What’s your opinion on vegans/vegetarians?

Veganism is an elitist lifestyle choice available to a tiny percentage of spoiled, sanctimonious citizens living in the world’s wealthiest nations.

I can’t speak for the Dutch, but in my little corner of Hollywood, whenever I encounter a vegan it’s either an unbearably pretentious little bitch who uses the dietary restrictions to mask an eating disorder or it’s a pussy-whipped man-child who’s desperately trying to have sex with a pretentious little bitch who uses the dietary restrictions to mask an eating disorder.

Maybe that says more about Hollywood than veganism. I don’t know, but whatever bioethical high-ground the movement may claim is completely eroded by the way I see it practiced.

As for vegetarians, I kind of just shrug my shoulders. I’ve dated a couple of them. Whatever. They still bought me steak. Really, as long as politics and religion aren’t shaping your diet, you can eat lawn trimmings all day for all I care.

How do you feel about beauty pageants?

Find the nearest black guy. Ask him how he feels about slave auctions. Whatever he says is my answer to your question.

Why such an aggressive, “tough shit” approach to giving advice?

Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to be writing copy for eHarmony? Are you reading from a box of Wheaties? Is this all just a media tie-in for the latest indie romantic comedy?

No, asshole. I’m not selling anything. Natalie Portman doesn’t play me in the movie. I’m not a manic pixie dream girl or a marketing strategy.

My “tough shit” approach is the sound your friends would make if they could shoot straight with you, and I don’t even think you know the meaning of the word aggressive.

Advertising is aggressive. Lifestyle branding is aggressive. The parking enforcement bureau is aggressive.

Hell, I’m not pushing anything. I’m not even selling t-shirts. This is a hobby. All I’m doing is answering questions with as much brutal honesty as I can muster at any particular hour, and on more than one occasion while I’m absolutely wasted.

Don’t get all snippy with me because I don’t strap on knee pads and cup your balls and lull you into a fugue state.

Your cock is huge, by the way. You should probably buy those XL condoms.

There is this girl I grew up with who is what society would deem “perfect”. She is smart, beautiful, and talented. She has an equally smart, beautiful, and talented boyfriend. She has a family that is so fucking put together, supportive, kind, and radically different from my own it makes me want to explode.

We have similar enough interests that it feels like anything I do, she can do infinitely better. She was born into better, and just simply was granted better genes. With this, a horrible jealousy emerges. I guess my question is, how do you deal with these seemingly perfect people?

I usually have sex with them.

That is to say, I enjoy them. Smart, beautiful, and talented people are fucking awesome. Why be jealous? Besides, I guarantee your girl is just as fucked up as everybody else.

Listen, you weren’t born the Princess of Monaco, nor were you born in a refugee camp in Darfur. You’re in the fucking middle. We all are. On any given day, there are millions of people who’ve got one up on you, and there are millions of people who’d trade places with you in an instant.

Same goes for little miss perfect, by the way. You think she shits frozen yogurt and has a pet unicorn, but look at her with some distance and she’s just another middle-of-the-road, middle-class girl from Middle America.

Perfection is bullshit, especially with our half-retarded species. If she’s a cool chick, just be her friend and leave jealousy for the bitter kids to play with.

Aside from drugs and sex what activities would you recommend for a girl in her twenties with an interest in mind-expansion?

Get a passport. Use it as often as possible. Read. Books, that is. Ones without pictures. Surround yourself with brilliant and fascinating people. Say yes whenever you can, except to religion and authority. Create things. Fall in and out of love. Never forget that you will die one day.

I just wanted to say thank you for writing dearcoketalk. Yes, it’s maybe what I spent the majority of last night doing… but fuck, it was good. I’ve never done coke before, but when I read your writing, I feel like I’m doing lines of high-quality blow. I get this subtle rush that edges in and realize fuckyeah, life is awesome. Having only done methylone and some psychedelics, I’m only a baby on the drug scene (and only recently started reading up on erowid.) However, from reading your writing, I can tell that coke has quiet effect that sneaks up on you; it covers you and gives you this comfortable yet much needed kick in the ass. I don’t think I’m disciplined enough to actually do coke in real life (I’d get addicted so quickly and become an abuser instead of a user), but I’ll sustain myself with your writing until I can gain self control.

When I read your writing, I remember that there’s this gigantic world out there, so many shiny things to fuck with, and so much shit I can leave my bloody fingerprints all over. I curse more. I think “so what if that happens? At least I did it!” more. I remember what it’s like to be bold and ballsy. I don’t mean all of this in a carpe diem sense, but in a “I’m a thinking person who is fucking ALIVE and can DO STUFF.” Not only do I have thoughts but also I have actions. Those two together are a powerful combination. I know I’m being a bit Captain Obvious right now, but sometimes, the daily grind of life makes me forget that and it’s nice being reminded.

No, I wouldn’t live by your philosophy with 100% purity, but reading your tumblrs makes me realize how much of a pussy cat I’ve been. I’m turning 21 soon and as I look back on 20, I think wow, what an unremarkable year. Yes, it was a good year, but what did I learn? Did I even feel anything? Am definitely going to imbibe some coketalk into 21. I want one or two fearless stories that would make coketalk proud. And I want to read more books and do more shit and just be fucking alive. Not alive in a reckless teenager way but in a thoughtful manner in which I can look back and be proud of.

So thank you for writing again. Reading your entries is like the kick in the ass I need to remember that this is my life and I should grab it by the balls and fuck there’s so much out there to be done. You’re not exactly my role model, but fuck, your writing inspires me to go do shit and be more exciting. Again, the best way I can describe it…. is that it’s like doing coke. Thank you thank you thank you and please keep writing.

Consider yourself lucky. You’re about to spend your twenties in a century entering its teens.

This past decade was a cultural wasteland devoid of any significant artistic or technological breakthrough, a mini dark ages begging for renaissance.

For ten fucking years, our entire country missed the point. We were supposed to eat, drink, and be merry. Instead, everyone got fat, hungover, and riddled with anxiety.

A few of us pagans managed to carry the torch, lit with chemicals and fuck all, and we can’t wait to see what you kids do when we hand it off, because we know you’re ready, and we can taste the impending social revolution like metal in our mouths.

It’s time to have fun again. It’s time for a new school. It’s time for some god damned vision, because something big is coming, and if we’re lucky it won’t be a world war.

It’s as if this country’s fate and culture are hot blooded lovers poised on the verge of an outburst, ready to tear each other apart, and neither one knows whether it will be fighting or fucking.

Either way, some furniture is getting broken.

Exciting times ahead.

I’m 27 years old and have decided to take control of my life.

At age sixteen repressed memories of my brother, who is five years older than me, molesting me came rushing back and the confident, outgoing, happy-go-lucky girl I used to be was taken over by someone who lived in a fear of men so constant that I gained 80 pounds in a year, and made myself into “the friend” so no guy would ever want to sleep with me. My plan worked so well that I had my first kiss at age 19 on the last night of my freshman year of college with my best friend.

I took a year off of college to go overseas and had a great friend there who helped me do a lot of emotional healing. I lost the weight. I trusted men. I was happy. I was ready to date at 24.

I spent that summer in paradise where I fooled around with a guy for a month. He claimed that I was so good at blowjobs that there was no way I could be a virgin. One morning he ignored me refusing him, insisting that I was a virgin, and raped me.

I got therapy for it and thought I was fine. I was carefully promiscuous and had a lot of fun, but recent introspection has led me to believe that I was simply operating at the other end of the spectrum than when I was 16, but this time the glimmers of the happy-go-lucky girl I used to be made a lot of guys think I was their dream girl, if only for one night.

I finally found a guy who seemed worth sticking around when I was 25. He lives in the UK and I live in The States, so while we dated for two years we were only physically together for two weeks. He had two kids with a woman he was with for 11 years. In the past month I’ve come to accept that there is an extremely high chance that I was The Other Woman, no matter what he told me at the time.

I don’t trust men who pursue anything beyond friendship. I do not trust happiness. I do not believe I deserve good things, but I think I’m finally healing at the root of all these problems. The issue now is that I’ve never had a guy NOT whispering what I should do in my ear. It’s always been easier to obey them (no matter how confident and in control of myself and the situation I always *seem*) than figure out what I really want. I’m in school, get great grades and am really going to excel in my field, but even that I pursued because of the English boyfriend “motivating” me.

I’m ready to be empowered from me and me alone, I’m just not sure how to go about it.

Empowered. I hate that word. It pretends to define a state of strength, and yet it demands a passive voice. To be empowered? That’s bullshit.

Your problem is that you’re “ready to be empowered” instead of simply being powerful.

You’ve got a strong mind and high intelligence. It’s how you managed to process so much of your situation thus far. Your previous therapy armed you with the coping skills to do quite a bit of healing and introspection, but you’ve still got a shit ton of resentment and fear.

It’s gut-level stuff, and those kinds of emotions are really tough for the rational mind to fully digest.

Despite your intelligence, you don’t trust your gut. Your instincts have always been wrong and you blame them, so you take shelter in your head to the exclusion of your heart.

Now, it seems, you’re ready to start living in your heart, and maybe even trusting in your gut. Problem is, they’ve atrophied. You’re looking to your own heart for guidance and noticing that it’s three sizes too small, which of course only adds to the resentment you feel. It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle. It poisons you emotionally, and you can’t think your way out.

So, what’s the trick that will stop the cycle and get you living in your heart? As far as I can tell, there’s only one thing that’ll do it.

Forgiveness.

Forgive your brother. Forgive your rapist. Forgive all of the men who fucked you over.

It doesn’t matter whether they deserve it. It’s for your sake, not theirs. Find a way. Take the time. Dig deep, and truly forgive them.

It’s such a powerful thing to forgive. Real power, not empowerment.

Three years ago my brother tried to commit suicide. He was fifteen then, which is how old I am now. A month ago he tried to kill himself again. He came home from the hospital a week ago, and I’m ecstatic to have him back again, but I’m also extremely angry at him. He didn’t see my mom just about die or my dad break down, or my sister fly halfway across the country to come home for him. My family almost fell apart over this, and it kills me to know that, and I know that if he knew that it would hurt him too. 

For three years I’ve been trying to figure out why he tried to kill himself, and I still can’t grasp it. I understand depression and I deal with SAD myself, but I just can’t see why he hates his life so, so much. We live a lovely life, he’s a smart kid, and extremely popular. People adore him. And more importantly, we love him. So I just don’t understand why my brother hates his life so much.

Am I being selfish or ignorant? How can I understand my brother better? I’d really like to.

You say you want to understand your brother, but I get the feeling that you’d rather your brother just understand you.

You’re angry, and you want him to see the world as you see it. You want him to acknowledge his lovely life, his popularity, and how much he is adored.

In your mind, you think those external conditions are enough to keep him from wanting to kill himself. You’re the type who says, “If only he knew how much we loved him, he wouldn’t want to kill himself.”

You couldn’t be more wrong. This isn’t about you.

Once again, this isn’t about you. You have to know that. It has to be your guiding principle when talking with your brother about this.

Don’t assume that he hates his life. Those are your words. Did you ask him why he attempted suicide? Don’t assume that he feels popular or adored just because you see him that way. Do you know how your brother feels about himself?

Ask him.

Start a conversation with him. Don’t challenge him. Don’t try and help him. Don’t even come from a place where you assume he needs help. Just come from a place of unconditional love.

If you want to understand your brother, talk to him about life and death rather than his suicide attempts. Talk to him about love and relationships rather than his popularity. Talk to him about his purpose and his future rather than his depression.

We’re all going to die one day. The fact that your brother tried to speed up the process probably isn’t the most interesting thing about him. Find out what is.

i’m in college, i got blackout drunk and fucked this really adorable guy last night and he left his socks here. what do i do about that shit. in general, what are the rules on one night stands? sounds ridiculous, may still be a bit drunk, but i think you get it.

Nice.

First things first. It’s Sunday morning. Go have a Bloody Mary.

Now, as for the socks, throw ‘em in your dirty laundy. Wash them. Start your collection. I guarantee by the time you graduate you will have a respectable number of t-shirts, boxer-briefs, socks, and of course the occasional hat, piece of jewelry, or other interesting shred of evidence.

Over the years, I’ve filled an entire drawer just with the random stuff I’ve found on mornings after. I’ll spare you the full inventory, but highlights include a full clip of 9mm ammunition, a pink double-sided dildo, and a La Perla thong that belongs to one of the current stars on the Disney Channel (and no, those items are not from the same night.)

As for proper one night stand etiquette, if your adorable guy wants his socks back, it’s his responsibility to ask. Most guys consider small items of clothing to be an acceptable loss, especially if they got laid.

Any item above a t-shirt — a hat, jacket, or scarf — may have been a deliberate leave-behind as an excuse to call you the next day. Don’t get your hopes up with socks, though.

Feel free to keep the collection in rotation. Future one night stands might need a spare t-shirt or pair of socks — trust me, it happens. When they do, let ‘em choose from your collection.

In general, though, one night stands are best left to just one night. There aren’t any hard and fast rules other than being respectful the morning after. That’s all you owe each other. Respect.

You don’t owe him a morning quickie or your phone number. He doesn’t owe you breakfast or a phone call. The fewer the expectations, the less awkward the morning will be.

How’s that Bloody Mary tasting? I think it’s time for me to go have one now.

Toodles!

What’s a good tattoo idea?

Get a pretty little butterfly tattooed onto your lower back.

That way, all the boys will know you’re an unoriginal whore, and it will give them a place to aim while fucking you from behind so as to avoid eye contact during orgasm.

Or maybe, you could reflect on the important themes and meaningful events in your life and imagine a visual representation of your inner-most passions that you would like to permanently embed into the living canvas of your skin.

Or get a star next to your cooter.