You were just faking it, and now you don’t have any more excuses. Now go live a life less ordinary.

Oh, and if you need a kickstart, I suggest you try volunteering a couple days a week. Pick a local cause that produces tangible results and go sign up to do some good. Altruism is a squeegee for the soul, that and a little yoga, and I think you’ll have enough fresh perspective to start enjoying the possibility of whatever comes next.

Welcome to the first days of your adulthood.

Regarding your “ethical consumption” post—I agree with you, nothing will ever balance the scales. People are terrified of having to feel guilty about anything, and they’ll use whatever they can to keep on walking around blind to their negative impact on the world and on others. But are you saying that we shouldn’t try to make conscientous decisions about what we buy when we can? If I can buy the laundry detergent bottle made from recycled plastic instead of new, shouldn’t I? Not to the point where it makes me struggle finanically, or cripples me in some other way. I know it’s just a drop in the oil-tainted ocean, that all corporations see is dollar signs, and that balancing the scales is impossible, but isn’t tipping them a little bit back still worth it?

I just want to keep some hope and some sea turtles alive. Even if it’s foolish and makes you want to call me a hippie.

Balancing the scales is not impossible. All you need to do is go develop the major scientific breakthrough in the field of photovoltaics or inertial confinement fusion that finally revolutionizes our supply chain of clean renewable energy.

Somebody’s gonna do it. Might as well be you.

If all you want to do is tip the scales back just a little bit, then I suppose you could move to Malawi and start an orphanage or something. You know, devote your entire life to easing the suffering of the third world in some personal way. As you put it, it’s just a drop in the oil-tainted ocean, but hey, it’s a start.

Short of that, please stop kidding yourself. You’re not making a difference.

Feel free to buy whatever laundry detergent you like, but do not for one second let yourself believe that your decision was somehow more conscientious because the bottle was made of recycled plastic. Do you have any idea how mind-bogglingly self-centered that sounds?

I wish common sense included a sense of scale. You and your consumer identity have absolutely no moral mass whatsoever. Nothing you can buy at Walmart will ever count as an ethical unit of measure that has weight on a global scale.

Green products are a marketing strategy. All you’re doing is paying a premium for that fleeting moment of self-satisfaction you feel when you buy something labeled as environmentally conscious.

That’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with having a consumer preference, but please know that it doesn’t earn you a single inch of ethical high ground.

I know, you can make arguments for aggregated effects, but those are still just passive market forces tied to a capitalist system built on corporate self-interest. Buying a Prius doesn’t mean you’re “doing your part” to conserve oil. It merely means you get better gas mileage.

I’m not a cynic. I really do believe that you can make that drop in the ocean, but doing your part actually requires that you fucking do something. You can boycott shrimp all your life, and it’s not gonna help a single sea turtle. If you want to keep those little bastards alive, become a marine biologist and go save some fucking turtles.