My FitBit buzzes and congratulates me whenever I meet one of my fitness goals for the day. It’s generally a good motivator, but I feel like it’s sending me the wrong message when it congratulates me for meeting my “distance walked” goal en route to Krispy Kreme.
A big, cartoonish bee with rosy cheeks is smiling and hugging a flower. Inside it says, “Bee mine.” Underneath, in fancy handwriting, are the words, “To my queen B,” and two tickets to a Beyoncé concert are taped to the paper. Underneath that was quickly scrawled, “Shit shit shit, I’m really sorry I’m sending you this card after you got attacked by that swarm of bees. I bought the card and taped the Beyoncé tickets to it before that happened, and I was afraid that trying to get the tickets off would rip them. Anyway…love you!”
On the front: “Over time, I’ve tried to fill my life with lots of things: work, money, adventure, stuff…” On the inside: “But in the end, nothing fills my heart like you do.” Underneath is a picture of a heart with an “insert gift card here” slot, which is occupied by a photo of the card sender and recipient from their first date. Underneath that is a handwritten note: “Please don’t think I’m cheap.”
The outside is pink with red hearts on it, and reads, “Will you be my Valentine?” The inside is a list of terms and conditions with an “I agree to the terms and conditions” checkbox at the bottom.
A traditional homemade card – pink and heart-shaped. On the outside, it says, “Nothing represents my love for you more perfectly than this card…” The inside reads, “I tried to make it into something I thought was realistic. But it turns out that just as society has given me factually inaccurate ideas of what a heart looks like, so too has society given me an untrue fantasy of what love is.” A $5 Starbucks gift card is enclosed.
A black-and-white photograph of a pug graces the front. The inside reads, “I’m head a-pug heels for you!” At the bottom, in eight-point font, the card designer apparently went ahead and included the text, “Let’s be honest, whoever you’re getting this from didn’t think to buy you a card until at least 5:00 PM on February 14th.”
“Choose your workout.”
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“Watching Flip That House on HGTV is not a workout. Please choose an exercise regimen.”
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“Are you sure you don’t want something a bit more challenging?”
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“You realize that your chosen workout will burn about as many calories as the average 3rd grader burns during a 15-minute recess, right?”
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“Okay, home improvement and the ‘high school hallway’ workout, it is.”
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“Is that your heart-rate? Good god, you’ve only been on the treadmill for 15 seconds.”
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“I know that you are supposed to be able to watch shows with no commercials, but I’m going to put on some health insurance ads anyway.”
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“Are you training for a marathon? Maybe you should start smaller, like training for the walk to the subway station nearest your apartment.”
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“Your workout is 50% complete, as is your life if you keep up this sedentary lifestyle.”
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“You know how they say, ‘Pain is weakness leaving the body’? Well, you know what that slight tingling of physical exertion is? That’s weakness going down to the front lobby of your body and telling the receptionist that it wants to extend its reservation by seven years.”
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“Hey! See that cute lawyer over by the dumbbells? If you hurry, you might be able to leave before she sees you completing such an embarrassing workout.”
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“Okay, so I’ll tell you a little secret. Your workout is technically complete now, because I was unable to move slowly enough to accommodate your requested workout. So please, please just leave and make room for someone who wants to actually exercise.”
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“Hooray, they flipped the house! The buyer is signing the paperwork! And that signature is burning more calories than you have this entire time!”
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“Your sad, pathetic workout is complete. See you ne—DON’T YOU DARE START AN EPISODE OF STORAGE WARS!”
A year ago today, I made the brave choice to stop fucking your mom. Did she want me to? No. Did I get deep satisfaction from your obvious disgust at our passionate lovemaking? Yes. Did someone bet me $20 I couldn’t hold out? Technically it was $20 and a Crunchwrap Supreme, but I’m splitting hairs.
I started out strong. I really believed that I could make it at least two weeks without taking your mom to Poundtown. Whenever I caught myself thinking about the long, sweaty nights (and days) we shared together, I would sketch a picture of her beautiful face on my easel (shown below). If I’m being completely honest with myself, it’s probably my best work.
Your mom’s face. Not pictured: my dick.
How I wish my art could sate my ravenous sexual appetite for the woman who gave you life and once saw you throw up on a dog (gross, dude). In fact, I found that this exercise only deepened my desire for her, especially knowing that you would die inside if you knew about any of this. So I called her just to check in, see how things were going, if she missed me. Turns out she did. And turn out she did, if you know what I mean (shown below).
Your mom’s face in sexual ecstasy. Not pictured: my dick.
Here’s a timeline of everything, so you understand that I had some self-discipline in the beginning, that this wasn’t just some ploy on my part to get your hopes up that we would stop fucking each other only to waltz into your kitchen on the morning of January 13th wearing your mom’s robe and calling her my “slampiece.”
I know what you’re thinking: am I going to make the same half-assed resolution this year? I used to joke with your mom about how if we got married you would have to call me dad. She would giggle and say how much you would hate that, especially since we’ve been friends forever. I would laugh, confused, because would you really let a petulant child stand in the way of this great love? Then we would bone for like, five hours.
So that’s to say, no, I will not be making the same mistake this year. I will continue to bang your mom, as long as it doesn’t distract me from my resolution of being the best dad I can be (shown below).
A wreath of fall leaves, with a sign nestled in it reading, “You are currently at higher risk of the roof of this house caving in and killing you than you are of falling prey to a shark attack.”
There’s a doggy-door, but it’s been made to look like a just-used guillotine with a fake severed dog head next to it.
Spiderwebs. A family of spiders is wrapped in its own web in the center of the decal, surrounded by grasshoppers holding tiny forks and knives. Beneath the scene is a sign that says, “Welcome!”
The door is covered to look like a life-size coffin, standing on end and facing whoever is at the door. The bottom of the coffin is a mirror.
A large sticker looks like blood seeping from the top of the door frame. In center, it says, “Even though this Halloween decoration is all in good fun, you really have no way of knowing that I don’t drink the blood of infants each and every night.”
TRUMP 2016
Tom Petty was right the whole time. I have no idea how it feels to be Tom Petty.
PUT IT ALL ON RED 