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It all started a year ago, in the midst of another gruesome midterm season. On a three-month dry spell where my dick was seeing less moisture than the state of California, one of my fraternity brothers suggested I download Tinder. For days I maintained that I was beneath that, and that I could pick up girls the normal way — lying about being in a better major with a higher income ceiling and hooking up with girls who might as well have had “single-mother household” written on their forehead with a thick black marker. However, after striking out with girls that some guys would call “too thick,” I left the bar early, set off for the house, and downloaded the app. It was intoxicating.
I’d mixed in a few Jägerbombs with my usual selection of cheap, shitty, paint-curling beer, so, with energy to burn that night, I stayed up and likely swiped through my entire college campus. This was before those assholes realized they were sitting on a gold mine that would make African warlords jealous and cock blocked — or at least cock delayed — the nation by inventing “Tinder Premium”. It was a hell of a time to be alive, kids. Upon waking up, the first thing I did was check the app. I’d gotten a few matches, most of which even Steve Buscemi would turn down. I closed the app, and got on with my day. I had a midterm the following day and had fatefully neglected its assigned material most of the semester. So, as anyone would do in this situation — and if you don’t know where I’m going with this, I’d consider calling the University of Phoenix and inquiring about enrolling — I took an Addy. I know, it isn’t cool to brag about — so (respectfully) fuck off, commenters. Bear with me; this has a direction. I’m just going over the course of events, okay? Deep breaths.
A few hours into my Statistics binge, my brain felt like RGIII’s knees and needed a break, so I pulled out my phone and opened Tinder. I saw I got matched with this hot redhead and, under the influence, lobbed out a two-man coverage Hail Mary, by which I mean I took the band she mentioned she liked in her bio and sent a page-long message which included about 15 of their song titles neatly wedged into it — all to say that I was tired of fucking around and was looking for a mature relationship. I wasn’t, but, from what I was told, asking a girl if she wants to come to a fraternity house which has a perpetual stench of beer, mold and my gross housemate No Shower Nathan is not a pantie dropper.
A few minutes later, she messaged me back. Refs call on the field? The pass was completed. She was digging the effort — or at least thought it was so embarrassing that if we ever dated I could never cheat on her — and we talked for a couple hours. The drugs had my wit at unprecedented levels, and she was actually a cool girl. Suffice to say I was trying to book a one-way ticket to the Red Sea for some clam fishing. She was so hot I would have licked the soles of her shoes, but also cool enough that I’d willingly carry them home for her after a night out if her feet got sore. That’s something I think we should all look for in a broad, fellas.
She was only 18 and without a fake ID, so going for drinks wasn’t an option. Instead, I suggested we hop in my car and take a trip to a local pumpkin patch. She ate up the idea. We spent the whole day hanging out together and doing dumb date-style stuff that I’ll skip because this audience cares more about T&A than T and A (thoughts and affection). All this to say she told me her roommate was back in her hometown studying for the weekend and she thought I’d like to see her dorm. Just like Jeremy Roenick, she was right in her analysis.
We went back to her place and immediately took a hard right from “So… What’s Your Major?” Street onto Boning Down Boulevard. Feel free to use that metaphor. However, as you probably know, Adderall has one negative side effect — erectile dysfunction. This girl was more fire than Vines stolen by bullshit Twitter accounts named shit like “@NoChillTweets” or “@SavagePosts,” and yet my soldier was at a firm standstill despite his commanding officer encouraging him to do something; anything. My dick laughed at the notion of a condom fitting on it like the dean of admissions at a non-state school laughs while reading an application from a kid from New Jersey, so I chose to accept the situation and make do with the weapons I did have at my disposal. I tossed her onto her back, and sent my Sherman (tongue) full speed ahead into her trench (c’mon, New Jersey kid… You can get this metaphor, too. Take a minute).
My cunnilingus abilities are like Jay Cutler’s football skills: pretty decent if I apply myself, but mostly uninspired and leaving the receivers wondering if they’re the problem. But on this day, fueled by our dear friend Addy, I had the accuracy of Clayton Kershaw, or Steph Curry, or whoever GMC is awkwardly using in their next “precision engineering” commercial. She was louder than a woman in a Gender Studies class in an area of the country more progressive than Vermont. Her pleasure hormones were duplicating at a rate that would make California scientists declare my mouth a cancer. This went on for about a half hour before she threw up the white flag and surrendered. Amid her gasping breaths, she thanked herself for applying to college and demanded we hook up more frequently. I obliged to this request, and we’ve been together ever since. I know: lame and totally not a TFM; but she’s out of my league and blows so well it would make people in Oklahoma board up their windows, so get over it.
I write this mostly not to brag, but to inspire you all. Do not look at Addy merely as a one-dimensional drug that only allows for the mastering of the professional world. Apply it to relationships as well as work, and you, too, can be a real life sitcom dad — stupid, lazy, and overweight, while somehow making six figures and having a dime of a wife. And that, my friends, is the American Dream..