Self Improvement: Women's Bowels

I've always had a profound discomfort with the bowel activities of women. When I share a bed with a woman, and find myself awakened in the night, she still sleeping beside me, I am racked with fear at the prospect of witnessing some unconscious release of gas. If she uses the restroom to ease her straining bowel, I avoid the toilet for six hours to spare myself even a nuance of lingering stench or a glimpse of specks in the porcelain bowl. How, though, can I ever share my life with a woman if I cannot reconcile her femininity with the natural activity of her asshole? As such, I've decided to face my fears through conditioning:

• Once bedmate falls asleep, I will gently press on her abdomen to induce flatulence, which I shall endure.
• After a girl has defecated, I will shut myself in the bathroom, and come to terms with her aromatic leavings.
• I will disable toilet without telling her, allowing me to confront the exactitudes of her shit (color, texture, volume).

On a Date: Never Touched Herself

I thought less of her when she said she'd never masturbated. I had already had sex with her on two occasions and prude she was not- it was solely the act of self-satisfaction from which she abstained. For my part, I've masturbated religiously since turning twelve and as such she became a foreign object to my mind. She had made her proclamation with such a dismissive confidence- as if I were wasting my time and my eternal soul upon such self-serving efforts... Perhaps there is an incredulity peculiar to sinners that makes us scoff at the righteous, for I was annoyed, offended, and felt she would never match me in sexual prowess and adventure. How can one please another without knowing how to please oneself?

I broke off our date for the following Saturday, and instead of being pleased by one who has never pleased herself, I pleased myself... and then watched Netflix.

Perfect Woman: The Child-Like Empress

Her emotive brow. Her upturned nose. Pouting lips. Perfect skin... This charming little imp is only child-like. That she is a fantastical being as old as time only slightly muddles the implied pedophilia. As a youth I roamed the orange groves with her frail, fevered form reclining upon the bosom of my mind - oh! untouched odalisque, such clouded desires, and the scent of fallen citrus...

Self Improvement: Eye Contact

The so-called "windows to the soul" are less exciting than the oily, peeling, hairy casement that is the face. I prefer to fixate on earlobes, nose tips, lips, teeth, chin clefts, moles, foreheads, sideburns, anything really, except for the eyes- those cloudy, fidgeting orbs which peer and pry into everyone's business... Nevertheless, I accept that many consider lack of eye-contact to be a sign of weakness or deception and as such I will henceforth stare, unblinking, into the eyes of all I encounter.

On a Date: Beauty in a Barren Waste

Work had brought me to a shit town in the New Mexico desert. The town and surrounding land was woefully flat. The high school was a collection of three squat buildings and a dead football field. The houses were rotting away, porches collapsing into the dust. The streets were vacant and those people I did see were a wretched collection of ugly, fat, genetically similar monsters... except for her.

She had taken out a loan to open the only "cafe" in the town. It was an old locksmith's shanty that stood on a corner surrounded by dirt. She had painted the building a hideous pistachio green. The place was empty so she sat with me while I had a coffee. She had been there her whole life. She said she liked Andy Warhol. She said her favorite book is Pride and Prejudice. She believed her cafe would bring money and culture to her disgusting hometown which was otherwise without industry, purpose, or hope. She was naive and pathetic and it broke my heart to see her beauty and potential wasted in this land of aimless mutants. I gave her my number and told her to look me up if she's ever in Los Angeles. She smiled and we shook hands, and as I left I prayed she'd never call, because outside of this place, her looks would pale and her simple mind would be lain bare. After all, a desert flower is only pretty because it's surrounded by dirt.

Perfect Woman: Amanda Knox

A rabid bitch hereto most faithful, as all men know, is hard to put down. Adorable thing and once beautiful baby, I seek your safety. I can calm your screams and mend your torn and bleeding gizzards? Weather your storms against my back for facing you is all too clear, as the weather will reveal. You crazy, sexy bitch.

Self Improvement: If I had a Daughter

If I had a daughter, and she brought home a young man in whom I saw a reflection of myself, and this young man eventually broke up with her, I would not blame my daughter for the inadequacies which drove him away. It wasn't her fault.

On a Date: IUD

I was feeling gracious and so I lowered myself down her body but was waylaid as I crested Mons Pubis. She gently pulled at my head to return to her lips, but her self-consciousness only made me more bold and I shook myself free. I kissed her inner thighs and moved on to her vagina, which had begun to salivate steadily. I applied my tongue to only modest effect so I decided to ramp up my efforts by inserting two fingers into the folds- gasp! My probing hand had come upon a hard, slender object.. as one might find a lost hook in the ribbed throat of a fish. Whatever this object was, it's removal could only be of benefit. I spread my stroking fingers apart inside her, pinched the cruel thing between them, and gave a gentle tug. A moan came from the face above but the thing held fast. It was clearly well-anchored in the soft lining of this poor girl's cervix. I tried again, this time placing my thumb inside her as well. I gripped the thing tightly and gave a mighty yank- it came out with a splatter.

"I got it!"

I held it aloft. It was a curious white plastic. She looked at it dumbly.

"Put it back," she said.

Perfect Woman: Zoe Kazaan

A calciumite flower, her structure threatens to peel back her capillaried petals and burst forth in endlessly spreading branches of ivory and bone. The rose blood of her lip burns behind a tender weave of pinkened gossamer, microns thin, and her eyes, terrible and inspiring as Saltstraumen incarnate...

Self Improvement: Penis Size

Have decided my penis is too small when flaccid. When erect it has sufficient dimensions ( 6.3" x 3.2" x 1.6" x 5.4" ), however when it is flaccid, it is unbecomingly small. During the winter it shrivels like a straw wrapper. In warm climes, it nests in my pubic hair like a dewy sparrow's egg. These are unacceptable conditions in the company of women.  As such I have embarked on a rigorous penis lengthening regimen:

• 7:00 am : suspension of two pound weight from penis during shower.
• 10:30 am : seven minutes of penis twisting to encourage skin growth.
• 12:45 pm : lunch
• 4:00 pm : seven minutes of penis swinging beneath hot air dryer in men's room.
• 6:00 pm : kneading of penis during commute.
• 8:00 pm : penis given herbal rinse and cortisone injection.
• 11:00 pm : penis wrapped in warm gauze until morning.

Between above listed activities the flaccid penis shall be rubbed with capsacin and kept taped against my thigh.

On a Date: Too Drunk

"I like going straight to a bar for a first date," she said, "it makes things easier."

Indeed, the date became easier and easier. My tab, I estimated, was roughly equivalent to my car insurance payment. We spoke with our faces extremely close. Her breath was acrid, as was mine. We flirted and joked. I held her hair up to my face, pretending it was a beard, I burped a flavor into it which foreshadowed vomit. My veins pumped a furious torrent of bourbon. Vodka percolated desperately in her brain. She showed me her bra. She showed me her panty. I attempted to dance. We spared the dart board but damned the wall. The world was our oyster, and her apartment our pearl. The streets were her shell, my car a shucking knife. The keys to her front door an elusive clown fish, her purse a web of sea grass. Our clothing was the shackledom of society, her bed an incorrigible whirlpool for my senses. My mouth, a vessel of anointment, her naked body, a receptacle for my vomit... I payed for dry cleaning.