An Atheist Christmas

Another Christmas has come and gone, and once again I enjoyed the holiday season. Despite my many protestations regarding religion, faith, and ridiculous rituals, I get a big kick out of Christmas. That may have something to do with the presents and cookies that come my way (I got a new laptop for Christmas!! WOOT!!), but I also enjoy the sappy Christmas carols and outlandish decorations too. It's likely the comfort of traditions that I remember every single year. In my family, religion has never really played a big part in Christmas, and this joyous holiday season when one appreciates his or her many blessings, I thank God that God was kept out of my holiday shenanigans.

This is not to imply that my entire family consists of heathens. It's just that church and Christmas always seemed to be rather separate... just as they should be.

Actually, if religion were taken out of the equation, Christmas would be a lot more fun for everyone. Every year on TV, people bemoan the increased commercialization of Christmas. There are interviews Christmas-philes who want to ensure that people remember that Christmas is about a poor Middle Eastern virgin with a penchant for turquoise robes getting knocked up and conning a trioka of gullible kings into giving up their gold, frankincense, and myrrh (though I suspect the king with the gold was the only one they invited) just for a chance to sit in a shitty barn staring at a fetal-fresh God-baby. They like to lay on the guilt to the poor befuddled Christian masses who often forget that Christmas is supposed to be about celebrating the birth of baby Jesus. I suspect that a lot of people feel bad about not making Christmas more meaningful.

If you're an atheist like yours truly, however, Christmas can be about whatever the fuck you want it to be.

Very little about Christmas has anything to do with Jesus anyway. Most of the traditions that we associate with it are taken from pagan celebrations of the winter solstice. And while I'm badmouthing traditions, what the hell is there to celebrate about the winter solstice?? "Oh boy!! I get to freeze my balls off for another three months! Let's shove a tree into the living room and eat a ham!" Either way, trying to ascribe some sort of larger meaning to Christmas is a futile endeavor. Hell, scientists have apparently figured out that Jesus couldn't have been born in the wintertime. Apparently, the star that the three kings must have followed to Bethlehem is only visible in the summertime. Astronomy: 1 Jesus: 0.

As an atheist, I can appreciate Christmas for what it really is: a celebration of friends, family, and traditions. When I'm decorating the tree, I don't give a shit if Mary and Joseph had a three-way with a goat in the manger. I enjoy it because the ornaments remind me of years gone by. When I see the crappy ornament that I made in Preschool 20 years ago, it brings a smile to this grizzled cynic's face. The Christmas songs don't make me long for a personal connection with my savior. They're the earliest songs that I ever knew the words to, and it's comforting to sing those ridiculously corny lyrics.

At least until they play them on the radio ten dozen times. For fuck's sake, give it a rest ye merry gentlemen!!

As for the increased commercialization of Christmas, I'm all for it. Santa is a much better mascot for Christmas than Jesus. If you're a bad little boy or girl, Santa just leaves you a lump of coal in your stocking. Jesus sends your ass to hell to burn for all eternity. Santa only demands milk and cookies. Jesus wants your money every week in the collection plate. Santa sits you on his lap and asks you what you want, and then he gives it to you. Jesus demands an obtuse series of prayers that may or may not be answered according to his whims because he works in mysterious ways.

That's why kids gravitate to Santa more than Jesus. He's a much more likeable guy.

I like Christmas in its current form. If you put religion back into Christmas, it's just going to fuck it all up. My boss is a pastor at a local church, and she's very dedicated to holiday traditions. I spent a full two weeks helping her to decorate her mansion of a house. I even decorated her ten-foot tall Christmas tree. All the while, she played Christmas songs almost every day. I also helped to make her weekly church bulletins, which were of course Christmas-themed. She gets a big kick out of every holiday tradition, whether it's religious or not; however, the religious crap always seems completely unrelated to anything else that happens at Christmas. But the Christmas story takes place in a desert in the Middle East. For crying out loud, there wasn't a pine tree for hundreds of miles!! And I have my doubts about there being egg nog or gingerbread cookies present, too.

If Christmas brings you closer to God, then that's great. But I think the whole season can be just as fun for the atheist. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go light our Christmas tree on fire, strip naked, and dance in the moonlight while worshipping the dark lord Satan.

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9 out of 10 readers find JP's comments offensive. The last reader is Jesus, and he's busy personally picking out a special place in Hell for JP.

Of Mice and Men and Cats

I have a mouse in my ceiling, and it's driving me crazy.

This is not the first mouse that I've had in my room recently. About a month ago, a mouse peeked out from under my bed late one night, which sent me into a frenzy. I ran out of the room, threw my freeloading cat into the room to take care of it, and shut her in with the mouse. I then went to find a broom, which I brandished like a lightsaber as I waited to see if the cat would take care of business.

Naturally, my worthless cat was perfectly content to paw at the little vermin and chase it around the room, but she wouldn't go in for the kill. The mouse escaped under my door, which caused me to squeal like a girl and bounce around the room in a comical fashion. My attempts to swat the mouse were futile. Frightened mice are surprisingly agile.

So like the coward that I am, I drafted my brother into the fight. This was, I might add, just after midnight, and he wasn't too pleased about the ruckus I was making. The two of us managed to corner the little critter and smack it with the broom.

If you're reading this and preparing to yell "ANIMAL CRUELTY!!" then you best just stop right now.

I have no love of mice. If they're in my space, they best be prepared to meet their rodent maker. You can imagine my mindset then when I discovered that something had chewed through and devoured almost half of the secretly-stashed Snickers bar that I was hiding on the top shelf of my closet. It didn't take a zoologist to deduce that a mouse was responsible. For over a year, the ceiling tile in my closet has been missing, so I figured the candy-raider had been using my closet as his own personal lunch buffet.

I quickly disposed of the offending Snickers bar, and I managed to craft a replacement ceiling tile for my closet. I couldn't find the mouse, and I really didn't want to find it. He was scurrying around somewhere above the suspended ceiling in our basement, so he had the high ground. Instead, I procured some mouse poison, and I stuffed a whole box of it up in my ceiling yesterday morning. I figured that would nail the little fucker.

Last night at about 2:30 in the morning as I was getting ready for bed (too much time spent Googling "Toaster fetish" I guess), I heard a distinct skittering in my ceiling. There was no doubt in my mind that Ralph had returned (sans motorcycle). I literally cackled with glee as I heard him head straight for where I'd planted the mouse poison. I figured he'd be dead within minutes. I'm a sick human being.

What I failed to realize is that mouse poison is slow-acting. I learned today that it could take up to four days for Ralph to kick the bucket. The dose of poison in each pellet is intentionally kept small so that the mouse will eat it. This did not bode well for the rest of my night. Not only was Ralph still alive, he apparently brought in his own stash of Mouse Meth because he was going ape-shit up in my ceiling. He was skittering all over the place. Not being a big fan of mice, and not being particularly convinced that the ceiling was completely sealed, I couldn't fall asleep.

It didn't help when I started hearing my cat going nuts out in the next room (Miss Cleo does NOT sleep with me very often... unless I decide that I WANT to wake up with claw marks in my abdomen). Apparently, Ralph was bolting across the ceiling into the next room and peeking out where a few ceiling tiles are missing. This was not pleasing Miss Cleo since she could clearly see her desired prey, but she couldn't get to him. Under different circumstances, I would have found this highly entertaining; Cleo leaping straight up into the air trying to jump into the ceiling is actually a pretty impressive-looking feat. Unfortunately, she's also incredibly loud. So I have a meth-head mouse darting around in my ceiling and an overzealous fatass cat believing she was fucking Batman. Sleep was not forthcoming.

Miss Cleo in rare action shot

I tried to go upstairs to sleep on the couch for a bit, but since my dad wakes up at 5:30 in the morning (these people with their legitimate jobs and lives), this was not a long-term solution. Fortunately, when I came back downstairs an hour later (keep in mind, it's now like 4:30 in the morning), the cat was sleeping on the chair, and Ralph must have crashed because I couldn't hear anything. I turned on the radio and drifted off to sleep around 5:30 a.m.

This morning, I went to the store and bought two more containers of mouse poison, and I put them in the ceiling as well. If Ralph is still alive, he won't be for long. What I love about mouse poison is the horiffically ironic death that it provides. The poison causes the mouse to get incredibly hungry, which causes the mouse to eat more poison.... which causes the mouse to eventually eat so much that he literally gorges himself to death. At least, that's what one website promised. That website was trying to garner sympathy for mice, but I rubbed my hands with delight knowing that the candy-pilfering, meth-popping mouse in my ceiling was going to meet a gruesome fate!

I don't like mice. Although they're not nearly as creepy as spiders and cockroaches, they still freak me out. I have no desire to see one in my room again. The sooner Ralph's corpse starts to stink up my ceiling the better! He should be dead by Christmas Eve.

Happy Holidays, Ralph! Rest in pieces you little bastard!

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I HATE THOSE MEECES TO PIECES!!!

And The Actual Retail Price Is...

Take a look at that!! Some poor shmuck got the showcase EXACTLY right. And if that weren't bad enough, the person he beat was only off by $494. That's like me hooking up a secret webcam in Angelina Jolie's shower only to see Batmite suddenly get in with her. There can be only one winner in each case.

Naturally, the man wins both showcases, and I'm happy for the guy. He looks like someone who's greatest thrill in life is finding an extra stick of deodorant in his sock drawer. After decades of mediocrity and failure, this old kook finally gets his moment to shine.

But who's there to bring the moment down? None other than funny-man Drew Carey. The contestant beat astronomical odds and did something that hasn't happened since the '70s, and you announce his victory in the same tone of voice as a doctor telling a patient that he has prostate cancer. You could barely contain your excitement on Whose Line is it Anyway? when Colin Mochrie won a billion fake-points for imitating an ostrich, but you can't even high-five the guy who got the Showcase EXACTLY right and was having the time of his life? You look like his winnings are coming directly out of your paycheck.

Drew Carey is a terrible host. I don't even watch the show all that much anymore because I have to put up with Carey's barely comprehensible directions and his complete lack of vocal inflection. He's the only game show host that I've ever seen who looks like he's doing his job against his will. Even Alex Trebek seems to get some joy out of heckling the socially-awkward geeks who appear on his show. Ben Stein had more charisma on Win Ben Stein's Money than you have on The Price is Right, and he actually WAS giving away his own money.

I'm happy for the hapless contestant. It's always fun to see something out of the ordinary happen on a game show. Too bad Drew Carey only gets his kicks from watching contestants fail miserably.

Now if someone could only win $50,000 at Plinko we'd have ourselves a day!

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Help control the pet population... eat a kitten!

Man of the Quarter-Century

Today was my birthday. I turned 25. I can now legally rent a car on my own.

Having a birthday so close to Christmas is not as big a deal as some people think. Since the Christmas season is already in full swing, relatives and friends are often in a very giving mood. My birthday is also a good trial run for any sub-par gifts that may have been purchased. Was my reaction to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweater-vest less enthusiastic than you expected (though I don't know why it would be)? Well then, Christmas is only ten days away, and you can make up for it then. (Hint: earmuffs shaped like Spock ears)

This is actually the first year that I really got to celebrate my birthday on the actual day. For as long as I can remember, December 15th was the nexus for school-related obligations. In high school, the Christmas band concert fell on December 15th every year. In college, I always seemed to have a final either on my birthday or early the next day. College professors are notoriously hostile towards "I didn't want to because I was too busy eating cake" as an excuse for not showing up to a final.

The present I got this year was a nice new coat. It's black wool coat that actually makes me look like an adult. Fashionable folks may call it a pea-coat and label me a pretentious douchebag for having it. But I look fucking good in it, and I was sensible enough to avoid asking for a scarf or emo-glasses to complete the ensemble. The coat is from London Fog, and it's warm, comfortable, and stylish. The simple elegance of its sleek design belies the cozy warmth that only a genuine London Fog garment can provide.

[London Fog representatives can make their checks payable to "JP" for this endorsement.]

Part of the fun of celebrating a full quarter-century of living is taking stock of one's life. I can recall some major milestones:
1983: JP is born. Sales of joke books in Pittsburgh skyrocket as doctors hurry to find witty comments to make at the expense of the giant baby in the maternity ward.
1986: JP gets a Teddy Ruxpin for Christmas. The chilling voice of that cursed bear still haunts my dreams.
1988: JP goes to Kindergarten. Blames friend for breaking computer even though he was the one who put the disk in backwards - first sign of his complete lack of scruples.
1990: JP enters the new decade completely unaware that he wouldn't discover the awesomeness of 80s music for another decade.
1992: JP moves from Ford City to Kittanning. New town has same smell of failure as old town.
1996: JP enters puberty. Kleenex sales skyrocket.
1998: JP goes to high school. JP begins publishing his own "newspaper" to amuse his friends with such riveting stories as "Joe is Gay!" and "School Cafeteria Puts Poop in Chili." Maturity level has not improved in ten years.
2001: JP takes over band website. JP starts internet jijad with Ford City by making inappropriate comments about their band members and insinuating that their performances were subpar. I was a fucking rebel!!
2002: JP graduates high school -ranked tenth in high school class. Currently, JP is the only one in his high school top ten to be unemployed!
2002: JP goes to Penn State Erie for college. Decides to try to be an engineer. Realizes that being an engineer requires giving a shit about engineering. Drops out of program.
2003: JP choose "English" as his undergraduate major. In an attempt to prevent the horrible events that this choice will create, Future JP goes back in time and changes the Major Declaration form to read "Super-Lucrative Business," but a clerical error keeps the plan from working.
2004: JP kills God.
2006: JP creates THE UNDESIRABLE ELEMENT. The blogosphere trembles!
2007: JP is accosted by a hobo on the Rail Trail, foiled by the Morgantown traffic court, hit on by a gay man, and he discovers that the turducken exists.
2008: The year that THE UNDESIRABLE ELEMENT will start making millions of dollars in revenue!

That's a pretty sweet life. You don't need do-overs when you once owned a Teddy Ruxpin!

So while I hope that the next 25 years promises money-dollars, a few good jobs, and perhaps something resembling a wife (inflatable and/or Russian mail-order will suffice), I certainly won't knock the life I've already had.

But who knows? Maybe in the next 25 years, I'll lose enough weight to be able to safely jump out of an airplane. A man can dream!

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Brought to you by Spock-themed Ear Muffs - keep your ears warm while still saying to the ladies, "Hey, I don't need you when I can channel my inner Vulcan while I pretend to explore the ice planet Hoth!"

Portrait of a Blogger

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It Suits Me

Last night I went to see the River City Brass Band at Heinz Hall. Despite the aura of cultured sophistication that I exude, this is the first time that I'd ever gone to Heinz Hall, and it gave me a great excuse to dress up for the occasion.

I don't understand why so many men have an aversion to wearing a nice shirt and tie. Personally, I like the way I look in dress clothes and especially in a suit. It's one of the things I'm most looking forward to when I eventually find gainful employment. I can look good every day. I need a dress code because I have never had any sense of fashion; most of my clothes run the gamut from plaid to also-plaid. But formal clothes for men are simple, and I always look good in them. Last night, I wore a pair of black dress pants, a nice long-sleeved gray dress shirt, a blue tie. I even gelled my hair. It's not that Heinz Hall has a strict dress code, but in my day-to-day life as a lawn mower / church secretary / unemployed bum, I seldom have an excuse to pretend to be a cultured individual.

Truth be told, I find dress clothes to be exceptionally comfortable. Unless you shop at "CORDUROY AND POLYESTER UNLIMITED," most dress clothes are made of material that feels good against the skin. While I'm sure other people at the concert were uncomfortable with me rubbing my body while quietly moaning, "Ohhh, that feels nice," I thought it was a testament to the fine craftsmanship of my clothes.

The only thing I don't like about dressing up is the shoes. I can go to any shoe store in the country, and if I want some athletic shoes, the advertisements assure me that shoe scientists have made stunning breakthroughs in the cushioning and support of feet. My toes are always roomy and have plenty of wiggle-room. Dress shoes, however, are the shoe equivalent of a hard dining room chair. Sure it serves its function, but would a cushion and a proper shape have been too much to ask for? My black dress shoes squash my toes together in a very uncomfortable manner, and if I plan to walk for more than half a mile, I better be prepared to deal with blisters and callouses the next day.

Granted, that's probably what I get for buying a pair of $10 dress shoes, but even poor people want decent arch support, god dammit!!

My friend is getting married at the end of the month, and I'm actually IN the wedding, so I get the chance to wear the ultimate in men's formal wear: the tuxedo. Not only will I look good, I can bear a striking resemblance to the largest penguin in the Antarctic! And if I get shoes that are anything like the ones I have now, I'm sure I'll waddle around like one, too.

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Brought to you by CORDUROY AND POLYESTER UNLIMITED: When you absolutely want to feel like you're wearing an old carpet and a shower curtain while still maintaining that sleek '70s look that never gets old.

Something's Been Bugging Me

From a very early age, I have had an unwavering hatred and fear of large insects. And even though arachnophiles may find fault with the technical definition, I'm lumping spiders into that group too. For accuracy's sake, let's just say I have a crippling fear of arthropods.

Large insects aren't my only phobia, but they creep me out the most. I haven't had enough experience with snakes to rule them out, so I'm not going to make a final judgment just yet. Mice make me jump around in a girlish manner, but it's not nearly the same sort of discomfort. But a creepy crawly with an exoskeleton and a penchant for traveling in a swarm is enough to make me want to live in a plastic bubble.

There are some insects that don't bother me much even if I'd prefer they don't exist. Little ones like flies, ladybugs, and some other friendlies are acceptable. Dragonflies give me pause because of their bizarre ability hover in the air like a hummingbird, but they're otherwise okay. I'm even understanding toward bees. Bees want nothing to do with people. If a bee wants to fuck up your day, it's only because YOU are the one who stumbled into his hive. Wasps are kind of the same way even though they hurt a lot more. Stinging insects tend to keep to themselves, and their behavior makes sense. If they get into your house, it's usually by accident, and they eagerly hover near a window wanting to get out.

Bigger bugs like spiders and cockroaches, on the other hand, are the deadbeat uncles of the arthropod family. They wander into your house, pick a damp corner, never leave, and mooch off of your food. (This is probably how Batmite's relatives currently view him.) Daddy-long-legs spiders are acceptable because they're about as harmless as a sprig of hair. But those big black hairy motherfuckers who love to scurry around the floor in the middle of the night when you're tired and on your way to take a leak need to be exterminated from the face of the planet. It's not that I'm afraid of getting bitten; they just freak me out! Cockroaches are the same way. They come out right when you don't want to deal with them. I never see a cockroach or a big spider when I'm wearing work gloves, a big pair of boots, and hanging out with someone else. I'm always alone, barefoot, and in my underwear.

No nightmare will keep me from a good night's sleep quite like a dream about dozens of spiders in my room. I once had a disturbingly realistic nightmare about dozens of spiders crawling all over me in my bed. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. Actually having a big bug in my room results in me brandishing a flyswatter or large broom like a katana blade while yelling at the bug as I try to work up the nerve to go kill it. You should see my victory dance after I've actually squashed one of the bastards. You would think I'd just taken down a cougar with a pen knife.

And this is how I deal with the relatively tame insects that are around Western Pennsylvania. I've heard tales from other parts of the country, and I swear to your fictional God, I'm never moving to the South!! I'd never be able to fall asleep.

On three separate occasions, people informed me of giant flying hissing cockroaches that have a love for landing in people's hair. They're common in Texas, Louisiana, and some other Southern states. The existence of this creature is proof enough of natural selection. No loving god would create such a organism. I mean, c'mon!! It's hisses AND flies... into your hair!!

Another guy I know rented a house in Arizona that had been unoccupied for a few months. Apparently, in Arizona one must fumigate frequently, and this house wasn't fumigated while it was vacant. The guy watched from outside as the exterminators fumigated the house, and SHEETS of cockroaches poured out of the house. It was RAINING cockroaches!!!

NO. Just.... no!

How about this little number from Japan:
I know I said that bees don't bother me, but I'd make an exception for our friend the Japanese Giant Hornet (aptly named). I also wouldn't mind if I never run into a swarm of killer bees in my lifetime. If I have to explain why I want to avoid KILLER BEES, then you clearly aren't understanding why the words "lethal" and "swarm" should sound so menacing when used together.

And while I'm covering the grotesquely giant critters:
Behold the Goliath Spider (again, appropriately named). It can eat a bird. Need I say more?

Seriously, I think I'd have a psychotic break if I ever encountered that thing in real life.

But these are not likely to be a part of my life anytime soon. I can barely handle the concept of having to deal with creepy crawlies getting into my house and confronting them by myself. What if I get a cockroach infestation when I'm living on my own? Am I just going to have a heart attack and die while the roaches feast on my carcass? Insects outnumber mankind by a wide margin. If they ever rise up to conquer us, I'm just swallowing a cyanide capsule and taking the coward's way out.

Say what you will about the bitter cold winters. At least they keep the bugs from growing to outrageous dimensions. You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where they have to go through the exotic bug cave? I'd never make it through. I'd rather have my still-beating heart ripped out by the religious zealot.

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Cracked.com: Providing pictures of giant insects that haunt my dreams since 2007.

Tell Me About Yourself

Through blind luck, I managed to successfully do some rudimentary networking. At a party last Friday, I met a guy who's an upper-level employee at one of the companies I applied for back in May. I told him about my attempts to apply to his company, and he told me that they receive a lot of entry-level applicants so I shouldn't feel bad; however, he said that they like young people with a background in research and writing - I just need a way to get my foot in the door. He gave me his contact information, and I sent him my resume and cover letter. He forwarded them on to a division head, and she was impressed. The original guy got back to me, and he told me that I should be expecting a call for a screening interview in the near future. If I get through that, they'll call me in for an in-person interview.

My size-15 foot is successfully in their door.

I am, of course, elated. In fact, I've been borderline giddy. It's all I can do to keep from dancing in the streets and giggling like a schoolgirl. The irony of sending out 55 resumes and cover letters for six months and then falling ass-backwards into an interview because of a kegger in Kittanning is not lost on me. At this stage of the game, I'd be happy with just about any job, but it's a nice bonus that this is actually a company that I'd like to work for. Furthermore, it's in Washington D.C., which would give me a chance to live in a whole new kind of place. This is a particularly nice thing to have land in my lap.

Of course, being a glass-half-empty kind of guy, I can't help but worry about the interview process. Despite my dexterity and intellectual saavy with the written word, I can be clumsy, nervous, and painfully awkward in actual conversations. I stutter, hesitate, and fill my pauses with lengthy "ummm"s and "well"s. In order to call up companies for contact information or to request an interview, I've had to practice speaking on the telephone because I tend to talk in a dreary monotone when I'm on the phone. You should have seen me in my room repeatedly saying "Hello, how are you today?" in dozens of different tones in order to find that right mix of casual but professional, definitive but humble, and cheery but mellow. A passing psychologist might have suspected me of schizophrenia.

You would think that someone with a Masters degree in English would have an easier time speaking the language. One might even think it a requirement for graduation. But no, I have to practice sounding natural. The fact that this is hard for me merely reinforces my already developing suspicion that I'm typically unnatural. For my upcoming interviews, I've typed notes with personal information and lines that I need to remember when talking to important people. I've even scrawled "TALK SLOWLY" and "SMILE" all over these note sheets.

My natural inclination when talking about myself is to make self-deprecating comments. It's a defense mechanism that's probably symptomatic of a personality disorder, but it's also a bad instinct in a job interview when you're trying to make yourself sound like the best thing to happen to a business since discount toilet paper. Lines like, "I taught English for two years because they couldn't find any chimps to do it for free," might not go over so well.

I've done a screening interview before. After I applied to my third job way back in April, a company in Uniontown called me up. I fielded the screener's questions for about 20 minutes, and I got off the phone feeling very good about the interview. A week later I got an email informing me of their rejection. Now I'm extremely suspicious of my own ability to assess a "good" interview. The screening interview is supposed to simply weed out obviously sub-par candidates in order to limit the number of people they have to talk to in person. Being weeded out by a company in Uniontown after a simple screening interview is disheartening. In retrospect, I can remember sounding very wishy-washy about my qualifications and doing my usual stuttering. I can see why I was rejected.

In some ways, the screening interview scares me more because everything relies on the voice. In person, there's a lot more give and take, and I can take my cues from the other person's behavior. I'm dying to get this damned screening interview out of the way. I don't know when it's coming, so I just have to be prepared at all times. (It's sort of like being a reader of this blog. You just don't know when to expect an update.) I'm excited and terrified at the same time. This sort of emotional roller coaster could drive a man to gorge himself on pumpkin pie. And that's exactly how I plan to excuse last week's diet.

One of the few good things about a lengthy and grueling job search is that I imagine that the job I finally get will likely seem that much more rewarding. After having my past examined with a fine-tooth comb, worrying about resumes and cover letters for six months, being flat broke, and subjecting myself to these painful assessments, doing the old 9 to 5 will probably seem like a vacation.

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The Interview Process: Creating anxiety in job applicants since "Roman Gladiator" became a full-time position.

Confessions of a Closet Educator

"Teacher is hungover today, so questions will have to wait until after happy hour."

I've wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember. Well, that's not entirely accurate. My childhood was littered with career aspirations that guaranteed a hefty salary situated just above the poverty line. Other children were daydreaming about being doctors, firemen, policemen, dinosaur hunters, and other lofty jobs. Unless you count starship captain, my dreams were less than stellar (HAR! PUN!). I first wanted to be a bus driver because that seemed like the most badass vehicle on the road to me (standards are low in the Kittanning area). Then I think "McDonalds owner" was on my agenda since that would mean tasty deep fried foods for free. I recall having a McDonalds play-kitchen complete with plastic food that tasted remarkably similar to the real thing.

Then at the age of six or seven, the neighbor girl and I set up shop in my parents' attic. Did I create my own doctor's office or perhaps an elaborate moon base operations room from which to control orbiting warships? No, I fashioned the attic into a faux classroom, and the neighbor-girl and I pretended to be teachers.

I don't even remember what we taught or if we were even interested in helping others. I seem to recall being perfectly content to simply lord my power and dictatorial rule over my imaginary student body. I was their unquestioned leader, and they had to obey! It's really a vital step in the developmental process of the young white male. Sometimes we'd try to harangue my younger brother into being our unwilling and unwitting student, but he'd bicker and quarrel with us about not understanding what we were saying. And like compassionate educators, we silenced him, punched him in the arm, and told him to do as he was told! Obviously, he didn't come around too often.

I asked my mom once if she used to worry about me being an unstable child. She said, "Used to worry??" She brushed off my concerns, but I don't see how my parents couldn't have questioned the mental health of their firstborn. I didn't like sports, obsessively watched game shows and Nick at Nite, and concocted elaborate fantasies about having fascistic control over an imaginary second grade class. Maybe compared to the neighbor boys who set our house on fire, I seemed manageable.

In the third grade, I finally realized how outlandish and bizarre my hypothetical student dictatorship seemed to other people. Coincidentally, this was about the time that the other kids in school learned about my unusual behavior and began mocking me mercilessly for it. I guess they didn't take too kindly to my fantasies of ruling over them with ruthless authority.

I outgrew this disturbing behavior, though I certainly picked up a few others. One thing that did remain though was my desire to be a teacher. If you were to go back in time to visit me at any age to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd invariably say "teacher." The subject wasn't particularly important, which leads me to believe that I still secretly just wanted unconditional rule over impressionable young minds. Interestingly enough, the aforementioned neighbor-girl actually did grow up to be a teacher. We lost touch after elementary school when I moved from Ford City to Kittanning (which is like moving from a sewer to a swamp), but she's apparently living the childhood dream.

I was thinking about this today after reading about how your childhood career dreams are often the ones that would make you the happiest. I don't know how accurate that assessment could be. It seems like there are only so many people who can be marine biologists, pro-athletes, and Batman. But a life-long obsession with one particular job sounds like a promising avenue to explore.

Now that I'm all growed up, I know that teachers have horrible salaries, long hours, unending stress, ungrateful students, terrible essays to grade, unhelpful administration, and the No Child Left Behind program. That's why I turned my back on that career option not too long ago. But since I've been thinking long and hard about how I want to make a contribution to society, I certainly think teaching is something I have to consider. Every job comes with its own shovel full of crap to deal with, but maybe if I love the job, the crap won't smell quite so bad.

Besides, for all the shit they have to deal with, teachers still do have one thing in the eyes of their students... ABSOLUTE POWER!!

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Name of "Neighbor-Girl" intentionally withheld. I may be willing to share this horrifically embarassing tale, but she may not want her name associated with my perplexing and mock-worthy childhood.

Future Tense

Matlock: He puts the "corpse" in "habeas corpus"

Riding a tractor, doing menial office work, and hours of undesired down time gives one a great deal of time for self-reflection. Unfortunately, I don't like what I see.

With 55 job applications sent out to companies from Pittsburgh to Chicago to Washington D.C. to Boston to New York City and not a single promising prospect, I'm beginning to suspect that my current plan of simply trying out the publishing or journalism industry to see if I like it is no longer feasible. My wails of despair could be heard in the next township when read an article about the seven industries that were hit hardest by the economic recession and "Publishing and Journalism" was listed at number 3. Job prospects are not looking good for anyone in that field... especially for people with no direct experience and no degree in "Professional Writing and Editing."

But as I said, this lack of progress has given me a lot of time to think about my own life, how I got to this point, and what I really want to do. After careful consideration, I know that I don't want to be a technical writer. It sounds painfully dull and tedious. However, I'm also not so sure that I want to get into the publishing industry. Given my background in English, it seemed like a natural direction to take, and more importantly, it seemed reasonably lucrative.

This may sound unnecessarily saccharine, but the vast majority of the jobs that I've applied for would seem to have no impact on the lives of people. I'd be shuffling papers around, correcting grammar for inter-office memos, and essentially organizing the lives of other creative and productive people. I want to be able to make a difference.

Much as I bitched about teaching English 101, at least the work I did was making a direct impact on the lives of my students. Granted, some of them may have found my impact to be undesirable or at the very least monotonous and perhaps unlawfully titillating, but a difference was made. The class was mine to teach. That class was about writing and research, and as tedious as that might sound to some people, it's the part of English that I like. I have zero interest in teaching literature; I just can't bring myself to care about the metaphorical implications of fictional stories. It's certainly valuable, but it's not something I really want to do, so I don't think teaching high school English is a feasible option (since high school English tends to be very focused on the literature component). Also, children frequently irritate me - that seems like a deal breaker. And just for the record, going back to graduate school to get my PhD in English is not even being considered. I'd rather put my genitals through a meat grinder.

Therefore, with my current credentials and interests, I'm pretty well qualified to be an adjunct for composition and rhetoric courses. A few months ago, I set an arbitrary deadline for myself. I told myself that if I didn't have any solid leads for a job by the beginning of November, I'd start applying for teaching positions for the spring semester. At the time, November seemed safely far off in the future, but now that the future is now, I have to do something so that I don't feel like a financial leech and complete cipher of a human being. As a result, I've begun to explore my options for teaching in the spring.

But that doesn't really feel like a permanent solution. I've been in academia long enough to know that adjuncts make shit for money and have no job security. But I also like the idea of helping people and making a difference in the world. Which is why I am considering, as I did a year ago..... applying for law school.

Bear with me, gentle readers; I know this self-indulgent post is lengthy.

You're probably thinking, "You're fucking crazy. Law school costs major dollars and requires more studying than ten grad schools." And you're probably right. That's why I'm just exploring the possibility for right now. The way I see it, this is the perfect time to explore all of my options. I have no wife, no kids, no long-term career that I'd be giving up. I've got time on my hands and some short-term ways of making money. My current boss has a lawyer friend who is willing to talk to me about what he does. And with the recent election, I've developed an almost obsessive interest in how the political system works. Furthermore, at the risk of sounding arrogant (as though I don't do so every time I post), I know I'd get into law school too. My grades are exceptional, I have research experience and a masters degree, and I'm confident that I could do well on the LSATs.

On the other hand, just because I *can* do it doesn't mean that I should. A year ago, two career counselors told me that I didn't seem to have the drive to make it in law school. At the time, they were exactly right. My only drive a year ago was, "GET OUT OF GRAD SCHOOL." I really didn't care about anything after that. I also don't know much about the specific kinds of law that people practice. No good comes from being uninformed about career decisions. Two years ago, I ended up in grad school because it seemed like a good idea, but I didn't really give it the necessary consideration. I'm not making the same mistake twice. I'm only looking into it, and I will not apply unless I'm certain that it's the right choice for me.

So to sum this whole thing up: I'm having an existential crisis, and I don't know what to do about it. Desperation and discouragement can lead to hasty and unwise decisions. If I make a choice regarding a change in my career plans, I want to make sure that I'm doing it for the right reasons and not because of my crippling fear that I'll end up mowing lawns for the rest of my life.

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4 out of 5 readers think JP isn't even qualified to pump gas for a living.

Lamentations of the Loser

Curse you, Barack Obama!! You have outwitted my campaign and bested me in the general election. Even the surefire addition of Jean-Luc Picard to the "JP For President" ticket failed to garner the interest of voters.

Oh sure, your charming demeanor, solid economic policies, compassion for the ills of the poor, commitment to improving health care, and commanding stage presence may have swayed voters. But you're the President-Elect of the United States of America. You don't have the long-standing and biologically-innate ability to easily turn a blind eye to inner-city education, third-world countries, and brown people. Goddamn it! As a giant white male in the target demographic of 18-40, I can ignore all of those things without breaking a sweat and still have enough ignorance left over to completely keep sexual discrimination, gay rights, and social security reform from ever entering my mind.

And yes, your victory speech last night may have actually inspired millions across the country and given hope to disillusioned and disenfranchised people everywhere. But where were the awkward pauses and insincere smiles that people expect from their President? I didn't see that, sir, and I'm disappointed! As President, I would have been NOTHING but awkward pauses and phony facial expressions. I could pull funding for child cancer research and grin about it until next Thursday. I know how to behave like a real President of the United States.

I will say this in your favor though, President-elect Obama: you also defeated Virgil! That makes the defeat so much easier to swallow.

With 349 electoral votes and 53% of the popular vote, you certainly know how to make the voters sit up and say, "I loves me some chocolate!"

That's probably why I voted for you too. Damn you, Barack Obama!!

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Self-Loathing: Proving to be a greater detriment to voting for oneself than any existential crisis could ever be.

VP Pick: Jean-Luc Picard

My fellow Americans, it is my honor and privilege to introduce my running mate in my campaign for President of the United States of America: Captain Jean-Luc Picard. This may be a late pick, but I guarantee that he has the leadership qualities and executive experience that our country needs from its Vice President.

Captain Picard found the previous administration's actions to be shameful and un-American, and he doesn't want our opponents to continue those failed policies.

But what does Jean-Luc Picard bring to the table?

Jean Luc-Picard is a gripping public speaker and accomplished diplomat.

Jean-Luc Picard understands that we must move forward!

Jean-Luc Picard supports your 2nd Amendment right to bear arms.


Captain Picard knows the alphabet and can incorporate it into a showtune.

Captain Picard doesn't take shit from our nation's enemies.

JP and Jean-Luc Picard: The future that your country deserves.
The change that we need.

Make it so! Vote on Tuesday!

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I'm JP, and I approved this message.


Paid for by the United Federation of Planets

JP: Leadership for America

A VISION OF THE FUTURE

JP's opponents, Batmite and Virgil (and then Virgil again), are both willing to say anything necessary to be elected. But only JP uses the straight talk that real Americans respect.

Virgil voted 90% of the time to increase the salaries of female bloggers who moonlight as college instructors. She spends taxpayer money on extravagant hats and buddies who wear designer sunglasses.

Virgil pays extra-special attention to her kitty cat. Everyone knows that cat-lovers have suspicious motives and plans for global domination.

Virgil is a "community organizer" who wants to force YOU to learn how to read... taking away your freedom to choose how literate you want to be.
And this photograph is in black and white, which proves how evil she is.

Virgil: We can't afford to put the country in her hands.
Batmite: He's not even a citizen, and he's running a clean campaign. He'll never win anyway.

But JP looks really sexy in a suit, and he's secure enough to wear a purple tie.

JP has the strength of a Viking, the fortitude of a drunken Irishman, and the jolly disposition of a Hawaiian.

JP: Just look at that trustworthy baby face. Could this man possibly be capable of deceit?

Virgil wants to steal your money, burn down your house, and eat your babies.
Vote for the man who will give you money, an extra house, and free babies.
Vote JP in November!

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I'm JP, and I approved this message.



Paid for by the Beautiful Bloggers of America

I Couldn't Agree More

I love this clip. It's certainly an honest goof, but he sounds so damned adamant when he says, "And I couldn't agree with him more!" His attempt to backtrack is awkward, but it's hard to fail in rural PA by going the "patriotic" and "god loving" route.

[Side Note: Why do the terms "god loving people" and "god fearing people" refer to the same people? If you love and fear the same individual, that makes you a battered housewife or someone suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.]

If you haven't been following the news, Senator John Murtha [Dem] of Pennsylvania got into some trouble recently for announcing that the the people in rural Western Pennsylvania are racist rednecks. I will say sincerely what John McCain said by accident: I couldn't agree with him more.

As a proud Western Pennsylvania resident, I feel reasonably qualified to speak on this matter. Racism is a difficult issue to discuss - not because it makes people uncomfortable, but because people are often talking about very different things. 00 The problem, of course, is the word "racist." The word carries with it images of cross burnings, lynchings, and KKK rallies. By this definition, very few people in Western PA seem to be racist (though I do know a few who would be right at home with folks like that). But there are hazier areas that are more difficult to understand.

People with racial prejudices often don't realize that they have them, or they feel that their opinions are based upon factual observations. I notice that a lot of white people in Western PA are often afraid that they'll inadvertently anger a black guy. They think that they'll end up dead as a result. The savvy racist might fear legal trouble should an "uppity nigger" decide to sue him because of some "political correctness bullshit."

A few years ago, my friends and I went to New York City to see a Pirates away game at Yankee Stadium (obviously not my idea... but I'm always up for a road trip). We tried to take a short cut, and we made an inadvertent trip down a few blocks in the Bronx. It was maybe 5pm, sunny, and fairly crowded outside. There were old guys hanging outside talking, an old woman in a wheelchair was rolling down the street, and kids were playing jump rope and basketball outside. Of course, they were all black. I will readily admit that I'd be nervous if we were traveling in a black neighborhood at night on a desolate street (I am, after all, a Podunk hayseed from Kittanning), but I couldn't see anything threatening about this particular neighborhood at this time of day. The kids playing basketball even offered to let us in on their game (I hesitated only because I could be schooled by white cancer patients; Bronx kids who play every day would mop the floor with me). But a few of my friends (I won't name names, but you know who you are :) ) were quietly flipping out. Good god, by their account, we were lucky to survive.

Now my friends are not stupid, and I don't believe they're overtly or malevolently racist. They're actually observant. If you pay attention to the news, crime statistics, or any bad 80s movie, the Bronx is associated with black people, and inner city black people in New York are associated with rampant crime, muggings, and violence. Their association is understandable. But consider the source. The media only focuses on violence and crime because they're deviations from the norm. Crime statistics don't take into consideration the economic standings of the people in their percentages. And no good buddy cop movie was ever made from two guys having a fun and uneventful day in Harlem. Hell, Demolition Man would just lose some of its cinematic brilliance with Stallone hashing out the finer points of Shakespeare with Wesley Snipes.

I don't believe that berating Western Pennsylvania for being racist is productive. Most people aren't consciously being racist, and hassling them about it isn't going to change anything. On the other hand, people in Western Pennsylvania need to look around their little towns and come to one obvious conclusions.... THERE ARE NO BLACK PEOPLE HERE!!!! Jesus, you're making judgments about people you've never met based upon biased sources. I wouldn't expect anyone to love all black people sight unseen, but keep a freakin open mind.

The problem is a lack of information. Racism is learned, but so is tolerance. Most people with prejudices are well-meaning but uninformed.... and WOW. I just realized that I sound like a goddamn after-school special. I think I'll just stop now before I start lecturing you all about the dangers of drugs.

Besides, everyone knows that those dirty people from India are the real threat. You're going down, Batmite!! :)

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John McCain: Missing the obvious chance to get out of his gaffe by simply shouting "LET'S GO STEELERS!!"

JP For President

Batmite says he'll raise your taxes in order to pay for his extravagant drinking habit and leather fetish. And Batmite even told the Associated Press that he wants to kill all redheads.

Under Virgil's economic plan, gang members would receive government benefits, and she would spread the wealth to anyone who wears a bandanna.

Worst of all, Virgil pals around with known suspicious bearded brown man Batmite. Batmite has gone on record as stating, "The Green Lantern Corps is fucking awesome!" Do we really want people in the White House who support a galactic police force that wants to take away your freedom?

Virgil and Batmite: Wrong on taxes. Wrong on the economy. Wrong on gang violence. And wrong on galactic security.

But JP is a man of the people who listens to the problems of real Americans.

JP is tough on environmental issues, and he voted repeatedly for Senator Fred Rogers's stricter sanitation laws in the Land of Make Believe.

And JP has the necessary leadership experience necessary to fight against an economic Wii-cession.

Vote for the blogger who has your best interests at heart.
Vote for real change!

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I'm JP, and I approved this message.


Paid for by the Blogging National Committee.

The Manly Everyman

A few days ago, this issue of Popular Mechanics appeared on our dining room table. The big subtitle for this issue: "100 Skills Every Man Should Know." I don't know why I opened it. I knew what would be there: a list consisting of 50 things I don't know how to do, 25 things I'm afraid to do, and probably 20 things I would rather hire someone to do. I figured I could do five of the things on the list. After all, I do have a penis.

I could do more of the things on their list than I thought I could. It turns out that real men should be able to tape drywall, set up a ladder, build a fire in the woods, iron a shirt, operate some basic power tools, change a diaper, drive a stick shift, tie a necktie, hitch up a trailer, parallel park, change a tire, fix a toilet-tank flapper, shovel (I don't see how anyone could screw this up), mix concrete, prune bushes and small trees, ride a bike (again, this is a challenge?), jump start a car, and fold the American flag. These are all things that I can do reasonably well.

But just about everything else on this list is meant to make me feel like an effeminate sissy, but I think the list has some pretty harsh demands. You'd have to be Paul Fucking Bunyan to be able to do everything on this list. Most of it is the typical heteronormative outdoorsy crap that I was expecting: split firewood, fell a tree, throw a spiral pass with a football, shoot a gun straight, cast a fishing line, replacing several different car parts, etc. But some of it is just goofy. Number 48 is "Conquer an off-road obstacle." Is this really a big issue for every man in the country? My Ford Escort can barely make it over a speed bump let alone the craggy peak that they show this Expedition crossing. Number 59 is "Home-brew beer." That's right penis-packers! Every man should know how to brew his own goddamn beer. It's not like it takes over a month and requires hard-to-find ingredients. In number 64, they expect you to "run rapids in a canoe." Fuck that. Just... fuck that. Number 73 is "skipper a boat." First of all, how often does one use the word "skipper" as a verb. Second, doesn't skippering a boat first require HAVING a boat. Guess real men are rolling in the greenbacks.

My personal favorite is number 66: "Escape a sinking car." It's not that this is not an important thing to know, but this seems to be a difficult thing to test. The idea of waiting for the water to fill the interior of the car until the pressure is equalized enough for you to open the door is not a particularly difficult concept. However, not panicking, not pissing your pants, and not having your lungs fill with water as you're screaming like a little girl aren't really covered in the magazine. When you're cozy on dry land, it's easy to say you'd keep your cool, but when your ass is sinking into a river, we'll see how collected you stay.

I'm not surprised that I don't measure up to any standard of masculinity. I don't have a hard-on for sports. I don't like to hunt. I refuse to touch a fish unless it's batter-dipped and deep fried. I don't know shit about cars beyond jumping the battery and checking the fluids and tire pressure. Even the nerdy realms of masculinity are foreign to me. I don't really play violent video games. I don't know jack about computers. And even though Wikipedia, cartoons, and Batmite have taught me more about the Marvel and DC universes than anyone should know, I don't read comic books. Granted, Star Trek fans are mostly male, but that's not really something to brag about. I didn't see "Know the Difference Between Romulans and Cardassians" on the skills list.

The sports apathy is always the big one. I came across this quote from David Sedaris recently:
"I had no interest in football or basketball but had learned it was best to pretend otherwise. If a boy didn't care for barbecued chicken or potato chips, people would accept it as a matter of personal taste, saying, 'Oh well, I guess it takes all kinds.' You could turn up your nose at the president or Coke or even God, but there were names for boys who didn't like sports. When the subject came up, I found it best to ask which team my questioner preferred. Then I'd say, 'Really? Me too!'"

Of course, David Sedaris is proudly and flamingly gay, so he doesn't really help my cause.

I had a long conversation with one of my professors last year about "Queer Theory" because I thought it sounded rather offensive. It seemed like it involved searching for gay stereotypes in the strangest of places. After quite a bit of our usual difficult banter (the professor and I both thought the other was an asshole), I finally got the idea that a "queering of the moment" was simply a point where a character did something that wasn't "heteronormative." Meaning, when someone does something that doesn't fit into the socially-accepted gender roles, it's a queering of the moment. I didn't like this at all. It means that most of the moments in my life have been queered, and that's not the kind of information that's going to help me score points with women.

This list of 100 manly skills effectively epitomises what is generally accepted to be the "manly" man, and the magazine's position is that EVERY man should know how to do these things. The implication, of course, is that if you can't do these things, you're not a real man. I never understood this posturing macho shit. If you genuinely like to hunt, fish, watch sports, or whatever, that's great! But if you need a goddamn list to tell you if you're being manly enough, well then you've got some insecurity issues.

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The Man Test: Not graded on a curve.

I'm Having Fun Looking Out for #1

Who rocks the single life? This guy right here!

I have been sans girlfriend for the last nine months, and if it weren't for my critical lack of a sex life (aside from loving left hand), I'd be content to live the single life for quite some time. I came to this realization over the last few weeks as my brother's wedding has been pushed back and Joe's wedding is about to rev up. The point was further driven home this past weekend.

Over the weekend, my Kittanning crew and I went to Deep Creek, Maryland for Joe's bachelor party where we partied like suburban geriatrics! The highlights of the trip involved soaking in a hot tub, making catty comments while everyone else went fishing, playing a cutthroat Risk game, and dozing off during the Penn State football game. Now some of you may be saying to yourselves (or perhaps cackling to loved ones), "Well no wonder the douchebag's single!" But I had a blast, and I didn't have to impress anyone with my manliness (my friends have long since accepted my lack of interest in anything cool). I also got to drink, act like a complete idiot, and leer at bar wenches without a girlfriend, fiancee, or wife giving me grief.

This is not to imply that I wouldn't like to have a girlfriend. Back in August, I actually sucked up my pride and joined eHarmony for a month. I figured that if I was going to be stuck in Kittanning for awhile (little did I realize that "awhile" would last longer than I'd anticipated), I might as well hook up for a little horizontal refreshment. I had been sitting on the couch moping in my own misery when one of those saccharine commericials for eHarmony came on, and they said that I could take their test and see my matches for free. With nothing better to do (applying to jobs does not count since that experience equates to shoving a hot fork in your eye), I went online and took the test. When they said "32 dimensions of compatibility," I assumed that there would be 32 questions; how wrong I was. There were 32 pages... each with about 15 questions on it. The damned application took over an hour, and some of the questions were just perplexing. How do answer "How self-aware are you?" Isn't "self-awareness" a precondition for being sentient?? If you answer "not at all," does that mean you possess the mental capacity of a grapefruit? But if you answered that question at all, then aren't you aware of yourself? It's like one of those logical paradoxes that Captain Kirk would present to an evil robot in order to short circuit its brain.

In any case, I got my matches (sans pictures), looked them over, thought it was kinda interesting, and then forgot about it. I wasn't about to shell out money for this damned thing. Three days pass. I get an email from eHarmony informing me, "Kristen from Pittsburgh would like to start communication." Well, who the hell is Kristen? What does she look like? How do I talk to her? Is she the one for me? Turns out that such questions can only be answered after paying their exorbitant fee! I was legitimately impressed by such a shrewd business ploy, and my curiosity got the best of me, so I signed up for a month-long membership.

Kristen turned out to be a bust (though she did have an impressive bust as I recall), but I hit it off with two other women on there. Oddly enough, just as my eHarmony membership was about to run out and we had been communicating successfully via actual email for some time, they both suddenly stopped returning my emails. In my mind, they both somehow met each other and became lesbians, and they make passionate love to each other every night. (I don't care how far-fetched that scenerio is! Don't ruin my fantasies god dammit!) I was annoyed and disappointed by their sudden disappearance but somewhat relieved. With no job and no idea of where I'd be living in the next few months, I wasn't sure how to approach the local dating scene.

Since my eHarmony subscription ended, I've been happy to simply wait until I find permanent employment to start my love search. I've actually been enjoying the lack of pressure. I'm in no hurry to get engaged or married, and the single life has its advantages. If I don't feel like going out, I don't have to. If I want to take off for a weekend to visit with friends, I don't have to worry about anyone else. I don't have to plan dates or romantic evenings. And most importantly, with the holidays approaching, I don't have to worry about buying a present. Sure I have to buy presents for my family, but they have to be happy with what I give them no matter what. Unconditional love's a bitch isn't it?

Some might suggest the famed one-night stand as a temporary option; however, I've done the one-night stand a few times, and it's horrible. The drunken four-legged frolick is great, but the weeks of guilt after telling the hopeful young lady that I'm just not ready for a relationship (or being douchebaggy enough to say "Let's just be friends") are just not worth it. Give me the internet and a box of Kleenex any day.

I certainly won't reject a good opportunity for a relationship if it happens, but I'm not going to worry about my single status right now. I'm going to enjoy my "me" time!

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This post brought to you by eHarmony: a safe company for your investments. We prey on the loneliness and desperation of others - natural resources that are always abundant.