Sitting across from a woman at brunch trying to appear sexually dangerous while accidentally revealing, through dozens of microscopic behavioral tells, that I once owned a weighted blanket.

100 years. Free at last, free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.

I’d walk through the infernos of a hundred Palisades fires for a woman who loves me exactly as I am, provided she’s nineteen, quiet, thin, and unaware of what I do here on Twitter.

I told an Asian coworker “I don’t see race” with the soft vulnerability of a dog showing its belly, and he said “you described me to HR as ‘the tall one,’” and I said “that’s height, I didn’t mention race,” and he’s five-seven.

Volunteered at a soup kitchen for my dating profile photo. I looked so sad, one of the bums I served asked if I was okay and gave me his coat. I'm wearing it in the picture. 14 matches. He's still out there, cold, and I feel bad. But not that bad. 14 matches.

My therapist asked me to draw my ideal partner. I sketched with the brushwork of a Renaissance muralist: no wants, no opinions, no face that could hold eye contact. She suggested a houseplant. I had tried one. It died of neglect, which segued nicely into my next point about women

I told my Mexican (I think he’s Mexican) gardener he was “basically family,” then watched him eat lunch in his truck while I ate mine on the porch, home-style, forty feet apart, with the sprinklers on. That’s close enough, cabrón.

I keep a spare key to my ex’s place “for emergencies” and have been manufacturing them.

The Indian guy at my gym keeps “correcting” my form. Fourth time this week. I told him I don’t take fitness advice from guys who came here to steal jobs. He said “I’m your physical therapist, Kanye. You’re here because of your back.” Anyway I’m switching gyms.

When Matt and Trey cut out those first pieces of construction paper thirty years ago, do you think they took a moment to ask themselves: "is this safe for Lesbian consumption?"

Outside for a smoke break, I watch an Indian fella tailgating a fire truck with its sirens on and this image immediately materialized in my mind’s eye.

Oi mate, have you been touching your willy with a spot of the strangle-films?

There is a version of me that knows how to talk to women. He only appears after six Jägerbombs, four pints of stout and a twelver of Smirnoff ices. Even then, the slovenly moron normally pukes up on himself before he can get us laid.

She asked if I was “always this quiet.” I said I was thinking. What I was thinking was that if I moved my arm, even slightly, the front of my shirt would ride up and show the stretch marks I got from the year I tried the creatine and beer diet.