If I could find a Tuesday / Thursday wife, then I might think about getting married, but wives tend to want to be wives every day and twice on Sunday.

This profanity I love so much represents the power of our words, an enigma of paradoxical proportion: something that’s powerful in its non-use and meaningless in its overuse.

Why? Why do we do it? Why do we post snarky, pernicious little comments about being single on Valentine’s Day and how much it sucks? The world gets it. Being alone sucks.

We’re a couple degrees off from actual right-and-proper "social people."

But when we finish work and drive home, what do we do? Where do we go? Back to that white screen of death chasing the dragon. We write.

After an evening of drinking and rehashing all the reasons tow-truck drivers are hell-spawn spewed from the mouth of Satan himself, I turned in.  The next day I woke, cleaned myself up, dressed in my figurative-ladykiller attire and headed toward the parking lot.  And I didn’t have the slightest idea how I was gonna do it.

Dear writers of the world, please, please stop using the phrase "blown clear." You cannot be blown clear. A shockwave powerful enough to lift a grown man will rip limb from body and almost certainly kill the man.

In the end, long after we're gone, what will they use to tell our children's children's children's grandchildren of our lives but words, words, words?

How do I boil down my twenties into a single, marketable phrase you crazy, hazed twentysomethings will remember?  Thusly: don’t buy a snake.

For real life Aaron, every evening is a quiet evening at home, planted in front of his computer, for better or worse, in rich or in poor, in sickness and in health.