I have no clean clothes.

A letter to myself about what a fucking idiot I am.

Dear Tony,
You're a fucking idiot. You're at work, writing your stupid goddamn blog. In dirty, old clothes that don't even fit you. Because you're a total 'tard.

All of your clothes are at the cleaners. You clearly did not think this one through. You should bring your work clothes to the cleaners before you totally fucking run out of anything to wear.

You make me sick. And not just because a sweet, meaty stench is arising from the poorly-tended clothes you managed to scrape together this morning from the bottom of your closet, but also because you are so dumb it makes me nauseous.

That pair of pants? When's the last time you wore those? Your eighth-grade graduation? Cuz they pinch you at your waist (lay off the PBR, fatty) and they are short at your ankles. By the way, your socks are navy blue, not black like you thought they were this morning. And I'm not the first person to notice. Everyone else in the office saw it. I'm embarrassed for you.

Why are your sleeves rolled up, Tony? Oh, is it because you're wearing a cheap shirt you got on sale at the Gap Outlet and its sleeves are too long, seemingly tailored for Stretch Armstrong? Not only was it at the Gap Outlet, it was on the clearance rack. Did you think the thing was gonna fit you like a dream? It was $4.99 and the cuffs go past your fingertips. And I can see your undershirt through it. And I can see your nipples through your undershirt. Fatty.

You need to take a fucking girl with you next time you shop.

Oh, I forgot, you're a bearded loser in San Francisco, a city full of bearded losers. And they all like your cool 'underground' music. (Oh you're soooooooo trendy!) But, guess what, all the other bearded losers dress better than you. So good luck finding a girl to go with you anywhere.

Sincerely,
Tony

P.S. Everyone in the office went out for drinks yesterday and you weren't invited.

Reason I'm a Good Adult #1: I have a beard

From time to time I will do something that negates earlier statements as to my horribleness as an adult. I hope to document such instances in a segment I'd like to call "Reasons I'm a Good Adult."

I have a beard. An occasionally patchy and always reddish beard, but a beard nonetheless.

You know who else has a beard? Rasputin. And this guy. And celebrities at their absolute worst (here, here, and here). That's some pretty bad company.

But you know who is some good bearded company? Ernest Hemingway.

You may be saying to yourself, 'But, Tony, wasn't Hemingway a womanizing alcoholic in such a constant need of a fix that he would go so far as drinking rubbing alcohol for a fix? Wasn't he so crazy that he submitted himself to electroshock therapy? And didn't he, you know, improvise a Jackson Pollock painting using only a wall, his brain, and a shotgun?'

I agree. I mean, I like Hemingway as much the next guy. The Old Man and The Sea? Ferdinand the Bull? For Whom the Bell Tolls? All classics. But he did do some pretty crazy shit in his life.

True, true, my friends. But all that stuff is child's play (not to be confused with the 1988 horror movie of the same name) with the following mindfuck of a photo.

"Oh, hey Ernie. I didn't realize you had taken up a part-time job being understudy for an Off-Broadway production of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"

Look how obviously batshit crazy he is. And the best part is that he doesn't have a beard in this photo. That clean, beardless face that is only hiding that horrifically insane mind vindicates every bearded man in the universe because it shows that maybe MAYBE having a beard made one person at least a little less crazy.

I don't know how to interact with children.

I'm spending this week up at Lake Tahoe with a lot of my extended family, who have all rented cabins within a few miles of one another.

Out of all my ten or so cousins, I am one of three without children. I'm also the youngest of the cousins, so when it comes to hanging out with people at these family gatherings, I find myself unpleasantly torn between hanging out with a forty year-old cousin who sells pharmaceuticals or his four year-old daughter who obsesses over cartoons I've never heard of.

The kids refer to me (I kid you not) as "the boy with the big orange beard." That's a confidence boost.

The other night over dinner in our backyard, one of the darling angels who calls me that said, "Hey! Hey! Hey! (She's a little hyper-active.) Hey! Hey! Do you know any jokes?! Do you know any jokes?!"

I said, "Sure. Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Smell mop."

"Smell mop who."

Please say, "Smell mop who," aloud, because that's the punchline. Yell it aloud if you're in a confined space with other people. Please.

Well, these little girls that I told it to fucking loved it. Instantly. I guess my target comedic audience is people with one year of elementary school education.

My aunts, uncles, cousins, and sister were not so happy that I taught these little girls a bathroom humor joke. Even worse, the girls were screaming "Smell mop who!" at the tops of their lungs well past dessert time.

I don't know if the adults will let the kids hang out with the boy with the orange beard anymore.

I can't find a roommate.

Is it because of my Craig's List post?
...

Hi!

I'm a 22 year-old college grad about to start at law school! But don't worry about that; I'm not ready for my soul to whither just yet! And don't worry about me becoming an asshole in the next few years as I get closer to being an attorney; I'm already an asshole!
I've got a sweet two-bedroom that I need a roomie for!

Me:
Brown hair and patchy, reddish beard
Short
Pasty white skin
Vague resemblance to the Lucky Charms Leprechaun (so don't expect to see me wearing too much green!)
I'm into whatever music other hip people are into, but if too many people like them, I'll stop.
I also love watching really bad movies, listening to bad music, and reading tabloids but all with a sense of irony and superiority.
How about an out-of-context true story about me? Okay. Carlos Santana once drove over my sandwich in his Mercedes.

Don't worry! My eyes aren't really lasers!

You:
A girl (Don't worry- It's not cuz I want to get with you... I want get with your friends)
But, still, you have to be single.
You must like NPR (You must be able to name the hosts of two of the following three shows: Fresh Air, This American Life, and Car Talk)
You must not care that we are paying the same rent as one another, yet I get the one parking spot allotted to the apartment.
You must not watch bad movies, listen to bad music, or read tabloids without a sense of irony and superiority.

Oh, and I do heroin. No cats; I'm allergic!