I planned poorly for being stranded on this desert island.

1. Okay. I really wish I didn't put Rumours on my list of five things I'd bring if I were stranded on a desert island. Granted, it's one of the greatest albums of all time. Definitely Fleetwood Mac's best effort. But, man, there are dozens and dozens of things I would have rather brought. And, dude, if I wanted to bring along a CD, I should have put a CD player on the list too. Then there's the issue of electricity. Or at least batteries. That's another thing I'd need to put on the list just for a Fleetwood Mac album. That would have been 60% of my list just to hear “Go Your Own Way.” “Rhiannon” and “Landslide” aren't even on Rumours, for God's sake.
God, it is hot on this desert island. It is really a desert island.
I would gladly, happily, trade out the CD for a bucket of cool, fresh water. Or the ability to purify the spring water that's been giving me debilitating diarrhea since I washed up on this god forsaken island's shores.
Or even just one of those dinky fan/mister things. You know what I'm talking about? The spray bottle with the fan? I am blistering in the daytime heat. Blistering. Some balm would be a good thing for the list. Because I am literally blistering.

2. I admit, yes, I was initially glad to have brought along For Whom the Bell Tolls. It's my favorite book. It gets my heart beating every time. The action. The drama. The romance. The fact that the paper makes excellent kindling. Sure I was only able to use it for one night of fire and sure I've been quivering and shaking in a fetal position as I try to fall asleep ever since, but how was I to have known that the temperature would drop so radically at night?

3. And at first I was happy to have brought along a lifetime supply of ChocoTacos. Yes, they're delicious. Yes, they were refreshingly cool under the hot tropical sun. Yes, I am glad to have had any sustenance on this barren sandbar 2,000 miles from land. But, again, ChocoTacos are one of those things that require other things to be of any actual use. Mainly refrigeration. Because now I have a lifetime supply of melted-ice-cream-filled mylar bags. And now they are attracting ferocious fire ants, which are very scary in light of my aforementioned blisters.
Maybe if I store the ChocoTacos on the other side of the island, the ants won't find me. Oh no, they see me. Oh, God, it's too late! They're coming right for me and they smell fear!

4. Flares? Nah. A radio set? Nope. Anything to construct some rudimentary shelter? Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just great with this Whoopee Cushion I asked for.
Oh, I am so glad to have brought along some comic relief. Just listen to it. PFFFST! Oh, the hilarity. I would laugh if my throat weren't so painfully, painfully parched.
Good news, though, everybody. At the rate I'm losing weight here, I'll be able to use the Whoopee Cushion as a flotation device in about three days.
Are there sharks out there?

5. But I am glad to have brought along Roscoe, my family dog. Sorry, Roscoe. You were delicious.

I don't know how to interact with girls

The first issue I have in regards to interacting with girls is a prima facie problem; I still call them girls. Now that I'm an adult, I really need to get on the boat of calling girls by their adult names, such as "women" or "ladies." A few "women" have called me out on it and it's stopped me dead in my tracks in my path to having them let me touch them.

I went out to some bars in San Francisco last weekend. I hit it off with a girl at one of the drinking establishments I stopped by. Sorry. I hit it off with a woman. She was extra not-a-"girl" because she was four or so years older than me. Hey-Oh! Put a check in the box marked "Tony is an adult"! Four years older than me!? That surely makes me an adult! Nay, my friends, nay. I neglected to tell you that, like some depraved, over-sexed seventeen year-olds, said woman and I started making out at the bar against the wall. Go ahead and erase that check from the "Tony is an adult" box. Grab your RoseArt crayon and and childishly scrawl an X in the "Tony is a Bad Adult" bubble. And then eat the crayon. It's okay, it's non-toxic.

Okay, regardless of all that. I actually went on a date with this same woman the next day. An adult-ish date, no less. Things go surprisingly well. She's a really nice, sweet girl. Woman. She's definitely a real adult. She's got a real job in a real office and everything.

She, for some reason, finds me nice enough to invite back to her place. Fast forward a few hours and we're laying down together (don't let your dirty minds wander; it was totally chaste). I can call it cuddling, but I can't tell if that's really an adult thing to say or a childish one. But anyway, that's what we were doing. She looks at me and says, "Tony, you were in a comedy group in college. Tell me something funny."

This is where shit gets really, really un-adult. This is where someone who is good at being an adult would say something like... I don't know. I'm such a frickin' man-child that I can't even think of what a mature person would say. But let me tell you what I did say ...

"So my first job, when I was fourteen years-old, was working down at Fisherman's Wharf. I worked at a crab shack. You know, cracking crabs, boiling lobster, frying fish, selling it all to tourists. Well, at the end of every day, I would end up smelling of what I was cooking all day: seafood. I reeked of it. It oozed into and out of my pores.  I would take the ferry back to the North Bay, where I lived. Now, when I got on the ferry, it was commute time. Everyone's leaving San Francisco. I would rush on and grab a seat. And, since it was such a packed ferry, all the seats around me would get taken right away. Totally wiped from a day of dishing out crab salad to German backpackers, I would fall asleep immediately. I would awaken a few minutes before we docked in Larkspur, and you wouldn't believe what I saw... All the seats around me would be empty. Yet it was standing room only. I smelled so bad that these people would rather stand up for the hour-long ferry than sit next to me and bear my stench."

Yeah. I said that to a woman in bed. I did it. But the fun didn't end there, folks. Before she could even tell me, "That is so gross," I continued...

"Now, my dad worked not too far away so some days he would drop me off in the morning and pick me up when my shift was over. I remember one of the first days after work, I stepped into his car and I smelled so bad of crab guts and sizzling clam-oil, he said, 'Oh my god. Please fart.'"

This the story I told to a nice, attractive girl as I was in her bed. And that is a reason I'm a bad adult.

Disclaimer: The girl (hehe) in this photo is not the one mentioned in this post.