Try Not To Die…

I hated reading as a kid. It wasn’t until I discovered the Choose Your Own Adventure series that I fell in love with books. I secretly dreamt of writing my own, scribbling and crumpling up balls of failure, trying all over again, and after only 25 years of attempts, that little dream is here.

“Try Not To Die: At Grandma’s House” is the first volume in an interactive horror series I’ve co-written with Mark Tullius. To celebrate the Halloween launch you can download the eBook today for free!

Get it .

 

 

That Which Must Not Be Named

A few days before my aunt killed herself, she showed up out our house. I was chasing my sister around the yard when my aunt pulled up in her shitty yellow car. She was wearing a trench coat and big dark sunglasses. She left my little cousin in the backseat.

My mom, smoking a cigarette on the porch, asked what she wanted. The two of them started arguing. My mom kept saying, “No, I won’t. I won’t…”

My aunt was trying to leave her kid. She said it was only for a few days, but my mom knew this wasn’t a breather. This was something permanent.

“You can’t do this to me,” my mom said. “Now, take your daughter home.”

“This is bullshit!” My aunt screamed as she got in the car and drove off.

A few days later we got the call. I remember my mom dropping the phone on our kitchen floor.

My parents wouldn’t tell me what had happened, but I knew it was bad. Kids alway do.

The next day I found my mom in the living room. There were piles of laundry everywhere. She’d washed everything in the house – every towel, comforter, the Spiderman sheets I hadn’t seen in years. She’d brought in boxes of old winter stuff from the garage. There were stacks of shirts and slacks on the couch and on top of the TV. There were two baskets overflowing with mismatched socks.

My mom just kept folding. I knelt next to her, put my head on her lap. She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t say anything for days.

When it was time for the funeral my parents said I couldn’t go. I had school.

My father said my aunt was cleaning a gun and it accidentally went off.  Even in third grade I knew how filthy the mouth was and that it was a terrible way to clean anything, let alone a gun.

To this day, “suicide” has hardly been uttered.

It’s like Voldemort.

I suppose it’s that way for most families. We talk about cancer, torture, abuse, being gay, atheism, alcoholism, amputation, depression, plane wrecks, car wrecks, jihad, Agent Orange, slavery, heart disease, schizophrenia, adultery, sodomy, STDs, dogfights, poverty, starvation…

But the mention of suicide turns everyone into a librarian.

Maybe it’s too awful, too disturbing. Since we were little we’ve been told this existence gift is paramount.

How could someone destroy it?

It unravels the fabric of, well, everything.

Religions condemn it. Governments make it illegal (yes, it’s against the law to kill yourself.)

But it doesn’t prevent it from happening, even when they belittle it, say it’s the “cowards way out.”

But try touching a stove or stepping into traffic. Our instinct is to survive.

To take your life is to override the very thing that keeps our species going.

Imagine what that person must be going through to take this step.

Please Don’t Make Me Poop in There

I’ve never taken a normal poop in a .

I probably never will.

I’m terrified of germs.

I don’t care if God says all I have to do is take a regular doodie at Denny’s to save my seat in heaven, I’ll be standing outside the pearly gates with shit in my pants.

I’m not saying I’ll never, ever  in a communal commode; I’m saying if I do, it won’t be “normal.” It’ll be rushed, sweaty, panicked, and traumatic.

I know I’m not alone.

No one strolls into a and kicks back for leisurely plop.

You’re in that back room because you’ve run out of options. It was either soil yourself or sit in a stall while poop particles float around your head like some septic snow globe.

Yes, I realize there are worse places to make. You could pinch one off in poison ivy or get the squirts in Calcutta.

I mean, in all likelihood, at this very moment, thousands of people dying of diarrhea.

In this golden age of prosperity and medical breakthroughs, half the world is one fish taco away from shitting out a soul.

So yes, I know that complaining/whining about my fear of public restrooms is, as my father-in-law would say, “A high-class problem.”

Still, if you counted up the time I’ve spent worrying about toilets and stalls, creating excuses to stay in because my tummy’s feeling wonky or just sweating in some restaurant booth afraid to get up, I’ve lost years.

My friends think it’s hysterical. Once at a concert, they locked me in a Port-o-Potty and tied it shut with a rope. I still have nightmares.

But I don’t blame them. It was really funny. I got so flustered I started stutter-swearing. “F-f-f-ucking l-let me out, d-d-dickheads.”

But until two nights ago, I’d never really examined the genesis of my phobia. I hadn’t a clue where it all began. Then Emery Emery (host of ) helped me pinpoint the moment.

I was in first grade.

My mom had taken my sister and me to the park for a picnic. We’d invited our neighbor Loretta and her daughter, Tabby, to come along. I had a crush on Tabby. She was two years older and she always wore these bright blue overalls. She could blow bubbles the size of my head with her , and she rode a bike better than anyone on the block. She could pop wheelies.

Anyway, that afternoon, mom set us up under a tree, and we ate PB&Js. I scarfed down three to show off for Tabby. She didn’t care. She just wanted to hit the slide behind the baseball diamond. I asked if I could go, and my mom said yes. “But be careful. That thing’s not sturdy.”

“I will,” I said. I’d never been to this particular park, but I wasn’t worried. It was a slide. How dangerous could it be?

Tabby tore off over the hill. I tried to keep up, but my abnormally large, unwieldy feet made it seem like I was running in .

Tabby was halfway up the ladder when I saw the slide. Thirty feet tall. Almost straight down. The sun bounced off the tin and blinded me good. I scurried into the shade.

Tabby got to the top and told me to watch. She looked like one of those daredevils that  jump into baby pools with only an inch of water.

“Here goes!” Tabby kicked her legs forward and flew down like a comet. Her feet hit the ground and she kept going, running across the field, finally turning back. “Alright, your turn.”

“Yeah…” I stared up the ladder, gulped and grabbed the metal bars. They were hot and sticky. I felt Tabby’s eyes and started climbing. I focused on the rungs, tried not to look down. My stomach was tumbling like tennis shoes in a dryer.

A breeze hit my face, and I realized I’d reached the top. My palms were sweating like crazy. I almost lost my grip.

“Don’t let your legs touch the metal!” Tabby yelled through her cupped hands. “It’s hot as hell.”

I looked down. Everything tunneled. Right to Tabby. She was so tiny, so far away. But all I had to do was sit and let gravity take me to her.

I just had to get my feet under me.

Metal creaked. Everything swayed. My mom was right, this wasn’t sturdy at all. The slide was dented, warped, and less than two feet wide. One lean and I’d topple over, snap my spine like a carrot.

Sweat trickled down my forehead, plopped on the tin and sizzled. I wondered if that’s what my skin would sound like on the way down.

“Come on, chicken shit!” Tabby yelled.

I had no concept of time. It felt like I’d been up here for days. I needed to get this over with. I needed to look cool. I took a breath, then lowered myself when—

My stomach burbled.

I knew that feeling. I shot up quick, stood tall. My mouth watered as the metal frame creaked. Another little sway.

Another burble.

Why did I eat all those sandwiches?

And why did I think Tabby would be impressed?

My bony knees clacked into each other.

My butthole pulsed. Clench…release…clench…

Please, no, no, no…

I squeezed my cheeks, squeezed so hard my whole body shook, but I couldn’t hold it.

It started gushing. I clenched more, saw the bathrooms past the treeline. Only a hundred yards, maybe less.

Tabby blocked the sun from her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

I breathed through my nose, tried to will it all away, but the .

My anus tried, but he couldn’t hold.

A wet, hot clump squished into my underwear.

I’d been breached.

Shit cascaded down legs, shorts, and socks.

I watched it flow over my laces and stream down the slide like microwaved ice cream.

Tabby’s face squinched up with disgust.

“Sorry…” I said as my foulness rolled down like a sad, stinky avalanche.

I couldn’t look anymore. I started back down the ladder, but I slipped. The mess had spilled backwards. It was dripping down the rungs, slicking them so there was no way to get footing.

That’s when I realized…there was only one direction to go.

“D-don’t l-look,” I stammered.

Tabby shook her head and turned. I crouched, stretched my legs. My shoes sloshed through the filth.

And I saw Tabby peek. I started to tell her to stop, but it didn’t matter. She’d already seen too much.

I just hoped it’d be over quickly, that I’d be off this stupid thing so we could go home.

I shoved off but hardly moved. The shit was congealing in the heat. I had to grab the sides and scooch. Shit splattered in these little arcs like when a car hits a puddle.

Finally, I got to the end and stood up, dripping and stained. I was crying. Tabby just stood there in horror.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I said.

“Yeah…sure.”

Tabby and I didn’t go to the same school, so I have no idea if she broke her promise, but I don’t see how a person could keep a story like that in.

I just hope she has forgotten.

I know I never will. My only prayer is Alzheimer’s. Maybe then I’ll be able to poop at Applebee’s.

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Sorry Your Son Died; Thanks for the Nachos

No one is “good” at grieving, but I believe you can be bad at it. Like if someone dies and you go on a murderous rampage or start raping your way through the pain, I think it’s safe to say that’s “bad.”

I, like most people, grieve somewhere in between. I’m awkward and I tend to flail. I make jokes. They’re inappropriate. It’s a defense mechanism. I don’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late.

On 9/11, I invited a bunch of people over to my place. There were rumors California was going to be a target, and my friends and I figured we might as well go out together, so we bought supplies and watched as the horror played out on the news. After a few hours, I couldn’t take any more death and destruction. None of us could. The newscasters started throwing out possible suspects. They mentioned Oklahoma City, American militias and terrorist cells from the Middle East.

I said, “How do we know it’s not the sharks?”

They had been in the news recently, biting off limbs near the Florida coast. Who’s to say they didn’t learn to fly a plane?

It was absurd and stupid, but it was a swift blow to the misery in the room. We started laughing, a little too loud, mind you, because my landlord heard us cackling like maniacs. He evicted me a few weeks later.

I haven’t changed much. I doubt I will. Suffering from bipolar II, I can’t tell you how many times finding the funny has kept me from stepping off a ledge.

I don’t believe laughter is the best medicine, but it is necessary to survive.

And I’ve learned that even though my brain searches for a joke in the darkest moments, I don’t always have to voice them, and they definitely don’t belong in letters of condolence.

Last week my best friend as a kid killed himself. The cops tried to talk him off the bridge, but he jumped. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost five years. He’d gone off the grid. He didn’t like to take his meds. Now, he’s gone, and I never got to tell him how much he meant to me.

I wanted to go to the funeral, but it’s in Kansas City and it’s not possible right now. Instead I decided to write a letter to his parents. Growing up, I spent almost as much time at their house as my own. There were a lot of good memories, and I tried to list them off as best as I could recall. But after a while, the pain was just too great. I’d failed him as a friend. I should’ve reached out when I heard about his diagnosis of schizophrenia. I should’ve been there at his side, sharing my own struggles with mental illness. But I didn’t. I couldn’t stop crying, but I needed to get the letter into the mail, so I quickly thanked them for being wonderful people and for making me nachos whenever I spent the night. The nachos were always greasy and gooey and magnificent.

Just as I was about to pop it in the mail, I decided to show it to my wife.

She read it, then said, “Wait. Are you seriously saying, ‘Sorry for the loss of your son, but thanks for the nachos?’”

I realized an edit was in order, so I took out the jokes and simply told them that I loved them and that I miss my best friend.

What say you? Have you ever said something inappropriate to someone in mourning?

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Five-Year Anniversary

Five years ago, and I did this:

I said this:

“I dropped to one knee. You asked if something was wrong with my leg. I said, No, nothing is wrong with my leg. I asked you to marry me. You cried and said yes. That night I was so confused as to why you loved me. I watched you sleep and thought about all the things we’ll do, like buy a house and a car with air conditioning and open up a theater and take trips to Brazil and laugh at Americans trying to order Churrascaria and we’ll kiss in the Parthenon and ride camels and go to the premier of our first movie and take the stage to accept our Oscar and get so drunk at the after party that you pee on Steven Spielberg’s lap and I break up with you and tell you to lie down in the grass and you cry and say you will and I feel awful and pick you up and we give up drinking for two months and get into the best shape of our lives and you say we’ll never drink again and we get drunk that night and make love on our new deck and we’re so loud the neighbors put up their house for sale and we buy that house too so we can build a wiffle ball stadium in the backyard and you tell me you’re pregnant and I kiss you because we’re ready and we raise the kid to be an atheist even though I read God is Gay to him when he’s sleeping and you tell me I’m a good father and I tell you that you’ve never looked more beautiful and you say it’s because of the fake boobs and I shrug and a month later I finally finish writing Why Can’t I just Die because for the first time I don’t want to kill myself and we take jobs at a college and teach and write plays and screenplays and you say we should go to the Himalayas and so we go to the Himalayas and meet a boy who recognizes you and says he loves Charlie Moose and Hatch Lemon like brothers and we laugh because the kid has never even heard of Kraft Cheese and you start to worry that we’re not doing enough with our lives so we go to New Orleans because for some reason things never got fixed and we help an old saxophone player build a new house screw by screw, and I notice that my finger skin starts to dent in like my grandmother’s and you take my hand when the doctor tells me I have lung cancer and we laugh and say, Thank God I quit smoking fifty years ago, and I go through chemo and get better and help you with your physical therapy for your new feet and I say it’s about time you got that hearing aid and you finally say okay and we hold our grandchild and sit in the living room as he watches Nick the Saint for the first time and he says it was the bestest best movie ever and I walk out into our tomato garden and see your legs lying lifeless and I hold your hand and tell you I love you and I find myself laughing because your socks never did match and we bury you behind an oak tree and I kick myself for not buying side-by-side plots and I have to wait until no one is around so I can dig up the guy next to you and put him somewhere else and then hire an immigrant from that new country of New California and have him shoot me in the gut and dump piles of dirt me and I start crying and I whisper through the earth and tell you I’m scared and that’s when I hear your voice for the first time in months and you say, It’s going to be okay, Anthony. I’m going to take care of you. Nothing bad is going to happen, and I say, How do you know? and you tell me it’s because we were wrong, Heaven does exist.
Two months ago you saved my life, and I promise I will do everything to make sure you never regret it. I love you and I will never, ever quit us.”

Then we did this:

Then this:

This:

And this:

Somehow we made it.

My Wife Raced a Little Person

I’ve been reading comments praising my wife. It’s completely deserved. She’s put up with my Viagra boner. She’s handled my depression. She’s also cleaned up my pee. Two people asked for “Team Jess” T-shirts. I’m seriously thinking about making them, but I’m lazy so I doubt I will.

She is awesome though.

One night she raced a little person.

We’d been drinking at the Power House. It’s the kind of bar that only has PBR on tap. It’s located in the nasty neon heart of Hollywood and Highland, L.A.’s Times Square. There are souvenir stands, celebrity footprints, the Chinese Theater, Madame Tussauds, and The Gap. You’ll see people dressed up as characters from your favorite movies.

Tourists can have their picture taken with Spider Man, Captain Jack, or the Incredible Hulk.

The people behind the masks are typically out-of-work actors trying to make a buck. They earn cash through tips.

Kids seem to love it.

Personally, I get annoyed. I have nothing against people trying to make a living, but these photo ops clog the already crowed sidewalks. I’ve seen people nudged into the street. I’m sure some have been hit by cars.

But it’s not all bad.

Jess and I live in the area. Sometimes we’ll see actors getting dressed on our street. They park near us because it’s free and it allows them to put on their garb without destroying the illusion. I’ve seen Wonder Woman stuffing her bra and Edward Scissorhands smoking a cigarette. It’s surreal seeing these iconic characters half-dressed. You’re visually deconstructing your heroes, stripping them down to sad humans beings.

The Power House offers this experience, as well, because after a shift, some of the actors stop by for a pint. I’ve thrown back drinks with Darth Vader and the Flash.

Chucky from Child’s Play is a regular.

The actor is an African-American dwarf (I’m told by the Internet “dwarf” is acceptable. My apologies if it’s not.)

He’s almost always drunk.

My wife and I have bought Chucky a few drinks over the years. I’ve never learned his real name. I’m not sure want to. I like calling him Chucky. You see, he’s quite horrifying – not because of his diminished size or the rubber knife he wields, but because he’s an asshole. Not all the time, not when he’s sober. But after a few drinks, he starts talking shit. He’ll plunk down at your table and tell you to order him a beer. He knocks over glasses. He’s asked to fuck my wife more than once. I think it’s hilarious. Others don’t. Some want to punch him. They never would, because, well, he’s a little person. You can’t strike a dwarf without looking like a monster. And Chucky knows it. You should see his devilish grin when he backs a person into the wall. He gets off knowing there’s not a damn thing anyone can do.

One night Chucky was going on and on about how fast he is on his Razor scooter.

“I’m like a fucking bullet.”

Jess said, “I think you’re full of shit.” She’d had a few too many. I should’ve taken us home, but frankly, I wanted to see where this was going. No one had ever challenged Chucky like this. He was getting pissed.

After a few more beers, we were suddenly on Hollywood Blvd.

Jess and Chucky were going to race.

I said, “On your markGet setGO!”

They tore off through the throngs of tourists. Chucky took the lead. Jess’s high heels were slowing her down, but she found an empty pocket and cruised through. Chucky and Jess were neck and neck, and then, out of nowhere, Chucky toppled. Jess was at least three feet away, so there was no way she touched him, because she herself has little person arms.

But to everyone else, it looked like she’d just shoved a little black person, which, I’m fairly certain, is committing multiple hate crimes.

Someone said something about getting the cops.

Thinking quickly, I said, “RUN!”

We took off, turned down an alley. We didn’t stop until we were home, both of us out of breath.

“Did thatjust happen?” I asked.

“YeahI totally won.”

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Inappropriate Boners

I took a Viagra in Mexico. I didn’t need it. I just wanted it. My wife and I were on our honeymoon. I felt a little pressure – not from her; I’d just heard too many tales of twenty-four hour fuck-a-thons from buddies. Plus, we were staying at an all-inclusive, i.e., “all-you-can-drink” resort. I didn’t need to knock out my favorite appendage. I wanted this to be epic, meaning I needed to be able to do it in anywhere, at any time.

See, usually, I have sex in bedrooms, sometimes the living room. I don’t have sex under waterfalls or on dirty sand or in public restrooms. I’m a germaphobe. I get grossed out and nervous, and when I’m nervous, my brain keeps all the blood.

But for this trip I didn’t want to be Regular Anthony. I wanted to be Super Anthony.

It wasn’t my wife’s idea. She didn’t need me to get hard while we went snorkeling, but I wanted the option. I wanted to give her an adventure, something she could fantasize about, even after I got old and fat.

I’m already on the downslope. I’m bipolar. My hair’s receding. I’ve gained weight. I get back pimples. Jess has put up with everything – the depression, mood swings, thoughts of suicide, and my sleepwalking. She’s cleaned up my pee.

I wanted to give her romance and a constantly erect penis.

Yes, I thought that was a good idea.

It was not.

There are sooooo many places where it’s inappropriate to have a boner, like the buffet or on a city bus or at the hotel swimming pool. There were children. There were grandparents doing water aerobics. I tried not to make eye contact. I just sipped my drink and faced the wall, elbows propped on the hot cement.

“Anthony, please go get us drinks.”

“Sorry. Can’t really move right now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t want to be arrested.”

“What are you talking about?”

I had to come clean. I told her about the little blue pill, how I’d snuck into one of the Mexican pharmacies early that morning. They have absolutely no regulations.

“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are youuh…?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god!”

“I just wanted this to be memorable.”

“Well, I’m definitely going to remember you having a boner with children in the pool.”

“Shut up, Jessica.”

“Wellcan youget it down?”

“I’m trying.” I was actually mashing it against the side of the pool, trying to push it back in like a wayward mattress spring. It hurt, not just the mashing, the erection. I’d never been this hard in my life. I’m not even sure how I had enough blood to speak. I was thankful the water was only four feet. Any deeper and I would’ve sunk. Some lifeguard would’ve had to give me mouth-to-mouth while the other guests stared at the tent in my trunks.

“So…are we just going to stay here all day in the pool?”

“No, just…” I decided to go under. I figured the lack of oxygen might send a little blood northward. I sat on the bottom of the pool with my boner. It was like a perverted version of The Graduate. Thankfully, it started to work. I could feel myself deflating. I also saw a little boy in goggles.

Gooo awwwwaaay!” I screamed, waving one arm, while covering myself with the other.

Finally, he spun and swam to his father. The man’s legs were as big as my body, hairy too. I pictured the kid telling him what he’d seen. I pictured getting choked, those giant hands cutting off the blood to my brain and returning it down below, which would make the father snap my neck.

That image did the trick.

Boner gone.

But I didn’t know how long it would last. I hopped out. We ran for the room. My wife stripped off her bathing suit. The boner was back. We decided to use it. It was fantastic. I was an animal. I was a porn star.

We did it on the bed, against the wall. My wife made noises I’d never heard. It was glorious. For about an hour.

Then it was painful.

“I’m sorry. I need a break, Anthony.”

“Just…a…little longer.”

Harder, fastermustfinish…

“Please, I can’t. You’re like an angry jackhammer.”

I stopped. I apologized.

“It’s okay, Anthony, I just need a littletime.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

I locked the door and flogged myself for another ten minutes. Still, nothing. It was like a champagne bottle with a stuck cork.

I gave up. After awhile it went down. We went to the buffet. I had lobster, then dessert. I felt a stirring.

What the fuck? Am I turned on by cake?

I had to flee. Jess met me later in the room. We tried again, and after another exhausting session…finally…

I was afraid a lung was going to shoot out, too.

Sadly and painfully, the next day wasn’t any better. We went snorkeling. I saw a group of jellyfish. I prayed one would sting me.

Finally, by the third day, I was back to Regular Anthony.

My wife couldn’t have been happier.

 

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The Dangers of Sleeping Naked

I sleepwalk. I’ve been doing it since I was little. It’s scary and gross. When I was five my father found me in the kitchen squatting on the counter taking a shit. It was dripping onto the floor. My father thought I was possessed, that he’d have to have me committed. But I was just asleep, taking a dump.

I’ve pissed in hampers and hallways and in the corners of countless rooms.

I still do. My wife has found pee in our closet.

She rarely gets a full night’s sleep. She’s always waiting for me to pop up and move. She’s had to chase me down the hallway of our building. Twice I’ve been completely naked.

Some nights she hears me in the kitchen having a conversation with myself. I’ve eaten half a stick of butter, while mumbling, “Good cheese.”

My wife videotaped one of my adventures, made me watch it the next morning. It was me, but not me, more like a zombie. I gestured a few times and kept trying to find a butter knife for my mug of water. It was disturbing and sort of heartbreaking, watching myself functioning with no memory of it.

The worst was when I was eight or nine. I was at Boy Scout camp. It was some jamboree or jubilee or something. All I know is I woke up in someone else’s tent. I was in my tighty-whities and nothing else. Before you starting thinking I was molested, I was simply trying to get in some other kid’s cot. I kept saying, “Get out of my bed.” He kept saying, “Get out of my tent!” I told him it was my tent. He finally woke up his buddy and said, “Craig, ain’t this our tent?” And Craig said, “Yeah, see here’s my canteen.”

And so I left, wandered out into the darkness. I was scared and freezing. It took me almost an hour to find my tent. I’d wandered almost a mile in my sleep.

I’ve read some people drive cars. One guy claimed he was . There’s all sorts of .

For me, it comes and goes. I won’t do it for months, and then, out of nowhere, my wife will be dragging me back into our apartment. “Get in here, no one wants to see your dick.”

I’ve thought about restraints, but I’m worried I’ll end up hurting myself trying to break free. I’m like a werewolf, only less hairy. I just hope I don’t try to shit in our hallway.

Have you ever sleepwalked. If so, what do you do?

Your Dream is Boring Me

My wife likes to tell me her dreams the second she wakes up. It’s like listening to a drunk tell a story — weird, fragmented details combining into nothing. I used to try to figure it out. Now, I hardly listen. I just nod and think about what I’m going to have for breakfast. I wish I had more patience, but honestly, dreams are like poems. I’m happy you have one, but I don’t want to hear it.

Occasionally, there’s a Bukowski, Byron, or Frost.

My wife once told me she had a sex dream with Frasier Crane. He was going down on her on a cruise ship. I was sitting on the poop deck crying, and she kept giving me a “thumbs up.”

Then there’s my father-in-law. He had a dream he was riding on a flying toilet. He was soaring over New York. Everyone below was so happy. They cheered as he waved.

I don’t put stock into dreams. I don’t believe there’s some sort of hidden message. I think it’s just your brain fucking off. All day it has to process information, you know, to help you not die. There’s a car coming. Move! That pit bull isn’t waging his tail. It’s going to bite you. That lady keeps looking at your crotch. Does she like you? Or are you unzipped?

Finally, your dumbass falls asleep, and your brain gets to screw around. What if your father had a dick growing out of his head? Or…OR what if all your teeth fell out and we replaced them with acorns?

Sometimes you just stuffed your poor brain with too crap, like Twitter and chemistry and porn, and it’s simply shitting it out before the next day.

At best, your mind is fulfilling your sick, twisted fantasies, which you can’t actually do in real life, because you don’t want to go to jail for killing your boss or biting someone’s tit off.

Last night I dreamt I started smoking again. Ten months ago I quit. Recently, I’ve been having crazy cravings. Sometimes they last for an hour. My brain tells me, Don’t do it. You’re addicted. You’re going to be back to a pack a day. And I bitch and groan and tell my brain, I hate you. My brain calmly says, It’s going to pass. You’ll be okay.

But I know my brain wants a smoke, so later that night, after I fall asleep, he lights up and takes a drag.

My brain just wants to have a good time.

Have you ever had a fantasy-fulfilling dream? (Yes, I actually want to hear.)

Don’t Say, “Moist!”

My wife’s friend can’t stand the word “moist.” It makes her physically ill. Apparently, she’s not alone. There’s an article on slate.com about and word aversion. In the article, George Saunders recounts a cousin’s disgust when he says, “moist,” during his readings. She admits she has no problem with other words, like “fuck.”

I think we all have trigger words. Certain letter combinations create unpleasant feelings in our mouth when we say them. The experience is nasty, so we avoid these words like some diseased rat.

For me, the word is “cunnilingus.” My mouth gets watery just thinking about it, and not in a good way. It’s like I’m going to puke, and it’s awful, because I like doing it! My wife likes it. Millions of women do. I’m sure my mom does. I’ll never ask her, but it’s a fair assumption. It’s a super-duper way to spend an evening. I wish I could say, “CUNNILINGUS FOR EVERYONE!” but I can’t without Pepto.

I’m not sure what it is. I think it’s the “-gus” tail. It makes me think of fungus.

That’s the only explanation. There’s no moral aversion to the act, and I’m fine with alternative phrases, like “eating pussy” or “chowing box,” which are, when you think about it, far more disturbing. “Eating” and “chowing” imply devouring a vagina. That’s WAAAAAAY worse than licking it, which is all cunnilingus is describing.

I’m feeling woozy. I have to stop.

What word(s) makes you feel like you’re going to hurl?