I'm sick of movies about fucking Santa Claus. Brace yourselves kids: Santa doesn't exist. He's a figment of your parents’ deranged imaginations. It's true. You want to know how I know this? When I was seven-years-old, all I wanted was the Ewok Village for Christmas. It was all I wanted in the whole world. I would have sold a kidney, my pancreas, and my left testicle for one. Did I get the village? Did I? Did I? Of course I did, goddammit! I was a good little boy. So what's my point? My mother showed me a “bill” from Santa and told me he charged for toys.

A REVIEW OF THE DOG WE HAD FOR 12 HOURS.
Last weekend, Wayne and I went pet crazy. I bought a washing machine. He bought a puppy. Sadly, however, my washing machine (which I've named "Benji") couldn't hold a domestic companion candle to Wayne's beautiful black Labrador retriever. Yes, folks, our mutt of an Asian editor bought a purebred. It was the most lovable thing to ever crawl on all fours through this house. (Sorry, Debbie.)

YOU CAN'T MAKE LOVE ALL BY YOURSELF
How can you say something like that and make it out to be a universal fact? I've made some damn fascinating experiences in that field, and I swear on the Holy Bible that you can definitely make love all by yourself.
Of course I like to have a man around to do the honors. Naturally. Why use my own hands when someone else can do it, leaving me free to clench the pillow or the sink or whatever the props are. Ideally, I wouldn't even need to know how to help myself out in the first place. Right?

An agile young man climbed the flights of stairs up to his office. Fortunately, his body moved with effortless grace. Fortunate that is, as he was too riled up to be concerned with the physical action of walking up the stairs. He thought about his wife and her detestable habit of asking him why he was mad. Generally, as he had repeatedly explained to her, he was not prone to getting angry; although he did frequently battle with an air that would be described as nothing less than plangently sullen.

Jeremy sat up on the edge of the bed, reaching over to the nightstand for his shirt. He slipped it on, smiling his usual postcoital smile, and began to button it as he felt Paige gently slide her hands around his waist.
"Don't go," she breathed, nestling against the back of his neck. "You can stay for at least a little while, can't you? Neil doesn't get off work for another hour."

I want to quit smoking. My doctor wants me to quit smoking. My boyfriend wants me to quit smoking. I feel like a giant crack addict. Every day is the last day that I am going to smoke. The first 15 minutes of yoga, when I am breathing like an 80-year-old asthmatic in a room full of cats, I swear to myself that I am never going to smoke another cigarette in my life. When I run up the stairs to grab the phone and feel like my lungs are going to crawl out of my ass, I pray to every power higher than myself for the will power to never touch another cigarette again.

My waking dreams get weirder still. In this one, I was on the frontlines of a great and terrible ground war in some distant land. I was running for hell over the sandbag embankments with my weapon in hand, decked out for death with destructive implements of every description. Grenades by the score swung to and fro, and my lucky brain pot clung desperately to the top of my freshly shaved head. To avoid the shrapnel from a sudden blast, I dove into a nearby foxhole, ignoring the bodies of the deceased I landed upon.

My job is ridiculous. I sit in my car all day along, beside the railroad tracks near a bridge that is under construction. Every once in awhile, perhaps twice a week, a train will need to come by. I just have to make sure that all the construction workers have themselves and their shit out of the way. Needless to say, I get bored. Lately, I've taken to sleeping. I show up, report on duty, wad up my hoodie like a pillow, kick the seat back as far as it will go, and crash out.

While visiting my girlfriend in Montreal, I met a couple. They were both vegans (they always travel in pairs), which means they do not eat animal products and tend to get snippy with omnivores if they go more than 15-minutes without soy. This is not a new phenomenon to me. My roommates are a vegan couple. I tend to ignore my roommates most of the time, except when they come around at breakfast while I'm makin' bacon. They sneer and pretend like bacon is the most disgusting thing ever. I just pour milk in my coffee and ignore them.

BEVERLY HILLS, CA - Marilyn Cosic, 37, of Sherman Oaks, was strangled to death by her cell phone Monday morning while driving to work in Beverly Hills.
By searching through evidence in her BMW Mini, authorities have concluded that Cosic was performing six other tasks while talking on her hands-free cell phone, which consists of an ear piece with a cord attached. Allegedly, during the call with her husband Chip, Cosic was also applying lipstick, and reaching under the passenger seat for a J. Crew catalog.