Congratulations on Dialing Down Your Rape Vibe!

When you wake up today and step in front of your mirror, a solution will suddenly dawn on you.  You’ll reach for your safety razor and, for the first time in your adult life, use it on your upper lip.

It’ll be a struggle at first.  The hair will have grown thick upon it, and while you’ll have been using scissors to keep it in check over the last decade or so, you won’t have ever tried to violate the thicket that has grown upon your face.  The razor will work in patches, clearing them unsteadily and unevenly.  You’ll have to make three or four passes and, at one point, you’ll have to replace the blade on your razor.

But when you’re done you’ll look in the mirror and know success.  You will, for the first time since turning 19, no longer look like you are about to deposit rohypnol in someone’s drink.  It’ll make you feel proud, which is sort of sad, because the pride you’ll be feeling will be at attaining a minimum standard for human decency and grooming.

You’ll also shiver a bit: your upper lip will be cold.

Congratulations on Dialing Down Your Rape Vibe!

Congratulations Light Bulb Baby!

Today you’re the child of Light Bulb Millionaire James “Not Shaquille O’Neil” Shackman, the biggest light bulb baron on the west coast. If anyone from Barstow to Fairbanks has a light bulb it’s because of the empire your daddy built out of grit and the blood of men who stood in his way. He’s got a reputation as a take-no-prisoners son of a bitch who would just as soon cross a man as look at him, and in an effort to curtail his empire’s spread a group of men are going to take you hostage today.

“Shut the fuck up, baby!” one of them will shout, shoving a gun into your face.

“You didn’t see nothing!” another will scream at the surrounding day care workers as they look on, helpless, in horror as your abduction unfolds before them.

The kidnappers will be terrible at their job.

They’ll load you into a Camry with Washington plates and drive as fast as they can across the border into Vancouver, where they believe your father is unlikely to find. Vancouver Washington, not the good Vancouver.

Once they’re across the border they’ll take you to a warehouse where a friend of theirs works and has constructed a makeshift play-area in the back. They’ll unload you, take some shaky cell-phone video and send it to your dad who, shocker, will have already been contacted by the police who will be enroute to your location already.

When the police arrive the kidnappers will be taking turns playing with while they play Settlers of Catan on an upturned box and drink PBR.

“Free Mumia!” one of them will shout as the police beat him. The rest will remain quiet and be handcuffed with a modicum of dignity, dragging their feet as they’re hauled off to county jail to await trial.

Your father will be relieved that you’re found, but he’ll see you as a liability now, not a treasure to cherish and love. He’ll start coming up with elaborate ways to protect you while simultaneously distancing himself from you emotionally, both to spare you the potential dangers of being close to him and to make sure that anyone who goes after you will do so with the knowledge that your pappy is a cold, cold man even to his daughter.

By the time your kidnappers are sentenced and the first one is murdered in prison by a man your father bribed with a bunch of candy bars and heated lubes you’ll already be experiencing the aftereffects of your father’s neglect. You’ll see the world as a cold, hostile place filled with people who hate you, and you’ll seek out the attention of men long before it’s appropriate.

Eventually your therapist will trace it all back to this day, when some fucking hipster kidnappers who don’t understand how light bulb distribution works ruined your relationship with your dad and, through this, your ability to have healthy romances in your life.

Congratulations Light Bulb Baby!

Congratulations on Earning Your New Name!

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Congratulations Freak-Face!

A lot of people would be afraid of going out in public with a mug like that, elephant man. But you’re out there every day, clubbing it up and letting your flag fly. The weird thing is just how successful you are.

You took lessons from that douchebag who uses terms like “escalate the situation” in regards to sex and women in general, and it turns out they work. They work freakishly well. You have to be kind of weird looking, so you can qualify as a “what the fuck fuck” and you need to behave in a fashion bordering on dickishly aggressive most of the time, but you get a good deal of play.

The problem is that to a woman everyone you’ve ever hooked up with has woken up the next day and recoiled in horror at your fucking face. So even though your sexual conquests could form a reasonably sized secret society you’re almost suicidaly depressed due to loneliness.

You’ve tried picking up only blind women in the hope that they’ll see your “inner beauty,” but you’ve put so much of yourself into that douche bag persona that they touch your brick wall of a face after listening to you talk and usually knee you in the balls. You even gave a “Helen Keller” a shot. We’re not even sure how you found her, but we both know how well that ended.

And that brings us to the present day, when you’ll be walking to Katz’s for a nosh. You’ll be more bummed than usual and you’ll be feeling like life couldn’t get any worse when a construction worker above you drops a hammer. The hammer will fracture your skull, knocking you unconscious and completely eradicating the part of your brain that remembers your past – most importantly the part that remembers the douchebag conditioning which has rendered you incapable of expressing genuine human emotion.

As fate will have it an attractive young blind woman who has no idea how hot she is will be walking by at the time. She’ll use her super blind senses to detect your injuries and use her freakishly well honed skills as a medic who served three tours in Iraq to stabilize you before the ambulance arrives. She’ll stay by your side for a day and a half until you regain consciousness, muttering constantly about not losing another one.

She’ll have felt your head and will know full and well how ugly you are, but she’ll also have grabbed your crotch while she was checking you for additional injuries and she’ll know what you’ve got down there (a 14 inch penis) so she’ll shrug and decide to give it a shot.

And once you wake up and start talking with your default polite, shy personality, the one that made all those sensitive girls who were too insecure with their own bodies to act on their desires want to fuck the shit out of you in high school, she’ll be deeply enamored. She’ll feel like she’s made her first right choice since she got home from overseas.

As for yourself, you’ll be incredibly charmed by this beautiful, intelligent young woman and a little bit intimidated by her raw capability. But her post-traumatic stress disorder will give her a sense of vulnerability to even it out and you’ll love the seemingly unconditional affection she heaps upon you. It’ll be the best possible match for you, really.

Once your family helps you recover your memory and informs you of how unbearable you were before your head injury you’ll take her hand and force her to promise to smash your skull using her Army training if you ever display those old habits. She will dutifully execute her duties until you die of a concussion at the age of sixty-eight, aggressively attempting to hit on a barista.

Congratulations Freak-Face!

Congratulations on Working With What You've Got!

You’re new in New York and as a result you spend most of your time and money hopping from club to club trying to make friends and see as much of “the scene” as possible.

You’ve been hopping from Gunfight! show to Gunfight! show over the last week and a half, smoking clove cigarettes, wearing giant ironic sunglasses and spending the night in whatever Greenpoint bar doesn’t throw you out after you’ve struck out on all the women there and started getting bitchy.

But this is going to be different. I mean, if it wasn’t why would we bother writing about it?

Tonight, after two months of failed attempts, you’re going to meet someone. Their name will be Sammie, and Sammie will have the nicest tits you’ve ever seen.

“Nice tits!” you’ll shout across the bar.

Sammie will act like you didn’t say anything at all, like you’re not even there. This is exactly what you expected, so it won’t hurt you too much. The break will come when you down your drink, hang your head, and hear Sing Me Spanish Techno by The New Pornographers come on the PA.

“I fucking love this song,” you’ll mutter to yourself, just within earshot of Sammie.

Sammie will be instantly intrigued, and will saunter up to you on four inch heels and posture a few feet away, giving you a spectacular view of cleavage. You’ll amaze the both of you by looking straight at Sammie’s face, despite the welcome distraction, while the two of you discuss The New Pornographers for over an hour.

After that you and Sammie will leave the bar for your loft, which is what you call your studio apartment.

By the time the two of you arrive sparks will already be starting to fly, and you’ll start making out between inserting your key into the door and turning it. Sammie will be laughing, a husky, rich sound that makes you feel like the world is okay.

It’s been so long since your last sexual encounter that you’ll almost be bursting out of your pants when Sammie drags you into your apartment and hurls you down on your futon with remarkable force. After that you’ll start the most remarkable romp of your entire life with this person you barely know.

Time will blur together, and you won’t be able to map the events that lead to your penis being in Sammie’s mouth. Even once your in there, you’ll keep losing time against your will. You’ll faintly try to grasp as every second that goes by as Sammy treats you as you’ve always dreamed of being treated. Only your orgasm will remain in your mind once the experience has ended. Beginning and ending, alpha and omega. Your passion will be so powerful that everything else will elude you.

And so it will go when Sammie’s dress drops and you see that Sammie has a penis. A pretty nice one, too. Not enormous, not small. Very well shaped. It goes well with the rest of Sammie’s body, too. You won’t be able to tell if any of it is surgically altered or if Sammie’s just some kind of incredible freak.

You’ll have a moment of homophobic panic where you realize what just happened and what Sammie expects you to do before a great calm washes over you and you remember how right that felt. How right you feel now. And you kiss Sammie on the mouth and get on your knees to clumsily reciprocate.

The next day you won’t tell a soul, but you’ll treasure the experience, and Sammie will burn in your mind. Even the simplest task will elicit thoughts you’ve spent your life fearing. You’ll stare at the number Sammie wrote on a post it and slapped on your fridge for what seems like an eternity before you dial and Sammie answers, laughing, and the two of you arrange a date.

As for Sammie, Sammie will show up at our office, deliver coffee, answer phones, and foretell several cataclysms before receiving your call at 2 PM and opting to take a chance on that clumsy, cute boy from last night. The two of you will agree to meet in the Upper East Side, for a change of pace.

Congratulations on working with what you’ve got. This is going to be the start of something beautiful.

Congratulations on Contracting Lycanthropy!

You live like any other twenty-something in Brooklyn. You work a shit job most of the week and then you party your brains out over the weekend. Since you’re in Brooklyn, surrounded by other twenty-somethings, and since you wear giant “ironic” sunglasses some of them think you’re witty and end up coming home with you more often than not for a night of unsatisfactory sex.

Normally it works out okay. The two of you sometimes have to exchange pleasantries the next day, but you avoid that for the most part when they slink out while you pretend to sleep. Because most of these women are young college educated professionals who insist you use a condom there haven’t been too many STDs coming your way either, except for a brief bout with chlamydia which taught you a very important lesson about safe sex.

A lesson you forgot last night with Allison.

Alison seemed so different from all the other women you’d met. She was spontaneous, funny, intelligent, independent, and thought you were full of shit. She regarded you coldly as a “what the fuck fuck” like, “Here’s a guy I’m going to mention sleeping with in an offhand fashion as a cautionary tale. Worst case scenario I’ll enjoy it a little.” She was totally in control, which totally made you want her.

When she vanishes the next morning you'll feel stripped and powerless, even though her hastily scribbled note, saying only “Sorry,” will make you feel a little better. Devastated, you'll head to the bathroom for a quick shave to see if you can get some rebound poon that night to make yourself feel a little better.

You’ll be shocked when you gaze into the mirror and discover that you’ve grown a full beard in the last eight hours. It’ll seem impossible, but it’ll be there, pouring out of your face, ruining your indie cred.

You won’t even try to hack at it. You’ll just stare at it, puzzled, wondering how your electric razor could possible get through THAT, when the first wave of nausea will hit. It’ll throw you right over to the toilet and you’ll vomit up a combination of what appears to be mice and raw beef.

You’ll struggle to remember what happened between your fucking a laconic Allison in the bathroom of a Greenpoint bar last night and the two of you coming back to your apartment, but the whole thing will be a huge blur. While you try to rack your brain for the information you’ll have trouble thinking about anything other than how much you want raw beef. You’ll drool a little and growl while you think about it.

That’s when you’ll remember that you didn’t use a rubber last night, perched above the toilet, thrusting awkwardly into Allison while she laughed coldly. You didn’t even wash properly afterwards.

You’ll grab your most ironic hat, rush out the door and book it down the block too the nearest clinic, running freakishly fast with your newfound werewolf strength. Once there you’ll get the results in a matter of minutes and begin coming to terms with your new lifestyle and the new impossibility of a vegetarian diet.

Congratulations on Contracting Lycanthropy!