First, I'm going to say, right drunk at its sober. I wrote this drunk and edited it drunk. My therapist told me once, Neil, I think you're allergic to breasts. They must cause swelling in the part of your brain that allows you to make rational decisions. I have no idea what she's talking about. I always swallve and mysterious and I never say things like, hi, my name is Neil. Nice to meet you. Not once have I ever chosen as late with a woman after listening to two hours of her cat stories. If someone wrote my biography, it would be called the history of poor life choices or how to lose all your friends, slash dignity, slash money, slash time, slash cards in 10 days. If you took all of the truths I've ever told, and you put them in a bucket, and you took all the lies I've ever told, and you put them in a much larger bucket. You would still have two empty buckets. Lies of truths aren't watered. Don't be stupid. But back to my original point, boobs. I am allergic to milk, pollen, and peanuts, but they don't make me make stupid decisions that fuck up my life, except that they are delicious and that way to me peanuts are like boobs. Similarly, like a peanut, I completely lack the ability to say no to any boomb ever. If they're two of them, I'm fucked. One time I got in this really cool, totally not creepy at all on Mark's van because someone painted shuttle to boob town on the side. God damn it, Neil. My therapist said, and I call him in a supportive manner. You know what you fucking do, whenever your sadder scared alone, or whatever, you go out and you sleep with someone who calls a lot of drama, just so you can feel like you have control over something to which I responded. You don't know me, devil woman, and then I paint her $100. If someone wrote my biography, it would be called the history of the inappropriate boner, or pittiesacks, a love story, or how to pick up chicks and flea markets, or the teddy bozovail of monogamy, or ponies, or don't touch you, don't know where he's been. I think my therapist fucking hates me because the thing is she's right. It's not that I shouldn't sleep with people, or even that I shouldn't sleep with the people that I sleep with, I just shouldn't fucking lie about it afterward. The following situation should never happen. Hey, Neil, did you sleep with that hipster girl with the pink hair on the head side of her head shape that you fucking hate? No, of course not. Frankly, I'm offended by the implication that I even have a penis. I have ruined relationships for fear of ruining those relationships. Please explain to me how this is fucking... Please explain to me how this is productive. Please explain to me why I can't understand the healthy relationships that are built on total fucking honesty. And why can't I be honest? I know how. Every time I get scared and want to make something up, I just shouldn't. If you took all of the love letters that I've ever written and you built a house out of them, you would have a shitty house built on a lie.