My fear doesn’t stem from claustrophobia or heights. It’s the complete lack of control that I hate. Once I’m strapped in and the plane pulls away from the gate, I’m powerless to do anything except poop and pray.  My life is in the hands of somebody I don’t know and can’t see, but am supposed to trust to keep us from becoming a tragic side story on the evening news.

Whenever I explain this fear to people, they never fail to cite the statistical safety of the airlines and remind me that, while driving, I may have control over my own car but none over the thousands of other vehicles around me. I’m not going to discount that argument, but I believe there is a significant gap in situational awareness that would make a plane crash much worse than a car crash.  Car accidents are instantaneous, making it difficult to form even a single thought before you slam into that tree, but when you’re 60,000 feet in the air, there is a much more significant time gap between something going wrong, and everybody dying…plenty of time to panic. Every time the plane gives a sudden jerk or dip in altitude, two hundred silent prayers fill the cabin, because at this point relying on a higher power is the only option.  Now, if that turbulence doesn’t relent and the plane starts to fall, prayer turns to panic, and one person screaming causes another person to scream, and before you find the nerve to blink, you’re surrounded by dozens of people who all think that they’re about to die.  Not to mention that the free fall has only begun, and you still have a solid minute worth of unending terror to witness the depths of cowardice man can reach when faced with imminent death.  You might even discover that you’re one of the many, paralyzed by fear, crying out to be saved by a god that, five minutes ago, you weren’t even sure existed.

I understand the odds are slim, but finding out that I’m a total pussy along with a hundred other screaming strangers is not how I picture spending my final moments. Although on the bright side, at least no one outside of the cabin will ever know how pathetic the scene was before the plane hit the ground (mountain or ocean).  Therefore, our loved ones are free to imagine a more valiant end than a tin can full of people pissing themselves.

***Disclaimer:  I base the majority of the above information on projections that my own imagination has constructed from t.v. and movies. None of it was derived from anything remotely resembling a credible source.

I’m not a huge fan of condoms, but I used to be, back when I could barely get past foreplay without millions of potential children spewing forth into the world. I can even remember a couple of instances in which I double wrapped, just to save myself the embarrassment of apologizing for being so pathetic.  Due to these massive insecurities concerning my sexual performance, I convinced myself that I was a foremost champion of safe sex.  In reality, I was just trying to avoid an embarrassing nickname, like Pre-Jack or Minute Mac.  Thankfully, after a couple of years that I’m not particularly proud of, I gained enough confidence in my consistent sexual fitness that the idea of desensitizing my most sensitive of organs began to make less and less sense.  Then, the excuses started to pile up: they’re expensive, they make me associate sex with the smell of latex, and god help you if you get any of that lubricant in your mouth.  Fortunately, the universe hasn’t decided to teach me a lesson about being responsible by guiding one of my swimmers to the finish line, and it’s probably because I can barely take care of myself, let alone an impressionable child, susceptible to all manners of trauma and death.  For whatever reason, I’ve been allowed to be selfish pretty much my entire life, and I’m deathly afraid of the day I have to start paying it back, because I know I owe interest.

Hell, I can remember a handful of times in high school when I was so afraid my girlfriend was pregnant that I  mentally prepared myself for parenthood, ready to forgo college and get a blue-collar job just because I couldn’t be bothered to buy condoms.  And that’s when I was seventeen.  I had a friend tell me the other day that her sister started having sex in the seventh grade. For those of you trying to do the math right now, the average seventh grader is twelve years old, thirteen if they were born late in the year.  These kids aren’t even taking the time to wade through the emotional confusion of puberty or to familiarize themselves with their newly operational equipment. They’re just taking their new toys straight to show-and-tell without an ounce of patience or forethought to the consequences.

Nevertheless, as it is with all of the minor vices in life, teenagers aren’t the only transgressors, but they are the dumbest.  They don’t understand that their actions can have serious repercussions, no matter how many times parents try to beat it into their skulls.  Adults, on the other hand, understand that there are consequences, and often have intricate knowledge of the havoc that they voluntarily wreak on their mind, body, and soul: “I know that not using protection has the potential to blow up in a mass destruction of all of my hopes and dreams, depriving me of most (if not all) of my youth and potential; but the five minute drive to the gas station just sounds super inconvenient right now.”

It’s astonishing to me how easily people are dissuaded from common sense and reason. It’s the same reason why cigarette smokers continue to feed their addiction.  They know for a fact that it’s bad for them, but continue to indulge in the momentary bliss, leaving their future selves to pay the cost. No matter how sound the logic is, and no matter how much evidence people have to contradict their decisions, humanity will always give in to pleasure, just as long as the kickback isn’t quick enough to kill their buzz.

At a time when it’s not uncommon to see teenage girls pushing strollers and eating for two, it’s difficult to fathom the fact that this problem already has a solution:  a simple cylinder of lubricated latex capable of stretching over the length of a pickle, and in some cases, a cucumber.  Condoms are one of the miniature wonders of our society, but like the majority of miraculous gifts that technology has bestowed upon humanity, the undeserving masses have taken it completely for granted.

I’m not saying that I don’t care about anything, because apathy that extreme is a trait shared only by the most hardened of sociopaths and the most idle of potheads.  What I mean is that I really don’t care about possessions.  As long as there is no emotional or sentimental value attached to them, it’s just an object with which I can have my way.  Now, if a friend or loved one were to give me an object for the sole purpose of keeping it safeguarded, then I would be on high alert for any nick or scratch that it may attract.  However, that’s only because I want to be trusted, not because I actually give a shit about what happens to your PS3 while you’re on vacation.  For the thing itself, I have zero fucks, but for a friend’s emotional attachment to that thing, I have a plethora of fucks to give.  For actual human beings, I have a whole Santa Claus sized satchel of bottomless fucks which I will gladly distribute amongst men, women, and children alike.  Not that I don’t appreciate material possessions for their practical uses, as living in a crappy apartment has made me nostalgic of the days in which I had an operational dishwasher; however, I have never understood the value of aesthetics.  Who cares about water rings on the coffee table?  Why does it matter if there’s a fist-sized hole in the dry wall?  So what if my bed sheets have bloodstains?  It’s all secondary nonsense.

The other day, I was enlisted to help a friend of mine  move him and his girlfriend (who I will call Myrtle) into a new apartment, because he didn’t want to pay for professional movers.  I’m not complaining about that part, because taking advantage of your buddy’s free time to exploit him for manual labor is what friendship is all about.  I’m on board with that.  Then, what I came to find out was that I was the only one who had actually responded to the request.  Still, no complaints.  I told him I would help, so I’m going to suck it up and do just that.  It was right around the time that the two of us were carrying a very heavy dresser down a steep, and narrow flight of stairs that my friend says to me “Be careful with the edges.  Myrtle is going to kill me if we scratch this thing.”  I swear to you, If I didn’t have a 250 pound dresser sitting squarely on my neck at the time, I would have cocked back and dick-punched him right then and there.  Fuck your dresser.  I’m going to have ten years of spinal issues from this day alone.  With that in mind, the true depth of their materialism didn’t really sink in until later in the day when we had the moving truck all loaded up on our way to the new apartment, and there was a slight crash followed immediately by a jarring of the box truck.  Being that I was in the middle seat and had zero visibility, and therefore no awareness of what was going on around us, I was forced to draw conclusions from the reactions of my two cohorts.  My friend had a frozen expression, but Myrtle’s eyes shot open in horror as she covered her mouth and let out a slight moan of anguish.  Now, judging by her terror-stricken reaction, I thought it was safe to assume we had just run over a small child, or at the very least, a dog or cat.  As I sat there with my heart suspended at the base of my throat, she says, with tears welling up in her eyes  “Oh my god, was that the dresser falling over?”

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I’ve always been a firm believer in the philosophy of “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.”  That’s why my car looks like it was driven through a riot:  dented hood, scratch marks down the side, caved in rear bumper.  As long as the thing continues to serve the purpose for which it was created, I see no reason to fret.  On that note, even if it is broken, nothing that is devoid of feelings is worth your anger, spite, or despair.  People (and sometimes pets) are the only things worth serious emotional investment. Everything else is replaceable.

My god, she’s adorable.  Even in the midst of a dimly lit house party, the blue of her eyes is as clear as day.  I need to get some one-on-one time with her.  I need to get her some place that isn’t blasting Ke$ha, not only for my own sanity but for the sake of carrying on a conversation without straining something.

“Hey Erin, do you want to step out for a cigarette?” I yell over the din.

“Sure, as long as I can bum one.”  She puts on a coy smile.  “I ran out earlier today and haven’t had the time to get a new pack.”

No need for excuses.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, “the less I smoke the better.”

I nod my head in the direction of the back door and start walking towards the kitchen, assuming/hoping that she’s close behind.  As I weave through the crowd, I feel her grab my hand.  I know it’s just to keep from losing me in the maze of our inebriated peers, but I can’t ignore the sudden burst of light in my chest.  We find ourselves stalled in the doorway leading outside because a pair of muscled up meatheads decided to block our path and engage in conversation. They’re sporting interchangeable button-down shirts two sizes too small, but while the guy on the left has a fake tan and stud earrings, the one on the right is wearing enough hair gel to choke a small child. I glance back at Erin and arch my eyes across my brow.  I turn back to the two gentlemen and clear my throat, preparing to excuse the two of us for interrupting their conversation.

“Hey, douche bags,” Erin’s squeaky voice flies over my shoulder.  I freeze, unsure of who she’s talking to or why they’ve earned such a title.  I look back at Erin, assess her line of sight, and realize that she’s attempting to get the attention of the guys blocking our path.  They don’t notice, so she speaks up.

“Hey! Douche bags!”

Their conversation halts and their attention shifts in our direction.  “What?” is all that their testosterone-addled brains can manage to push through their mouths.

As my mind races to catch up with the unfolding altercation, I stand stock still and silent like I’m staring into a pair of high beams. In contrast, my 110 lb. associate seems to have no problem finding her words.

“Get the fuck out of the way.”  Her mousy voice makes the words almost comical. As the eyes of the guy with the ungodly amount of hair gel begin to narrow, I snap out of it.

“Come on now, Erin,” I say with a forced laugh, “there’s no need for hostility.”  Yeah, especially when I’m the one who will be dealing with these guys should this confrontation turn physical. “Be nice.”

I know I sound like a pussy, but I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked tonight.

“Hey pal,” Hair Gel says pointing a threatening finger at me, “you better tell that bitch to shut up.”  I open my mouth to tell him to take it easy and that she’s just drunk, but once again, Erin beats me on the draw.

“Oooh, what are you gonna do, roofie me?  Why don’t you kill yourself, you date-raping retard?”

Ho-ly shit…

Hair Gel hands his orange-skinned friend his beer and steps within a few inches of us.  “Fuck you, you stupid slut!”

Now he’s shouting. Great. There’s nothing like talking down an alcohol-induced asshole. I put both hands up to his chest, still trying to defuse the situation, but this guy’s toxically altered brain is obviously transmitting nothing but red, because he quickly knocks me aside.  Erin opens her mouth to return his sentiment, but before she can fully articulate the thought, he shoves her back into the crowd.

I turn just in time to see Erin fall, and now, all I can see is red.  My right hand tightens into a fist before I can form a clear thought.  While Erin is stumbling back, reaching for random party-goers to steady herself, I’m shifting all weight to my right foot and cocking back my arm.  A split second after, I plant my left leg and whip my torso around with as much torque as my Irish temper can render. The knuckles of my middle, ring, and pinky fingers connect squarely with Hair Gel’s jaw, creating two identical shockwaves: one travelling through his face, and the other back down my arm.

Hair Gel’s legs give out and he crumples to the floor while I struggle to regain my center of gravity.  Unfortunately for me, Fake Tan’s reflexes are even quicker than mine, because he immediately throws a right cross to my face.  Fortunately for me, he doesn’t strike with much force. His fist catches me just below my left eye, shutting down every brain system except the one that processes pain: not quite a knockout punch, but enough to feel like a fastball to the cheek.

Thankfully, Fake Tan either decides I’ve been properly punished or is held back by a merciful bystander.  I can’t say for sure, because as soon as I regain my senses, I find myself staring up into a pair of crystal blue eyes hanging over an ear-to-ear grin.

I flex my right hand and then stretch my jaw in a crude attempt to assess the damage. “Enjoyed that, did you?”

“Hell yeah!” Erin shouts as her eyes fly open. “I’ve never seen anyone get punched in the face before, let alone two people. It was crazy! Ahhh.” Erin draws out her last inarticulate syllable before breaking into hysterical laughter, a reaction at which I can’t help but smile.

It’s amazing. I can’t even be upset with this girl.  All I can do is get off the floor and shake my head in disapproval.  “You’ve got a couple screws loose. You know that, right?”

“A couple?” she says helping me up. “More like five.”  I  fight off a sheepish smirk and stare down at my throbbing hand.  “So, how’s your face?”

“Eh, I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I say as I test the budding bruise on my cheek.  “I may have broken my hand, though.”

“Aw, bummer brah,” Erin holds her Cheshire grin.  A few moments pass in silence, in which I become uncomfortable under her persistent stare and decide to glance around the room, as if I’m interested in anything else besides her.

“Well,” she says, and stops her sentence there.

“Well, what?”

She rolls her eyes and giggles before nodding to the back door. “How about that smoke?”

As I explained on the About Me page of this blog, I can be somewhat of a….what’s the word….a dick.  I’m not sure why I act this way, and honestly the only reason I classify my behavior as “dickish” is because the majority of people to whom I express my inner thoughts objectively agree on that fact.  In my opinion, a knack for tactless confrontation should be a respectable skill set, and everyone should be able to endure criticism without taking offense; but alas, I’m one of very few who hold that conviction.  I assume that it’s just coded in my DNA:  I’m a blunt person who doesn’t understand how to gauge levels of personal sensitivity in a social setting.  Therefore, the thought that forms in my head seems fine, but only because my brain, with it’s distorted perception, is the only one analyzing it.  He just gives it a quick once over, shrugs, and says “looks good to me” before going back to his newspaper.  It’s not until I process the wide-eyed and open-mouthed reactions from my peers that I realize a line has been crossed and I should begin apologizing to someone (if not everyone) immediately.  Sometimes I wish I had a split-personality, solely for the sake of proofreading.  That way, I could talk it over with one or more different people (depending on the severity of my schizophrenia) and hold a little workshop before I open my mouth and send a thought out into the world.

I really don’t mean to be discourteous, but it just comes to me naturally.  I analyze people’s behavior and call them out on it if I think they’re being dishonest or out of line.  They don’t always take it well, especially those pretentious ass hats who are in such a  magnificently ignorant denial of their faults that they’ll be offended if someone even suggests that they have any.  This list features, but is not limited to, assholes, dimwits, douche-nozzles, and dumb sluts.  Now, the first three could be lumped into a venn-diagram where all sectors converge on a single point, because while they have their subtle differences, they are interchangeably stupid and almost exclusively male.  However, there is a specific subset of the concave gender who can be classified as “dumb sluts” because they are self-centered, irrational, morons with so little self-confidence that they will do just about anything for attention. Even anal. Especially anal.  As soon as some testosterone driven shit skull realizes how vulnerable D.S. is, the B-hole will be an immediate topic of conversation.

Unfortunately, it’s not polite to point out these types of character flaws in other people, and on most accounts, it’s downright rude, but I see flaws as a necessary part of the personality and assume that everyone else on the planet should do the same.  If you’re going to sleep around, sleep around.  If you’re going to be cynical, be cynical.  Just don’t pretend like you’re not.  Fucking own it.  I feel like there are so few people who are willing to take a step back  and question their own motives.  Do I dress this way because I like it or because I see other people dressed this way and want to feel included?  Am I unjustly generalizing the opposite sex as the result of a handful of bad personal experiences?  Is my temporary happiness coming at the expense of those around me?  But hell, I don’t think any true born, heart-and-soul douche bag would be able to get past the most important question:  Is there any chance that I’m not really this awesome and am living up to an ideal that I’ve subconsciously constructed in my mind?

I’ll admit right here that I’m a cardinal offender of living up to an ideal.  I idolize fictional characters like Ferris Bueller, Hank Moody, and Stephen Colbert (I know Colbert isn’t fictional, but he plays a character, so eat a dick).   I admire wit and charm, and unshakable confidence, which is probably why I feel the need to be a jerk-off in the first place.  I’m trying to be witty and bold, when I’m really mistaking arrogance for confidence, and picking apart other people’s insecurities in an effort to distract from my own.  So, in reality, I’m equally, if not more hypocritical than the people I judge.  I’m just more articulate.