Silence, Suction and Surpise

Because I’ve had the opportunity to go on a lot of first dates recently, I became aware again of my biggest enemy: my big mouth. What usually happens is that things will go well until a silence settles. No one can tolerate silence well in social situations, especially ones where you’re essentially on trial by someone who may or may not be considering whether or not you are going to get to see the crazy new underwear they’ve purchased.

So silence settles in and, because I love boobs in the way e popping club whores love glow sticks and velvet, I try to break the tension and wind up saying something very, very dumb. Like, “If you ask me, O.J.’s still a role model” or “Just so you know, I’m actually just two 10 year-old kids in a fat suit. Will you buy me candy?”

It was upon reflection that I realized how much we dislike silence in our society, and realized that this was a lesson that could be directly applied to other areas of my life.

My job affords me with the luxury of performing subtle behavioral experiments on people. And I have begun using our culture’s fear of silence in my daily interactions. My new strategy is that the louder someone yells at me, the less I say. In fact, when they ask questions or insult me, I simply stand there without saying a thing. Then I slowly narrow my eyes…and wait. To say that it makes people uncomfortable is an understatement.

Most of the time, they simply trail off and wait for me to respond. When they realize that I’m not going to respond, they start to get nervous. That’s when I fold my arms and refuse to break eye-contact. It’s really interesting to watch the reactions. People can’t deal with a social interaction involving silence. If I yelled back, they could fight me. If I apologized, they could try to bully me. But because I say nothing, there is no socially-programmed response. And so they generally do what they can to get out of there, A.S.A.P. I’m convinced that it’s because we don’t have a mechanism for dealing with silence that they leave, not because I’m in anyway intimidating. Silence is a great weapon.

Which brings me to the point I wanted to make: blowjobs.

Now, in all my years of receiving said jobs (which spans from 1998 to the present, with the notable exception of those wasted with my ex-girlfriend) I had only encountered one girl who didn’t swallow. It was way back in my freshmen year of college, and while I 1) don’t begrudge any girl who doesn’t want that in her mouth and 2) am usually so preoccupied at that moment that I rarely care, it was a practice that I had gone so long without experiencing that I thought it had vanished from the earth. That is definitely not the case.

Now, as a courteous guy, I believe in giving a girl fair warning. Any chick generous enough to do that, deserves better than the unannounced windpipe blockage and/or eye-damage of unfortunate aim at an ill-timed moment. So it was with great surprise that when I alerted a recent oral-applicant that “Apollo was go for launch” that I was presented with a wholly new phenomena: she dropped it like birth-control at a vasectomy convention. Seriously, it was exactly like this Robot Chick clip:



This was not a maneuver I was prepared for. There’s no possible way to anticipate where everything’s going to wind up, based on velocity, consistency, volume and El Nino. So while an orgasm is an orgasm and not something that I’m likely to complain about, the fact that it was slightly tainted by the sudden surprise and moment of panic did somewhat lessen the overall experience for me.

She did get me a towel afterwards, which I appreciated. And she did a more than admirable job up until the duck and cover drill. Who knows, maybe I’m just losing touch with today’s women. Maybe there’s nothing weird about it…though I would have thought that she’d have been prepared to reap what she sowed, so to speak. I mean, if that’s your game plan, why not keep tissues near the bed and have them ready for cum-catching deployment?

Maybe next time, I’ll ask her to pee on me. Then, closed or not, dive through her window.

Is This Thing On?

Well, hello there, Internet. Come in and have a seat. Have a piece of gum. No, seriously ... have one. Can I offer you some Thunderbird? Cocktail weenie? Because we are all class up in this bitch.

Hi, I'm Jess, and I'm gonna be writing here whenever I feel like it and am not hung over or incarcerated. I'd like to thank Ehren for this opportunity, and for the glowing introduction that I cannot possibly live up to. Thanks, buddy. I'll be sure to tell the next girl you date that your penis is ten feet long and can cure lupus.

I apologize for the delay, but my last month or so has been spent attempting to weasel my way out of my first stab at an actual relationship in five years. Needless to say, it didn't go well. Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I was subliminally affected by a Valtrex commercial. Or maybe I'm just getting old, and subconsciously I wanted to someday squeeze out a little Jessling so I'd have someone to leave my collection of obscene shot glasses to. Either way, I think the lesson here is to stick to what your good at. Michael Jordan abandoned his career in baseball; John Travolta has learned that he is not a director. Me? I'm much better at hate-fucking people I don't give a shit about than regular-fucking people who don't give a shit about me. And anyway, he was getting fat.

So now that we've gotten to know each other, I have a confession to make: I was only joking about the hangover thing. Although the allusions Ehren made about my alcohol tolerance are 100% true, I'm currently preparing to enter my sixth month of court-mandated sobriety. Apparently the state of New York has decided that my behavior has been "dangerous" and "irresponsible" and that the best course of action would be to "fuck me in the ass" with a "pitching wedge" without "leaving the money on the nightstand first." I bet you didn't know that the judicial system could keep you from participating in a completely legal social activity. Well, they can! And pay attention, because this could happen to you too.*

*Note: Chances are this will only happen to you if you are arrested for an alcohol-related offense after several failed attempts at escape and one successful attempt at cop-biting, and then skip out on probation because fuck them, that's why. But I digress.

In the interest of public service (that's some shit that sober people do, right?), I decided to kick off my first blog post with some helpful advice in case you're ever forced to give up your distraction of choice.

• In the beginning you're going to find yourself with a lot of time to kill, so consider taking up some interesting new hobbies, like pottery or golf. Mine are snorting methadone and vomiting uncontrollably, usually in that order but not always.
  
  
• The sheriff's department will be cruising around your usual hotspots looking for you, so remember: disguises are your friend! I'm a traditionalist, so I like to stick with the old standbys of ghost (pro: total coverage, con: no mouth-hole) or Nixon (pro: easy to find, con: you will not be getting laid). But feel free to use your imagination. Whatever you do, though, I find it's always best to add a prosthetic pregnancy belly, because no one will look twice at a pregnant drunk Nixon attempting to flush a pinball machine.
  
  
• Always have a backup plan. If you get caught, how does John Q. Law know that you don't have an identical twin who also likes Jack Daniels and stealing road cones from the courthouse parking lot? They don't. Incidentally, the identical twin alibi is also good for when you're caught chugging a beer on the Jumbotron at Giants Stadium (THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED).
  
  
• Don't get down on yourself. Sure, you're not as funny or interesting as you used to be. Sure, the zesty thrill of anonymous sex has dissipated. Sure, you're going to look like a douche at most social events holding a club soda. Sure, the opposite sex is infinitely less attractive and their anecdotes suddenly suck. But ... I forget where I was going with this.

Oh well. Until next time, Internet. And next time, Jesus Christ, clean yourself up a bit. You look like a fucking hobo.

Perspective

You know, I never really considered myself mature or grown-up. Maybe it’s the cartoon obsession, the creepy affection for chocolate milk, or the fact that I don’t grow any pubic hair. But it’s only after going through a horrible break-up that I realized how utterly emotionally retarded I am. I look back at the things I did following the separation and am left with no possible conclusion other than I am actually a 14 year-old girl.

Below is a partial list of the activities I engaged in. It’s really just unbelievably sad. But if you can’t laugh at yourself…then publish it on the internet and let everyone else laugh at you instead:

• Listen to break-up songs repeatedly at high volume. When you find yourself playing Aerosmith’s “What It Takes” over and over again as if it holds some sort of significance…there’s nothing left for you. Put a shotgun barrel in your mouth and do yourself a favor. Stephen Tyler has the emotional insight of Fonzie’s used condoms.
  
  
• Compose endless speeches in my head about the ways I’d tell her off if she called me to take her back.
  
  
• Got even angrier because she never called me so I could crush her with rambling indictments that would have made no sense to anyway.
  
  
• Screened just about every watchable break-up movie. This includes High Fidelity, War of the Roses, Annie Hall, the Wedding Singer, Chasing Amy, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Swingers, 500 Days of Summer…I could keep going.
  
  
• Obsessively stalk my ex’s picture site. Then alternate between rage and maudlin sorrow when there were snapshots of her with men I couldn’t identify. By the way, drinking in no way improves this situation. There’s nothing quite like yelling angrily at someone you don’t know who probably isn’t even sleeping with a girl you’re no longer seeing.
  
  “Hey, sweater guy! What the fuck are you doing at a car show??? WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE??? ARE YOU FUCKING THE SWEATER GUY, SCIENTIST??? I’LL KILL HIM!!!”
  
  Classy.

It’s funny because I honestly thought that I’d left all that behavior behind in junior high. But no. I’m an idiot.

I received a ton of advice about what to do and how to look at things and what to focus on from pretty much every direction. Honestly, I got way more input than I needed or was even realistic to follow-through on. But eventually I realized the person with the best perspective about it that I ever spoke to was a stranger behind the desk at a video shop.

I went in with my sister and the clerk recognized her and asked who I was.

“Oh, this is my brother. We’re renting a movie because he’s trying to get over a rough break-up with his girlfriend of 3 years.” She answered.

The guy looked me over once and asked, “Did you leave her or did she leave you?”

“She left me” I answered.

“Fuck her. She sounds like a bitch.”

Honestly, what more about it is there to say?

A Job To Jerk To

I’m currently working what might be among the worst possible jobs on the planet. No, I'm not a jizz-mopper, coke-mule, or mime. I'm not in the worst 15, but I'm at least in the conversation for the worst 100.

Because I’m now a full-time grad student, I’m not really looking for a lot of responsibility, hours, or possibility of advancement, just something that will allow me to make my car-payments and provide something resembling a drinking budget. So I wasn’t really expecting a cushy job auditioning massage-parlor girls or offering tips for women looking to improve their blowjob skills.

But still…my current way to a paycheck is pretty grim. I’m currently paid to wear a horrible hat and bright green vest while defending a parking lot from people who want to leave their cars while they attend court. There’s no shade. There’s no place to sit. Just endless confrontation with society's dregs. And I don't even get to carry pepper-spray.

Basically, I deal with felons who are already irritable because the county has decided to take an interest in their hobby of beating crack-whores with socks full of nickels. All they want to do is lie to the police, run to the bank for $50 in shiny new Jeffersons, and then pay a little visit to that uppity 15 year-old who never delivered on the blumpkin that was negotiated. And I have to say, I’m not entirely unsympathetic to their plight. At least they’re doing something constructive with their day.

So when they park and attempt to dash across the street to the court house, I have to call them back and let them know that they'll be towed if they don’t move. To say that this is an unappealing ultimatum would be an understatement. It makes me about as popular as genital warts at an orgy.

It’s not entirely without perks. For one, it offers an interesting opportunity to experiment on phrasing, voice pitch, and body language. Do people threaten to break my knees less often when I ask them to move or tell them to move? Am I more likely to be spit on when I glare or smile? Does pretending to phone the police elicit fear, respect, or homicidal rage? Plus, there are few jobs I’ve ever had where I really and truly didn’t have to care at all how I dress or look. I wake up every morning knowing that most of the people I encounter will revile me on scale that can only be matched by holocaust survivors for Nazi prison guards. What motivation is there for me to shave or check if my shoes match my shirt? If anything, I seem to get less shit when I look like a man on the edge. I guess people are less likely to fuck with someone who appears to have nothing to lose.

Most of my days are spent in what can only be described as soul-destroying boredom. Granted, it’s boredom that’s interrupted by threats of vehicular manslaughter, rape, degradation of my mother, but even so, most of the time, I’m simply standing in the elements trying to decide how to jerk off that evening. “Hmmm…maybe I should go over-hand-lefty tonight. Or perhaps under-the-leg-two-hand-baby-oil-surprise...But I guess that’s really more of a Wednesday thing.”

My motivation to find a new place of employment is high, to say the least. At this point, angry, gun-toting drifter seems like a saavy career move. Especially since my days will only get worse as winter approaches. I mean, the only thing that would make the job of threatening to tow the ’92 Saturns (which usually have blacked out windows, 4 foot spoilers and spinners) of soon-to-be-convicted felons, is having to do it in 20 degree weather. Now I know that drifters are also subjected to the elements. But at least I might not be threatened as often. Plus I could be drunk and sit down.

Fortunately, I went on a job interview today for what could very well be the greatest job of all time: Office Assistant for a cosmetology school. Sure, some of you think that being CEO of a fortune 500 company, a politician, or even a movie star would be a better. I disagree. As office assistant, I would have no responsibility, no stress and spend all day as the sole male in an office full young, hot women.

If that’s not reason to celebrate with a reach-around-ball-squeeze-two-knuckle-salute, nothing is.

Big (Jew) Pimping

Last night I went on my first Jdate Date. As I’ve previously expressed, the desperation factor is much higher among the females on the site, mostly due to Jewish guys being possibly the least sexy demographic of singles. If fuckability were measured on a sliding scale, we’d rank somewhere in the negative thousands of Luther Vandrocity. Seriously, I think we trail only hobos with leprosy and winos covered with burn scars in desirability.

Now, as I’ve said before, I’m by no means a catch in the normal world. For Jewish singles, though, I’m a pimp. Which is why I made my date buy me dinner.

You read that right. I made a member of the cheapest race on earth drive 30 minutes to meet and then pony up dough to feed me. Not only that, she actually made plans to see me again. Apparently, I’m yentafabulous. God, I need to put that on a T-shirt.

Sometime on the way over to meet the young lady I’d be torturing for the evening, I had a revelation: why the hell should I pretend to be normal? Not only am I incredibly bad at it, but it’s nearly impossible for me to maintain. And more than that, I decided that too many times in my life have I gone on dates and done nothing but tried to be approved by her. This time, I vowed, she would have to be approved by me.

So when she showed up, I jumped in, guns blazing. I told her the story about screaming out to co-workers that I was on PCP. Then I recounted my idea for a TV series based on a homophobic night-rider. When she told me that she was in a sorority in college, I asked, “So you give lots of blowjobs?” Then I proceeded to harass her about for the rest of the night. When she touched my hand, I told her “I’m not going to put out on the first date. You’re going to have to romance me.”

It was either genius or madness.

I was thinking about how many bad dates I’d had over the course of my life. I think I’ve recounted most of them here on this blog. Like the time I pimp-slapped a woman. Or the girl who told me about her abortion-party on the first date. And I realized that by trying to be a normal and respected member of society, I was actually just covering up what I think are my best qualities: the ability to be an insensitive asshole to strangers, and a complete disregard for social morays. I should be embracing my twisted world view and bringing strange women inside it. And possibly giving them crabs. Then laughing at them.

This girl and I are supposed to meet up again this weekend. Whether or not she actually shows up is another story. But regardless, last night was an epiphany for me. And, I have no doubt, a supreme curse, blight and tragic misfortune for single women everywhere.

Handsome (For a Jew)

Over the last couple weeks I’ve been looking around at various internet dating sites. I mean, as hot and romantic as my right hand is, she and I have an open relationship. And every now and then, I like to spice things up with a hand orgy. Or even add in a mouth and vagina just keep things interesting. Hey, variety is the spice of life.

I had narrowed my options down to two sites: match.com and JDate. Here are the pros and cons of each:

Match: There are more girls available, and they are probably way sluttier than their Talmud-toting sisters. However, there is also way more competition.

JDate: The girls have way fewer options to choose from, so as a result I look way better. Unfortunately, they might not want to sleep with me until I get a medical license, move to Long Island and cut a hole in a sheet.

Obviously, it was not an easy choice. Because each allows you to create a profile for free, I decided to give them both a couple weeks to woo me one way or another. In the end it wasn’t even close. The Jewish girls are three times more desperate than the match.com whores. And if I'm to stand any chance of deceiving a woman into having sex with me, I need them as desperate as possible. Which is why most of my exes are hobos.

This proves my theory that I am handsome for a Jew. Which is sort of like being tan for an Irishman, tall for a midget or fast for a paraplegic.

JDate is a weird place. Hundreds of Jews lured into putting their names on a list. Wow, where have I heard that one before? They could have just exploited Hitler’s master list for marketing purposes when they started up. Sure some of the people would have been dead, but chances are good the survivors were single again.

The site does not actually require its members to be Jewish. I mean, it’s not like they asked me to send in a picture of my circumcised cock to join. Which is good, because that would have gotten very depressing very soon on a Jewish dating site. I believe Lisa Lampanelli said it best when she said, “The only thing shorter than a Jewish guy’s dick is a black man’s to-do list.”

My Muslim friend asked if he would be allowed to join. That would make for some interesting dates. I told him that he should wait until he was inside her to break the news. There he’d be, sliding in, she’s getting all into it and then he yells at the top of his lungs: “Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!”

Or maybe that high-pitch yodel as if he’s about to slay an infidel.

As an alternative, he could strap a bomb to balls and assure the girl that either he or the bomb were going to explode in 5 minutes.

I have another friend who has a huge list of sex accomplishments he wants to complete before he dies. There’s some good stuff on there: MILFS, midgets, Asian twins, a celebrity, and probably 99 other things that escape me at the moment. But if he really wants a challenge, he should try to get an Israeli girl and a Palestinian chick in a three-way. There’s something symbolic about an American fucking a Palestinian while an Israeli works his balls.

Worst Superpower Ever

I’ve been reading a book called “Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story” which is about death and rock n’ roll. A paragraph in particular caught my attention:

“There is an entire cult of disciples (led, I believe by Minnie Driver) who inject the knowledge of [Jeff] Buckley’s demise back into his work, and what they hear on songs like ‘Drown in My Own Tears’ is something that couldn’t exist if he were still alive. It’s a simple equation: Buckley is dead, so [his 1993 Album] Grace is profound. But this is reverse engineering; this says more about the people who like Buckley than it does about his music.”

The idea I found interesting is that events that happen after the work was created have influenced how people interpret the album. And in a way, it’s sort of what’s been going on in my life.

What follows is ENTIRELY the work of my own neurosis, but I’ve begun working up a case on whether or not my ex was cheating on me. Logically, I know she wasn't. Well…I suspect that she wasn’t. I guess no one can ever really know for sure. But logic has no place in my interpretation of past events based on our eventual split. Every conversation we had now takes on a new meaning.

Example:

Me: How was your day?
Her: fine.

Translation:

Me: How was your day?
Her: I’m fucking other guys.

Now, I’m already aware that it’s unfair, unhealthy, and completely stupid. But right now, those three words are a pretty good description of me. Seriously, my mind is doing really bizarre things with this new perspective. Relatively simple facts all seem part of some sinister master plot for my ex to sleep with hundreds of dudes.

Example:

She wanted to move to Pittsburgh. Men live in Pittsburgh. Therefore, she wanted to fuck the starting offensive line for the Stealers.

Unfortunately, my weird irrational imagination also extends to current actions. Meaning not only am I misinterpreting past events, I sometimes manage to convince myself that I have ESP strictly localized to my ex-girlfriend’s vagina.

So I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, utterly certain that she’s doing reverse cowgirl with the guy from the brawny paper-towel commercials. No one in the history of the world is having more unbelievable and mind-blowing sex than my ex…in my imagination.

I find myself praying that it’s only my sick mind and that I haven’t somehow inherited the shittiest superpower ever. Although, the creation story for said gift would probably be pretty amusing:

Once a mild-mannered gynecologist, Clit Vaghammer’s life changed when exposed to gamma radiation while elbow-deep in Miss Cleo. Now, he roams the earth, talking in a crazy accent, righting the wrong, and obsessing over his ex’s vag.

I really need to get out more.

Fantasy Sexball

Now, my recent decent into the single life has been depressing, not only in its soul-crushing familiarity (Jesus…this is what my life used to be? How did I not kill myself?) but the inescapable fact that it’s likely going to be here for a long, long time. At this point, I’m looking for a relationship with less of an emotional connection than a glory hole.

Because I’m unready for any interaction with the opposite sex that doesn’t involve a hole in a pay-toilet, I’ve been spending a lot of time on the internet. As a result, a thought dawned on me. Please consider these two seemingly unrelated facts:

1. The popularity of fantasy sports is simply staggering. According to Rueters nearly 30 million people play some fantasy sport in the U.S. or Canada. And many of them will probably do it on their employer’s dime.
   


2. Meanwhile, almost 7 million people a day watch porn on the internet.

A normal person would see these two statistics as isolated. But a genius such as myself sees an awesome opportunity to make some serious bank combining his two great internet passions into a brand-new past-time sure to take the internet by storm: Fantasy Sexball.

The premise is this: Each year, you’ll gather with your buddies and draft porn stars onto your team (or swinger party, if you'd prefer a term keeping with the milieu). For the next 12 months, you’ll follow your stars’ "sexploits" with points being awarded based on the following accomplishments:

• Scenes Recorded
• Threesomes
• Facials
• Anal
• Fellatios
• Fistings
• Double Penetrations
• Dirty Sanchezes
• Cleveland Steamers
• DV/DAs
• Blumpkins
• Autoerotic Asphyxiations

Obviously, this list could be expanded. I mean, given the amount of porn being filmed at any given time, chances are if you can dream it, somewhere the recipient of a bad titjob is doing it on camera at this moment. Or if you really wanted to get creative, make each team carry a certain number of male porn stars, midgets and ponies. My point is that this is a game that tests not only your level of perversion, but gives you the chance to get to take your knowledge of friends and coworks to a whole new level of creepy.

The only downsides are that it’s probably going to be much more difficult and/or risky to play in the office and after 12 long months, there’s a good chance that there’ll have been some serious chaffing.

Craig's A Pimp

Now that I’m single, I’ve spent a lot of time trolling the internet looking for girls. Yes, most of it is porn, simply because it’s sexual release without the cost of dinner and/or pretending to be interested in something a woman says, but I’ve also checked out a number of the dating sites. I can’t believe that it took me this long to discover the crazy world of internet pimping.

There are several different tiers of dating sites, or pimping if you will. First there are the high class call girl pimps of eHarmony and Match, then the second and third level rub and tug madams of Pure and Mate1, and finally, on the lowest possible level, just below mail-order brides and AIDS-ridden African whores, is craigslist.

Ah craigslist. How the hell did hookers in Rockland County make any money before craigslist? I mean, besides through my donations. I’m only one man, after all. Actually, I’m starting a new charity: the Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation. Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation (or A.S.S. Fun for short), allows you to get personally involved in the life of someone who needs your help more than anyone. For a small donation, you can make a difference in a whore’s life today and get her the clear-pumps, pleather skirts, and gonorrhea medication she so desperately needs. Our premium sponsors will even receive a personal visit from the girl they’re helping. I predict that it’s only a matter of days before my charity becomes the most donated to non-profit organization in the world. I mean, come on. How the fuck are Jerry’s Kids going to compete with that?

As founder of this charity, I’ll probably need to buy a pink Cadillac, a gold tooth and a cane. Sure it’s “hard” work, but when I looking at the asses of all the girls I’ve “touched” makes it allllllll worth while. Plus, it’s as close to a recession proof as occupations get.

My favorite section of the Craigslist Personal ads is the “Casual Encounters” listings. Holy Christ. It’s 100% ads for call girls, most of whom think they’re cleverly posing as real women. It’s outstanding. The amount of hilarity is almost too much to stand.

I like the ones that read something like this:

"Hot 28 year-old not getting what I need from my husband. Looking for some no strings attached fun tonight. I’m classy, quiet and shy. Please email pictures and credit card numbers."

And then there’s a picture of her vag. Classy.

I’m not sure why any hooker thinks it’s a good idea to try to advertise with photos of the cootch. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d hardly classify any fish taco as being “picturesque.” But after 15 years of paid-for abuse, it’s almost always a downright tragic view. It becomes, as I like to call it, “Chipped Ham.”



And with that awesome visual, I’m out to troll craigslist for a girl desperately seeking a substitution for daddy’s love. Or maybe just some mayo for her chipped ham.

Living Down To Expectations

To all the people angry with me for what’s written here, I urge you to let it go. That’s the wonderful thing about having this blog. I take all the darkest, least constructive feelings I have during the day, blow them up 20 times the size and then banish them from my mind to the internet. This way, they don't fester. The joke is that no one else can possibly be slandered on this blog worse than I slander myself through its authorship.

That’s the whole point of everything. Why would you possibly take anything negative I have to say about someone seriously when this whole blog lowers me below basic humanity?

I’d urge anyone angry with me over what’s written here to consider the inescapable point that I’ve already been punished for my many flaws and shortcomings: I’ve been kicked to the curb. Between the level I drag myself down to with each post and my ex’s utter rejection of every good part of my being, there’s simply not any compelling reason to waste your anger on me. I'm way below deserving your hatred. There's no possible way for you to make me feel worse. There's no endgame for you.

You want to know what the purpose of this blog is? To live down to her expectations. You shouldn’t get angry with me. I’m just proving her right.