Murder Was the Case that they gave me

I was trying to think of something interesting to write about. I mean, I have felt that I haven't produced anything decent in the last two and a half months but what do I write about? What is the big welcome back article that will get people talking again, that will want people to come back to The Corner Bar after so long? Simple...DEATH!!!

When you talk on the phone with me I sometimes realize that it's a chore. My brain jumps from place to place, with very random ideas and thoughts. Today, today I feel like it went to a good place. I was chatting on the phone with The Doc about the usual; Zombies, Craig's list and my favorite topic...me. What really got my attention was when we talked about Death Row.

I've always had a problem with Death Row. I think the main reason is that all of the states don't support it. I understand the debate of letting people die who have done vicious acts to society but it's one of those things that if everyone doesn't support it, why even bother? It's like playing football with only eight people. So there isn't a running back but you have a left defensive tackle. This metaphorical team isn't complete. This metaphorical team sucks.

I realize that there are laws and legal systems that we go through but why does it take so long for the person to die? Should they sit around and wonder what they did? Maybe they'll feel bad about it and say sorry. Also, for their family. Granted they may have some family that's just as fucked up as he/she is but on the other side, they could be this decent family. To them, this is pulling the band-aid off slowly instead of ripping it off but what do I know?

The whole Death Row is a big contradiction to me. They did wrong, we punish. They get their deserved sentence, an act for an act but I don't understand this last meal. Is this some Catholic guilt? Why should he get a last meal? Oh, you're saying that since he will die in front of a group of witnesses, the least we can do for him is give him some Surf N' Turf. I think they should get a bowl of turds and razor blades and if they want it heated up, it's tough luck. I've heard of "Kill them with kindness," but this is going overboard.

"Sorry we are going to kill you but what would you like to eat? Anything you want."

"I'll have a nice warm glass of milk and some cookies please before I go to sleep."

I mean, that's what it comes down to. They kill this criminal but before they do it, they put them to sleep so they won't feel any pain. Who the fuck cares? You are killing him. Do we not understand the whole concept of killing? It isn't supposed to be a nice thing. If they raped and slit a females throat, I think the guy should be raped and have his throat slit. If the Death Sentence is ok in some states, why have we grown morals to care what this murderer, this rapist feels? It just doesn't make sense and is one of the main reasons why laws, politics is a real turn off.

I'm not really one for violence and I can't really say that if some guy killed my family that I wouldn't wish him dead. I do know that I think there should be a line. Either the death sentence is cool in all states where we just shoot the mother fucker and ask them later what they want for dinner, or have it not be cool in all states and pay some taxes to keep them behind bars. I don't know. I'm sure a million times it has been debated and I'm sure it will be a million more. All I'm asking is that if you do kill the guy, more civilized killing. They lost their right when they did their deed. Is that too hard to ask?

Rigamortus

It's been a weird two and a half months. In fact, I'd have to say that I haven't been myself. How do I know this? Well I think I'm myself again, but who is to really know for sure? Oh shit, I am. I'm supposed to know. The only comparrison I can think of is when you are dating someone that isn't for you. You basically spend a lot of time with your significant other and it seems perfect. The things that he/she does that are shitty don't really bother you because that's not important right now. It isn't until you are no longer spending time with that person until you can get a clear view of the situation. Your friends told you that he/she wasn't the one for you but you didn't really believe them and when you look back at it, you know that your friends were right. That's how I've been feeling. People told me that it's ok to be angry, it's ok to frustrated but I kind of ignored the whole situation. I bottled up all the emotions and put them on K-Mart Lay-A-Way. It wasn't until I got my car back, until I found my writing voice, until I spoke with my parents that I figured out that I wasn't the same person. In fact, if I see that guy again who's been living my life the last couple of months, I'm gonna kick him in his nuts. I just woke up from a coma and it's great to see that my friends and family are still here. Thank you. The way The Corner bar was before I left on a temporary hiatus will be back before you know it. Better than ever. So pull up a chair, get ready for a long night because drinks are on me.

addicted society

you don't realize you have an addiction until you stop cold turkey. it's the worst feeling one can imagine and then some. all you do is think about it; day, night, dreams, writing. it's all that's on your mind. one would think that it's worse to have in your life...thinking that it slows you down. that the addiction doesn't motivate you to keep going, to give it your all. addiction should be something that causes a problem in your life. it shouldn't be something positive. it should be a dark little secret that you go to at 3 a.m. when everyone's sleeping. it's something you buy in an alley way, looking behind your shoulders because you may get jumped. it's something you shouldn't be able to admit to so easily but i don't think it's the case here. for some reason, it's worse for me and i wonder that after the cold sweats, the restless sleep, the lack of appetite, that it will get better. that's all one has going for them...the hope. the hope that someday that after all is said and done there is that light. that warm sunshine on your face. that something wonderful. it's all i have going for me right now and if that's all i have, i'll take what i can get. i've already fired the jury in my head who've told me to stay stong and move along. what the fuck do they know? my gut tells me when it's right and wrong and it's telling me that i should not stop. so i won't. i won't stop until it fades away into nothing. i will continue with the addiction until it sweats itself out of my body. my body rejecting it's ever sweet goodness. acceptence is the first step to recovery...my name is dan and i have an addiction.

Strep Throat

I know I haven't written in awhile and the only reason (excuse) I can give you is that my voice is tired. Not my physical voice, but my writing voice. The last two and a half months I've been yelling so much on the inside that it's gotten really sore. It does not sound like an old jazz musician. The cool roughness that they have, the passion. It sounds more like I've been smoking for fifty years. The voice you'd hear from an old woman playing slot machines with an oxygen tank over her mouth...the death.

I know my voice is there and at times I've tried speaking. Words come out but not sentences and I sit and stare at the screen. "I wonder if I keep typing that eventually a sentence will form?" That thought runs through my head a million times a second only to find out that the answer is no. No matter how many times I try speaking, it's just a combination of jibber and jabber. I am like a toddler trying to speak his first words. The parents stare, encouraging me to speak and I stare back talking because I think it's what I'm doing. In reality, I'm just mashing sounds together because in my head, that seems like the right thing.

Sometimes I wonder if not using my voice is the right thing. Even when I know I'm bruised and beat down I want to say something but feel that it isn't the time. It's just not the time for my voice to be heard and so I store it away, thinking that I'll remember it only to find it in a pair of pant’s pocket a year later wondering why I never used it. Thinking that that was a good idea and how could I forget it, but I do.

I know my voice is just wanting to get better...it's sleeping. A big bear, dreaming. Dreaming of how powerful it will be once it opens it eyes from the slumber. It will eat fish, for energy and look to climb the biggest mountain in the woods. The air will be thin but the voice will span throughout the land like a storm sweeping in from the North, letting everyone and everything know that it's back. Letting them know that it wasn't forgotten, that it's not dead and that it is time to be heard again.

That is Correct...

I haven't written in a long time.

I Got A Good Feeling. By The Doc.

Cheapest Stuff You Got. By M. Nagle

Did I ask if I could post this? No. I just took it from his site. It's a couple of months old, plus I know him so I figured he wouldn't mind (My God complex).

http://everyoneisugly.blogspot.com/

Maybe there's something wrong with me. Did I ever tell you that I like the pain in my chest? The tightness that I sometimes feel, it feels good. Maybe it reminds me that I'm still alive. Or perhaps that I might be dying. Sometimes after the pain subsides, I breath different, trying to bring it back, trying to remember. Am I really too young to be having chest pains? Trying to remember why they are there. I've never asked a doctor about it, because it doesn't seem right. It feels private. My own reminder of a life lived. Still being lived. But the nights are getting shorter and the days seem to drag on.

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks, a double." The bartender looks at me carefully. Inspecting. Expecting.

"I'll need you're ID, buddy."

I want to tell him how old I am. I want to explain to him that, regardless of the years I've been alive, regardless of the lack of wisdom, lack of maturity, lack of everything that makes a person a grown-up, regardless. I pass him my ID. Regardless of the prematurely graying hair. The bald spot. The receding hair line. The wrinkles and dead eyes. Regardless of the chest pains. Just regardless.

"You want premium or just from the well?" An interesting question. I catch a look from a group of college age kids wearing Abercrombie and Fitch and smelling like high priced cat piss. Averting my eyes, I mutter, barely audible.

"Cheapest stuff you got."

He sets my ID on the bar and turns his back on me. Another cigarette crawls between my lips. The flame bends over backwards to help in my impending demise. Cancer. Emphysema. Birth defects. Who gives a shit anymore?

I cough as I inhale deeply, pleasingly. My eyes water up, I feel as though I am going to faint, but the feeling subsides. Someone drops a quarter in the juke box and Ray Davies begins to preach about what it takes to be a well respected man in this town. I feel goosebumps form beneath my tattered grey Carhart hoodie. It makes my skin crawl to listen to classic music when I am surrounded by people that can never understand what it means.

The bartender sets my drink down on the bar.

"Three seventy-five."

I reach into my pocket, retrieve a handful of crumpled one dollar bills, toss four on the table and wait for my change. I won't be leaving a tip, which probably means that I will die while waiting for a second drink.

While the color and aroma of the scotch is consistent, it taste like something that was wrung from the spoiled shorts of Johnnie Walker the morning after his private viewing of Braveheart. The first taste is spit back into the glass. Eyes closed, gearing myself up to drink, I stab my cigarette butt into the ashtray.

The bartender tosses my quarter on the counter. I down the acrid fluid in one gulp, and commence to fighting the urge to vomit. It takes only a couple of seconds for the feeling to pass.

I grab my quarter and give the frat boys a nod. It's time to go home. The empty house awaits. I haven't seen anyone I love in well over a year. I am too young to be divorced. Too young to have estranged kids, to be on the run from child support. Too young to have chest pains.

In His Lifetime. By Quaig.

Nicolas Copernicus offended the sensibilities of many people when he suggested the Earth revolved around the sun, and not vice-versa. People were outraged, and Copernicus and his theories became unwelcome in the eyes of many. After all, didn’t God make Man in his own image? And if God is perfect, then isn’t Man perfect? So, by that line of reasoning, why would He not put us in the center? The scientific breakthroughs that made Copernicus a social leper put forth the notion that the Earth, and the humans that inhabit it, are not that special. Our world and everything in it, in this context, will forever be associated with what is known as ‘The Mediocrity Principle.’ This principle states that everything about our planet, accomplishments and abilities is ordinary. There is nothing miraculous about us, or the world we live in. We are average at best in comparison to the rest of the Universe.

Recently, this way of thinking caused me to experience a major paradigm shift, altering my prior beliefs and thought patterns. The change was radical because I grew up believing in heroes and legends that possessed innate greatness. And, what’s more, I subscribed to the idea that those who possessed it were infinite and amazing. They were superior to you and me.

What that meant (to me and many others I know), was that value and worth was based upon accomplishments, achievements, wealth and status. Only a select few individuals with the “Right Stuff” occupied this upper-echelon of humanity; people such as Hemmingway, Picasso, and Ellington, who were triumphant in the arts. Or others like Einstein, Edison, and Ford, who made discoveries and advances in science and industry. And, of course, the likes of Babe Ruth, Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan, all of which dominated in sports. All of these gentlemen were monumental heavyweights in their respective fields. Their names and legacies are etched in history and cared for by faithful historians. But I feel differently about these people now.

This change in thinking happened to me the other day. During lunch, I decided to wander through a museum of art. There was an exhibit that was displaying the various works of two particular Japanese artists. The modern exhibit was intriguing, but the other exhibit, by Ando Hiroshige, was stunning. It displayed woodblock watercolors from over a hundred years ago, depicting the peasant working class of Japan, toiling in their daily life. The work was gorgeous, the colors were still vivid and the images were striking. In pure Japanese fashion, the lines were simple and purposeful; there was not one wasted detail or unnecessary component to each image. It was simply breathtaking. My appreciation for Hiroshige’s work made him a superior artist in my mind. But, then it hit me. Why was I going to place another hero on a pedestal?

Furthermore, what did this mean about my feelings towards my own accomplishments? If I held all these people above myself, did that mean I would never achieve anything that I could be proud of? What of those around me? Couldn’t they be superstars, too? And if they were, would I have to resign to a life of jealousy and envy?

On further inspection (coupled with my mind-blowing revelation), a fair amount of the people I idolized were damaged and led dreadful lives. A lot of them were, sadly, human. I’ve slowly come to realize that just because these ‘legends’ managed to achieve on a level none of us ‘mere mortals’ could hope to, doesn’t mean they should be placed above us. I had spent my entire life doing the exact opposite. I had an empirical list of stars from all sorts of human endeavors, who were elite in their field, stored in my memory. This list contained the well-known names of those who had managed to strike at that ever-elusive moment where knowledge, resources, ability, and experimentation overlap. All of these people, in that moment, had (in my opinion) seized all the glory that their over-sized ego would ever need, and all the adoration little people would ever supply.

I started to run into trouble with this process as I got older, and began to realize that not only did I cling to misguided idealizations about these people as humans, but my idea of ‘great’ might differ from other peoples perception! I mean, Michael Jordan could be the best basketball player to have ever dribbled a Spalding on the hardwoods to one person, but to someone else he may have been a good player, but won his championship rings when the league was watered down from expansion teams full of undeveloped collegiate players. The real argumentative types could even retort by mentioning the prowess of Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, or even Wilt Chamberlain, during more competitive years. Still yet, others may insist NBA players aren’t that special at all! To some they’re overpaid felons.

As I stood in the museum and stared at one Hiroshige’s prints for awhile- one where villagers continue to work despite pouring rain- a couple of high school students meandered into the exhibit. They were boys: loud, arrogant, and oblivious to the art that hung in the gallery and the custom in which it’s admired. They smirked and laughed. Standing in front of one print, their goony murmuring elevated in pitch and volume, erupting into a shrieking laughter that reverberated off the high ceilings, hitting each wall, and bouncing out into the atrium.

The noise and laughter didn’t bother me; I can be just as obnoxious myself. No, what bothered me was when these kids started rating each print, judging and critiquing them, as if they held a doctorate in Art History! They weren’t simply mocking the exhibit; they were comparing it to their own abilities!

“I can do that.” said the tall, lanky one, carrying a skateboard under his arm.

“Yeah, anybody could do that! If you can stay in the lines in a coloring book, you can do that.” exclaimed the stocky one with really baggy pants, and a back-pack that barely clung to his arms.

I sat there enraged, conjuring all the strength and reserve I had at my disposal to restrain myself from turning to these kids and lashing out, saying something crushing and humiliating. You idiots could probably mimic one or two of these, I thought. But you could not make hundreds of quality prints like these with the original tools, nor would you be able to evoke the tribulations of eighteenth-century Japan’s working class! Who in the hell do you think you are?!?

I left in a huff and started back towards my office, disgruntled that these kids had ruined my solitude with their ignorance and noise. But as I ambled through the marble corridors, I had an epiphany: Who the hell did I think Hiroshige was? And who did I think I was?

It suddenly occurred to me that maybe those kids had every right to not feel inferior by the works of an obscure Japanese artist. And maybe I didn’t, either. But at the same time, I realized none of us-not me or the boys- would produce anything worthwhile in our lifetime, either. But did that matter?

Outside, in the crisp air of an unusual January thaw, I crossed through crowded courtyards displaying modern sculptures and statues of figures ensconced in regal poses. Large, brick buildings with classic architecture provided barriers that hedged off the wind. It all seemed striking, grotesque, and most of all: finite. These marvels of science and the arts, left unattended and without regular maintenance would crumble and collapse. Like, as the song goes, dust in the wind.

Hero worship is hard for me to let go of. It’s easier to do when I think of all those famous musicians, artisans, authors, and athletes as people who met their goals and imposed their will on others. I like that better than “seers of beauty and truth” or “genetic prodigies”. No one is that great or all that bad. It’s all about being honest, relevant, and in context, while showing appreciation for the effort of those who have preceded you.

It may seem pessimistic at first glance, but, really, it’s a mechanism I’ve adopted to survive in my own lifetime. You see, if the human race isn’t that special in the grand scheme of things, I don’t have to argue anymore about whom I think is the greatest this-or-that. Nor do I have to endure and contend with the arrogance of others that are the supposed heirs to the thrones of these so-called gods. I won’t let their egos fool me; the young and talented that show great ambition, and wish to follow in the well-trodden path of imitation, are merely hacks who will cannibalize each other. If, universally, Hemmingway was mediocre, it really doesn’t leave much hope for them, or us.

Many hundreds of years after Copernicus, somewhere in the middle of the last century, Ukrainian born physicist George Gamow (pronounced Gam-Off) added another log to the ‘Mediocrity Principle’ fire. He proved that even though it may seem that our galaxy, the Milky Way, is the center of an ever-expanding universe, every point in outer-space suffers from the same perspective. Maybe even a lot of us do, too.

My Shoot Interview

Ever since I was a young kid I've been a fan of Professional Wrestling, a.k.a. Sport's Entertainment. There was something about it that grabbed my attention, my interest. I still keep up with the events that are going on even though it currently sucks, but I'm still drawn to it as I was when I was such a young child. The thing that's funny is that it's not the fireworks, the drama or even the wrestling that I enjoy. I enjoy the fact that there are “Heels” (bad guys) and “Faces” (good guys). I like the idea that a “Face” can turn “Heel” overnight and the crowd will hate it. They hate it because the night before he was a “Face”; They cheered for him, they wanted him to win and all of the sudden he's turned his back on them and they can't do anything except feel used.

I sometimes wonder if I enjoy it because all of my life I seem to do the right thing, or try to. Be good, don't do that, help this person. As satisfying as it may be, there is always something deep down in my gut that wishes I had the ability to pick up a chair and slam someone over the head with it. No trouble with the law, just a "I'll see you next week at the Pay-Per-View." I don't think that it's an urge to hurt, I think it's an urge to be hated for a night. To say, "Fuck you. Like it or leave it." As strange as it may sound, I sometimes want to be hated so things I say, views I have will be more accepted because that's who I am. I'm the guy who called out your girlfriend and body slammed her through a table because she made a joke about me. I'm the guy who comes in and screws you out of your only chance to have a match against the champ because I want that opportunity.

I just want to hear the boos. Take them in like fresh air after a Spring Shower. I want to have the freedom to go where I want, to not hold back anything I have to say because it's the right thing to do. I want the mental freedom, to not have to lie in bed at night, not being able to sleep because I'm trying to figure out what's the right choices I have to make in life. I'm so sick of doing what's right that sometimes I wonder if it's literally eating me up inside. It starts with my Stomach, goes to my Lungs and saves the Heart for last because that's the thing that defines the man. It's the only thing that keeps him going. I want to fail, I want to lose because that's what “Heels” do. “Heels” run and hide and complain when things aren't given to them, especially when they don't deserve it.

There are so many things wrong with a “Heel” that it's the reason why I can't be that. That even when I'm being eaten alive inside, I keep going because that's what I do. As much as I want to be hated, to ruin any friendships I've formed in the past, I can't do that because I strongly believe in the path that I've walked. It's not the fact that I believe in God, Buddha or even George Clooney...it's the fact that I believe. Belief is what keeps the “Face” going each night. Belief that tomorrow is a new day, things will get better. It's a warm blanket on a cold night, it's a dry shirt after a storm. “Heels” can blame others for their problems but “Faces” accept their destiny and go with the cards they've been dealt. I must continue walking down that dark road, waiting to be attacked when I'm not looking because I know that people are waiting to take me down because of who I am and that's fine with me because I know I'll get back up and start walking again. Even though I say I want to be a “Heel” for a day, I know I never will be one. I'll always be “Dan” for life and in my eyes, in the eyes of the millions and millions of fans out there, that's not such a bad thing.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

How could I not write about this? The only problem that I have right now is writing about this wonder of science and miracle story or being a complete asshole. Why can't I combine the best of both worlds? I can...we all win.

Isabelle Dinoire, a 38 year old mother of two, made her first public appearance today after her face transplant six weeks ago. I mean look at her...she's so beautiful. Dinoire stated in her appearance, "I want to have a normal life again." I'm sorry but you will never live a normal life again. Look at you...you have the face...the face of a model. The paparazzi will now follow you everywhere, seeing what hot spots you are hitting. You'll never have to pay for anything again and thank god George Clooney is still single. You have a chance...you really do. Yeah right, and then she woke up from her drug induced state.

If you don't know the whole story, apparently she took some "pills" to help her sleep better because she was having a hard time. That must have been some good shit if she didn't wake up while her dog was eating her face. I mean, what makes a dog eat someone's face? Did she put peanut butter on it? Did she just go the tanner and instead of putting on lotion, she put on butter? She didn't even know this happened. She woke up to have a smoke (fuck eating breakfast first) and realized something was wrong when the cigarette wasn't staying on her lip. I can only imagine that when she looked in the mirror, she looked like the black guy from Poltergeist when he was hanging out in the bathroom. The lights get really hot and he starts ripping his face off. I'm sure that's what she thought of when she looked in the mirror...that is if she had ever seen the movie.


The thing that I found funny was that the transplant's face was from a woman who killed herself. Even though Isabelle denies she was trying to kill herself, let me remind you that a DOG ATE HER FACE!!! The best part about this is this woman's got a second chance and she's already fucking it up. Dr. Dubernard, one of the doctor's who did the surgery said, "In hiding, she smokes cigarette after cigarette." Apparently she loves to smoke, so much that if she continues, it could cause complications. At this point in time, I really don't think she cares.

What have we learned about this whole experience?

1. Science is a strange thing.
   
2. Drugs are a strange thing.
   
3. She won't get work now because she's got the face like the bottom of a dumpster.
   
4. She will never get laid again unless the guy is blind or she puts a paper bag over her head.
5. The only thing she's got going for her is that she will never have to pay for another Halloween costume.
   
6. The last and final thing...never...EVER own a dog.

Middle Fingers to You All

I have given up on you lost souls and have deemed none of your entries the winner. This contest was a huge failure. I would have to say that only two people were kind of close to what I was going for on here but the rest of you...shame, shame, shame. Also, sending me pictures that I already sent you, that's not a good sign of the whole original theme I was going for. So in a sense, not only do I find these three pictures to be amusing, I also feel it sums up
this whole contest.

Without knowing these people, the pictures could come across as a guy flipping off another guy. That's still funny since I'm such a fan of the middle finger but there is something more to these. A sense of innocence being tainted. A sense that right when you think that everything's gonna be alright, someone is giving you the bird behind your back. A deep metaphor for society today (that sounds like an answer I would give on a English exam).

These were taken last year when I went back to Kalamazoo to visit
my grandparents, also known as the two week binger. The guy in the orange shirt, Brett, is one of my oldest and closest friends. I've known him since the days of AYSO soccer. He's probably one of the nicest and innocent guys out there. When I say innocent, I
mean that his personality is very relaxed and chill and that when
people do mean things to him, you can't help but laugh because
it's such a terrible act.

The other guy doing the flipping is my friend Mike. He too is a nice guy but with a real dark side. I won't dare describe his dark side in fear that one day something evil will happen to me, like falling down and spiders crawling down on my face and those spiders start eating my face and I can't move. Oh the humanity.

When you put these two together, the hilarity ensues. In one night, I was able to catch three acts of Brett being viciously attacked by the middle finger. Brett's love for life or ignorance to it, allowed him to not become a victim to such a terrible thing. I of course paid close attention, watching the Lion prepare to strike on it's next meal. Brett doesn't even know. Look behind you Brett!!! Turn your head!!!

These were pictures that I was looking for. Capturing experiences with your friends at a bar. Not the "Ok, everyone smile," pictures, but the random acts. I am not a huge fan of posed pictures and if you have ever taken one with me, I'm sure I fucked it up on purpose. Hopefully in the future, if I ever attempt a contest again, I hope that you, the readers have a better understanding of what I was going for. Until that time...middle fingers to you all.

Toothbrush

Watching a relationship grow between two people is a fantastic thing. Call me a sap, call me a sucker but I really enjoy hearing about it. The other day I was having a conversation with one of my friends about his relationship (Don't worry, it's nobody on this because I know I'd get in trouble for talking about it). Apparently he really likes this girl but they won't officially say that they are dating. I can respect that until he said he was going to the store to buy a toothbrush. I asked him if it was for her place and he said that it was. I went on to tell him that leaving your very own toothbrush over at her place is a HUGE step, and that is something that you do when you two are dating. In my opinion, this is how the dating scale works.

1. I'm hanging out with this girl/guy.
2. I'm kind of seeing this girl/guy.
3. I'm dating this girl/guy
a) Getting your own drawer.
b) Having your own toothbrush.

You see on my list, the toothbrush is a division of the girlfriend/boyfriend scenario. I did think of the possibility of "friends with benefits" but those "friends" don't stay over. They get the fuck out of there because staying over is something that is part of a relationship. Unless you are sick like Quentin Hunt, a man who will use anyone and everybody’s toothbrush because he doesn't see anything wrong with it, the toothbrush is that next level in dating.

Now I am not saying that I know anything when it comes to relationships. In fact, I'd say that I have the least experience out of anyone in that situation but I do have to say this...I pay attention. You are dating her, it's true. Denial ain't a river in Egypt(The Nile is if you were confused); it's what my friend is in right now and is sinking fast. The faster he can accept this, the better and stronger that the relationship will be. Dr. McCauley...OUT!