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Stop Even Caring

I bought a $40 chin-up bar that doesn't work in my apartment

• Nick: I can't mail it back cause that'd cost like $20.
• Ned: You don't seem like the kind who'd use a pull up bar.
• Nick: Well exactly.
• Ned: Maybe you could use it as The Club for your car.
• Nick: I have a tiny bit of a belly, only because I have no chest whatsoever.
• I am too embarrassed to Craigslist it.
• It's now a $40 push-up stand.
• I can't even use it for sit-ups.
• Ned: Craigslist it, at least that's $20.
• A funny story too might help, I'm sure there's some person out there.
• Nick: But then I'll have to meet someone and be their story.
• Ned: That's not necessarily a bad thing.

Take my picture for when I'm famous

So Barack Obama was one slick guy in college. Dude pulled off a Panama hat. No one under 40 pulls off a Panama hat. You look at his grin and it’s hard to believe he wasn’t banging the photographer.

Gotta get me some pictures like that. So when I’m famous people can see I was always cool even before I was famous.

You, camera girl, take my picture. Watch me smoke this. Watch me smoke it so cool. God, this is, what is this? This is a clove. You got a real—? No that’s okay, if it’s your last one I’ll just…I’ll drink this coffee. Here, get me drinking this so cool. Wait. Wait let me fix my hat. No, stop, delete those, I’ve got hat hair. Oh god damn it, now there’s a coffee stain on my—go away.

Don’t need any stupid “photos of his youth.” When I’m famous I’ll pay someone to Photoshop one.

If you like Stop Even Caring, you'll like this comedy series I wrote.

It’s called Kaspar and Canning, and it’s about a San Francisco detective agency.

Surprise buttsex

“So for the first time, I had anal sex with someone but not vaginal sex. And it was the first time she’d had anal. And we’d never had sex before.

“I came like a thief in the night.”

My time-saving morning routine

* Before I hop in the shower, I put a pot on for tea.
* I brush my teeth in the shower while my conditioner sets. I know when to get out of the shower because my roommate is screaming “Turn off the fucking teapot!”
* To avoid losing a half-hour to filtering through my e-mail, I hit “select all unread” and “delete.”
* After taking care of e-mail, I take a walk while eating breakfast. Usually I end up spilling cereal on myself, so I take another shower while drinking my tea. This way, if I spill the tea, I can soothe the burn with cool water.
* Instead of reading the morning news, I call my friend at work. “What’s happening this morning?” I ask. “Where the hell are you?” he asks. I say I asked my question first, and if he keeps asking then I know there must not be any world-changing news this morning for him to still worry about the little things.
* At 11:30, I roll into the brokerage firm, ready for a long day of trading.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

“Tada!” says my Mac.

“Tada for what?”

“I started again!”

“But you’re still broken.”

“Yeah well, tada!”

“Tada my ass, Finder’s still frozen after a fresh install.”

“Well did you repair permissions?”

“Yes I repaired permissions.”

“Did you reset the Finder preferences?”

“Yes I reset the Finder preferences.”

“Did you unplug that ugly-ass external hard drive?”

“Why? Why is it ugly?”

“It clashes with me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I’m rebooting.”

“Tada!”

“OKAY HERE I’M UNPLUGGING THE DAMN DRIVE.”

“Here you go. I work now.”

“Can I plug it back in?”

”@#$^@#%!@%”

“OKAY I UNPLUGGED IT AGAIN. God. This drive has all my backups. You ass.”

“Tada!”

“I came, I saw, I conquered” — In that precise order.

Live in the moment after the orgasm

It’s amazing how out of your mind you are before you orgasm and then right afterward you become completely lucid. — Alex Goldberg

I just had an orgasm.

A disgusting revelation, right? But why? It’s a natural thing and you know the above to be true. Especially for men. I’ve been in the filth mines of 4chan where they speak only truth about the human condition. That is where brigands and fools discuss the shameful secret of humanity: We want some pussy.

Substitute dick for that, straight ladies and gays. Everything you do is secretly pushing toward that goal, if not directly, then on a grander level: security, passion, power, satisfaction — it’s all an advanced state of the fight for pussy.

There is one moment from that freedom: The moment after climax. The brain is rushed with endorphins, has flushed the fluids of desire, and is clear as the Caribbean. And this is the cause of shame.

For in that switch from madness to sobriety, we look back on the immediate past. And while sometimes it’s glorious, something you’d have watched in a movie, often it is despicable to your momentarily crystal mind. You slept with someone ugly. You took home an asshole. You’re in a loveless marriage. Because you are a slave to your body.

The aforementioned fools of 4chan have attempted to create chronicles of human knowledge compiled only of the thoughts of the recently climaxed. Their efforts are doomed because they rely on civilians beholden to their cocks. There is only one way to achieve long-term what the orgasm achieves in the short: a celibacy so long that one forgets altogether the race for the pussy.

It is no coincidence that in Europe’s darkest ages, monks saved the secrets of civilization. Nor that the king filled his court with eunuchs and himself with the means to retain constant post-orgasmic thought. We owe the world’s riches to a harem.

Time passes; I can feel myself slipping back. Soon I will be IMing a cute girl because I like her blog, or I will smile at a stranger on the street because who knows maybe we’ll chat and go home together. But remember my words, children, and do your best work in the moments after climax.

Molls has a cool attitude.

I get ten calls a day from "Unknown"

I refuse to pay my college loan.

I can’t afford it (the last offer they gave me would cost $575 a month, $300 of which would purely go toward interest), and like my friend Molls, I always expect that some day soon I’ll be flush (thanks to talent, luck, and pluck) and I’ll pay the whole damn thing off at once.

In the meantime, I get called every hour and a half by a blocked number. I could pay AT&T ten bucks a month to block blocked numbers, but that’s a bit too proactive — like the difference between forgetting something in your shopping cart at the checkout, and tucking a little something into your jacket.

Until recently, the blocked number always meant my college loans. Now it also means one of my maxed-out credit cards. I know this not because I answered but because they left a voicemail. I listened to half the voicemail.

Like T-Rex of Dinosaur Comics, I am a firm believer in the “do nothing and your problems will take care of themselves” school of problem solving. And that is the heart of Stop Even Caring.