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.