[HBO] and Chill

A few weeks ago my least favorite cousin, Alexis, sent me a Facebook message that read: "No clue why I thought of you, but I did. The rest is up to you." And sent this link for the application process for an HBO writing fellowship for writers from "diverse" backgrounds. At the time, I thought it'd be funny if I just focused on my being short background for most of the piece and then revealed that I'm many ethnicities at the very end. Thinking about it now, it's really depressing that they have to make special exclusive programs for ALL non-white people and ALL women. Isn't that like 93% of people in this country nowadays? We should all get together and enslave the other 7%. Who would miss them and their dance moves? They've had their fun.

How has your background influenced the stories you want to tell?

With all the complaints I have of being a 5’6” male, I must admit it has had at least one advantage. You see, being below-average in height forces the viewer (of me) to feel a sense of pity. It’s just a natural instinct. If you found a kid reaching for a lollipop on a counter that is a bit too high, you’d walk over and help. We’re caring animals. Pity is why I haven't gotten my ass kicked by anyone of average or above-average height, even though I talk an overwhelming amount of shit, which is a result of my insecurity of being short. I know, it’s circular. Last week when I was trying to describe this self-hatred, insecurity, and pity complex to a woman, she replied, “But I have a friend that is your height and he’s no stranger to women.” Yeah exactly, a “friend.” And him being “no stranger” to women hardly seems like Leonardo DiCaprio would be asking to cheat off his test. And come on, I’d rather be a stranger, no woman wants their bicycle seat sniffed by a close friend.

My 5’6” background has definitely influenced the way I write. The main influence, is that I write. I refuse to believe Philip Roth, David Foster Wallace, Vladimir Nabokov, and any other great writers whose books I’ve read half of, are tall people. Because if they were, why would they feel the need to write? Writing is something you do when you’re at home, alone, and you’re at home, alone because you got skipped over when they were picking basketball teams or potential husbands. A few more inches and I’d probably be out sharing ice cream.

If I think about it for too long, which I do because I definitely have the time, I start to wonder why we write at all. If we’re only writing for “[HBO] and chill” that we, ourselves, are obviously not partaking in, why provide such joy for people that just get on with their days without ever picking up a pen or hitting a key? No admittance to a movie theater if you're over 5'9". Go ride a roller coaster, jerks.

Everything I’ve said ignores women because let’s face it, the biggest disadvantage of being a short woman, is being a woman. I wanted to reference Marilynne Robinson above because I’ve actually read a book of hers in its entirety but it would have messed up my “potential husbands” example that I’m still patting myself on the back for. Let me pat, I don’t have much in this life. 5’10” is the average height for a white American male. I couldn’t find an average for all shades of American male. And that’s another thing that has influenced my writing: I’m Filipino, Mexican, and Italian. And short. I hope that's obvious by now.

After I wrote this I was extremely proud of myself. I wrote it in 25 minutes the night before it was due and thought it was just the right amount of weird to catch someone's eye at HBO. Then I went out, got too drunk, and missed the deadline.

By a year.

My stupid ass didn't realize the due date was March 4, 2015. The year of the Wood Goat. But I still thanked my cousin for bringing it to my attention because it forced me to sit down and write something. THEN I realized my logic behind the whole thing didn't make any sense. If the only reason people write is because they're short, and since they're short they're trying to impress someone enough to "chill" with them and their private parts, then how is that an example of diversity? Wouldn't all the writers at HBO reading this be short [white] guys agreeing with almost everything I said? And if that's the case, why would HBO want to bring in people like me?

Not only that, rereading it now makes me notice that I spiraled down a series of bad ideas because of horrible logic. I'm actually getting confused (and beyond frustrated) right now trying to make sense of all of it. I brought women up at the end because I thought, "Well if it's only short guys that write, then why are there women writers?" Another question I didn't answer. Really, I just wanted to say I read a Marilynne Robinson book (she really is the best) and to point out my mediocre "potential husbands" joke (which I am doing again right here) to make sure people noticed and understood it (which I am doing again right here).

This isn't anything new to me. I've started and quit on many, many more essays than I've finished because of an incomplete thought or poor logic. I enjoy being humbled by my stupidity. And I obviously like admitting it.

At the end of the day, and mostly because I'm getting tired and starting to wonder if my explanation of my mistake is illogical in itself, I still wish I would have been able to send this in. I picture a little white guy reading it and thinking, "Well, it can always be worse."

P.S. Sigh.

Hello again.

I don’t have cancer.

If you didn’t know me you might have assumed that my post one year ago was my last because I was diagnosed with cancer. And if you assumed that, you probably assumed that I spent the last year getting treatment, “fighting” for my life, and saying chemo was the reason for my baldness. But this past year was transformative in a different, more positive way.

I am now black.

For some reason, ever since I convinced myself I had cancer, I have been mistaken for being black multiple times and in wildly different ways. It first happened when I was caught eavesdropping on a black couple’s argument about Barack’s presidency.  After much disagreement, they turned to me, noticed I was listening, and asked, “Sir, are you black? What do you think about Obama?” It was the 2nd greatest compliment anyone has ever given me. Even though they had to double-check, I took it as a sign that my Gilbert Gottfried days were over. Then, a few weeks later I was strolling (what is the black people word for ‘strolling’, black people definitely don’t ‘stroll’, they, shit sorry, WE, walk slow, but we definitely don’t ‘stroll’) through Washington Square Park when I was greeted with, “Good morning my black brotha! Weed? Coke?” We all know that black guys use the word ‘brotha’ pretty liberally. I once overheard one of the fake-purse-selling black dudes on Canal St. say, “My brotha over there can help you out.” He pointed to a little 143 year-old Chinese dude that was holding fake Gucci purses. Now maybe I’m jumping to conclusions by thinking he was using the word ‘brotha’ as a term of endearment, instead of its actual meaning, but I would gladly be wrong if those two guys were indeed brothers. The family pictures are probably amazing and I can’t imagine the diversity of the music playlists on road trips. No weed, no coke for this black brotha.

There have been mistaken identities. “Nigga, I thought you was the The Weeknd,” a black high schooler told me. “Do I look like a fuckin’ Canadian?” I inappropriately replied. Then, one of my clients surprised me with, “There is something about your beard that reminds me of Mos Def.” Reminds you of Mos Def? My beard? I guess WE DO all look alike!

My favorite, Hello, Black Guy! encounter happened last week. I was on a B train when I heard the familiar battle cries of a crazy person making his way through a packed train. Surprisingly, the man causing the commotion was dressed in a suit, a real suit, not a suit with a lime green jacket from the 90’s and ball-sweat-stained sweatpants from two humid summers ago, an actual suit that matched and looked relatively clean. He held a book in his hand (I’ll give you one guess as to which book it was) held it up and yelled, “There are too many sissies in this world. Too many sissies. And we all lost our manners! Look at all the young men sitting in seats, letting women stand uncomfortably! We don’t teach our young men manners anymore! Especially young black men! I served two tours in Vietnam and when I came back, I came back to a world with no manners! I don’t want your money! I want your attention! These young black men with their phones, and their expensive sneakers, and no manners! Black men, I call on you to take back your humanity! Impress the world with your kindness! Get up out your seat and offer it to a woman!”

At this point, I think I’m actually making up a bunch of what he said. It’s my translated version of a long speech about black men, respect, and the overpopulation of “sissies” that really had nothing to do with his thesis. As people started to pay more attention, he walked over, pointed at me and then a black teenager standing across the train and yelled, “Now look at these niggas. I can tell you right now, that these black men had daddies in their lives. Men that stayed by their women and taught them respect! They’re standing!” At this point in his monologue, it would have been too difficult, and honestly, too scary to correct him with, “Excuse me sir, I’m actually not at all black. I have been mistaken for Mos Def, it has something to do with my beard, but I’m not black, I’m just standing.” So I didn’t.

This past cancer-free year has been great, disappointing, miserable, and amazing. Besides the Universe’s forced celibacy, I feel like I have hit my stride in New York City. I’m on a mission to expand my sense of humor from height, baldness, and small-dick “jokes” to bigger, more imaginative ideas that will probably be equally as depressing but hopefully really funny. And this whole being black thing is great. Today the black UPS driver I often talk shit with yelled to me, “You look happy today Marty!” “Thanks, I’m out here strollin’ with the dogs. It doesn’t get better than that baby!” Yes, I ended a statement with “baby!”

But I forgot, we don’t stroll. I still have a ways to go.

I have cancer, I think.

This is all true.

When they diagnose me with cancer, any day now, I will spend my last days having fun figuring out exactly when I gave it to myself. Because that’s the way I think it works when you’re someone like me. A non-contributing, cynical, needling, complaining waste of Doritos and Oreos. It doesn’t stick to the bottom of your shoe on your way home from the bank, then slither into your open mouth as you take a nap on your parents’ couch. And you don’t get it when the homeless guy’s long, sharp pinky nail scrapes against the palm of your hand when you offer him change because you’re trying to bribe karma into that job promotion. No, when you’re terrible, you give it to yourself.  And for the short remainder of my life, I will tirelessly dissect every event in my life that could have contributed to that defining moment.

Predictably, my search will start at the beginning. I think we’re supposed to look back at every traumatic experience we had and think of what terrible part of our personality is the direct result of it. Do I not spend enough time with my niece because I farted at my grandfather’s wake? Am I only asking that guilty question because it was during the eulogy? I think I don’t volunteer my free time to help those that are less fortunate because I once let my dog lick my privates when I was taking a poop before hockey practice. My parents paid thousands of dollars for me to learn how to play the piano. I can’t play a single song. And thousands of dollars for me to play hockey. I can’t stop with my left foot. My dad never wrapped a towel around his waist in the locker room at the YMCA. I’m still making comparisons. Any traumatic experience I had just made me even more selfish than I already was. Cancer is the perfect cure for selfishness. It eventually kills it.

But maybe I was too young then to really begin the downward spiral of being told, “Everything happens for a reason,” and Facebook memorials that give “friends” the homework assignment of sharing a story about a cute memory. They say your teenage years are your transformative ones, so maybe my body started attacking itself then. There was a time when I ate back-to-back Chipotle burritos and had to sit in the car with the seat-reclined for an extra half hour to make sure I didn’t throw up the $19.50 I just spent. My friends in the backseat weren’t impressed. I think I was averaging 9 burritos a week at that time. Although it might be great for the toilet paper companies and their stockholders, it wreaked havoc on my digestive system. A group of my friends used to be really into collecting basketball cards. We would frequent the local card store. We’d trade, beg, and steal to get the best cards. Yes, steal. Instead of spending our time helping our 400+lb. best friend get in better health, we were busy using him as a camera shield at Venture as we were lining our pockets, underwear, and socks with as many packs of basketball cards we could waddle out with. Unfortunately, fat friends aren’t as good at shielding unwanted eyes as we had planned. Apparently they attract a lot of attention. Even though I was terrified as security stopped my friends but not me, I didn’t bother to tell my friend’s mom as I got back in the car. We waited 30 minutes before she figured something was up. The anxiety remains today. Maybe leukemia feeds off of it. In high school I copied almost every single homework assignment that didn’t have to be typed. I didn’t have to ask Nelson Torres what he got on his AP Bio exam. Because I know we both got 4’s. And now biology is the exact thing that is probably killing me. Or is it chemistry. I wouldn’t know, because I refused to take that AP test at the end of the year. There’s nothing to be proud about when you pass out from too many Miller Lites under a truck in DeKalb, Illinois in the middle of the winter. I woke up in the middle of the night in my friend’s car, completely soaked, and freezing. For weeks we both told everyone that I peed on myself and locked him out of the truck. But really we both passed out outside in a puddle, sharing the under-the-truck as if it were a twin-sized bed. That’s how people die. White blood cells don't kill stupidity. I kissed my first girl when I was 18.

When you only apply to one college, never visit, live with people you already know, and never put a single thought into what you should study, you’re asking life to end early. Or you’re looking forward to it never beginning. All those college parties, and all the ass-kickings I narrowly avoided never taught me any positive lessons. Maybe a black eye and a bloody nose would have toughened up my immune system. I was too busy only caring about myself. Not in the healthy way. I told my buddies on the lacrosse team a bunch of racist jokes, because I wanted them to like me. Does being completely pathetic seep into your bone marrow and ruin the red blood cell making process? I forced my mother into coming with me to the doctor so we could find out if my private parts were the right size. They weren’t. They’re not. If you’re one of those people, like me, that thinks there is a ‘right’ size. But why did I drag her with me? If I had kept my problems to myself maybe I would have learned to accept life for what it is and maybe not have wasted so much of it. I could never build up the courage to do the things I felt passionate about. I fell in love with a girl. I never told her. And I never accepted that I never told her until years later when time replaced love with various other things that are too insignificant to remember. Love could have been the answer. I lost my virginity when I was 20, or was it 21? It’s one of those things that I’ve lied about so often that I can’t remember. Like my ACT score.

If there is a moment when you’re supposed to realize you’re an adult and accept responsibility for your life, I never had it. After college I caddied for a summer, then moved to New York City where I pretty much lied to everyone about what my intentions were and what I was up to. I wanted them to be impressed, when really I should have just done my own thing and turned into the person I wanted to become. I guess I didn’t want it that badly. But that didn't stop me from telling everyone I did. There were booze-soaked nights of scraped faces and misplaced desires. But not as poetic. Even though that wasn’t very poetic. Instead of being a mindful, contributing citizen, I became a despicable version of myself. “Version of myself” just really means, I was myself. Chasing a dollar while running from it. I don’t know if my soon-to-be cancer is correlated with greed. But I know greed is a cancer. Going $25,000 into credit card debt is something I’ve done in this most amazing city. I missed out on all the incredible experiences all that money could have bought because it’s hanging in my closet and folded in my drawers. Tell my mom to dress my un-embalmed body in every overpriced article of clothing I own. Hopefully a pretty girl will be impressed. Because that was the whole point anyways. “I moved to New York to be a comedian, well, to do something creative.” I’ve done standup less than 10 times in this city. And I rarely work towards any creative goals. So maybe I deserve to wither away and be forgotten. Cancer is composed of immature cells. No wonder.

In the end, and this is the beginning of the end, what I’ve amounted to is a guy that satisfies himself by watching old friends’ wedding videos, sighing, judging, and being arrogant. All in the third person. Or is it the second person? I’m the guy that is too lazy to look on the Internet to figure out if it’s the second or third person. I don’t give anyone a chance. They’re assholes before “Hello.” I’m the one that doesn’t deserve the chance. By the way, Facebook shouldn’t be the place for self-improvement, yet my whole life revolves around it. And I’m a liar.

I’ve had a terrific life. My family is hilarious, caring, thought-provoking, and a bunch of pains in the ass. If there is anything in life I’ve taken for granted, it’s them. And all the rest of it. I make fun of my cousins for having children that stress them out. I smirk at their divorces. Can I get the wedding gifts I never gave back? I tell everyone my brother is my best friend. I guess it’s acceptable to talk to your best friend once every other month. By text message. My mom is super intelligent, loud, and absolutely wondeful. I avoid her. My dad is the funniest person I’ve ever met, he’s insane, he worries, and he pisses me off. I blame those few moments when he was unimaginably mad at me. I never let them go. I’ve wasted a terrific life.

And now I sit here and think about how the most shameful moments in life are the ones we waste. It kills us. I’m not wishing for a better tomorrow because I’m trying to be fully in the present. But really, like everything else in my life up until now, I’ll wait to start that tomorrow. If I have one.

Essential Beauty

She is such a babe.
it's insane
we were at a dinner party once
she sat next to me
and I pretty much didn't speak the entire night
all I did was worry that I was going to fart
even though I didn't have to fart
that's how beautiful she is
She makes me worry about farts that don't even exist.

#Racism Is A Trending Topic.

It does matter if you're black or white. (Sup girl?)

**Disclaimer** I believe there is only one race, the human race. And that's why I am racist.

Yesterday, an old (white) friend of mine who I haven't spoken to in months texted me this: "As someone who hates white people, what is your honest opinion on Ferguson?"

I think White Guy Wilson needs to be put on trial. The majority of white people are racist. Actually, pretty much all people (that aren't children) are racist in some way. (Personally, I hate the human race. Seriously. Especially the little old Chinese female ones.)  I feel like I don't know anything that actually happened between Michael Brown and White Guy Wilson. The facts are "facts." Why were there so many autopsies? Why is there information being withheld? Why the hell isn't White Guy Wilson being put on trial?!

That's my entire opinion on the case. I could write novels on racism (and why it's my favorite and least favorite thing) but I'll leave that to all the guilty people that are constantly updating their social media feeds with examples of racism, and #iloveblackpeople hashtags, and videos of other black people robbing old ladies while simultaneously saving them from burning buildings, and then long-winded opinions, and excuses, and manifestos about their own beliefs. Because that's what I took away from all of this.

More than anything, I think both the Michael Brown and Eric Garner cases have shown us just how selfish we have become in The Golden Avatar Me Me Me Me Me Me Age. I don't want to take anything away from the people who are having healthy dialogues about racism, classism, and are marching in the streets for a better United States of America. They're better than I am. But that's the minority. Stupid fuckin' minorities.

I've been in Chile for the past few weeks so I haven't been as in-tune to my powerful online presence (all lies) as I usually am. Every time I opened Facebook, I saw links to articles about racism, and non-racism, and post-racism, and videos of a random black guy punching a cop, or a white guy kissing a black toddler, or a black guy feeding the homeless, or all kinds of bullshit that has absolutely nothing to do with an unarmed dead teenager in Ferguson, or a harmless dude selling loosies in Staten Island. Because it's not about that. It's about what I think. And about what I want you to think. Too often, these major fucked up situations lead to each one of us pushing our own agendas (see: RIGHT HERE). Sure, examples of racism are important in the broader discussion, but when you're only posting them because it's popular to do so, you might not be being a racist but you're being an asshole.

The reason I don't believe most people's intentions are honest when they post anything about racism is because I know they don't care. Sure, they care about it now. But as soon as Kim Kardashian gains a few pounds (which should be any day now) they'll care about that. Or when new emojis come out, they'll care about that. (Can we at least have one more brown face? Please!) Or when Instagram lets you zoom into pictures, they'll care about that. I mean seriously, why can't you zoom in? I need to zoom.

The main argument (which I don't care about) against everything I said will be: Well what are we supposed to do? Not talk about it? You're right. We have to talk about it. But let's talk about it when we actually give a fuck. Let's begin to question the foundation of everything in our own lives. Listen to your friends and families, watch your favorite shows, look in the kitchen of a fancy restaurant, then look at the patrons around you, look at the person driving your taxi, or the ones singing your favorite songs. Look at them and listen to them and begin to question where racism actually exists. Where it's cold, and shitty, and fucked up, and in your face. Then let's talk about it. Until then, don't waste anyone else's time with your agenda.

Racism is a trending topic. But it should just be a topic. A serious one.

Leaked Nudes. Leaked Dudes.

I scrolled through the pictures of the naked female celebrities. I'll admit it. I actually woke up this morning to a text message from a friend that brought me to a website with a few of the celebrities naked pictures on it. Jennifer Lawrence and Kate Upton were the only ones I knew. The rest, no clue. I glanced at them, closed the website and got on with my day. Didn't think anything of it. Then of course came the shock and awe on Facebook of people posting what Lena Dunham had to say and how women are constantly targeted by hackers trying to get their cum-soaked hands on nudes and naughty videos, and that's when I really started to wonder what was going on. And I have many problems with it.

How much time did all of this take? I've read different articles that said some celebrities claimed many of these photos were deleted off of their phones long ago, so it must have taken work to retrieve them. I recently accidentally deleted the hundreds of pictures I took on my trip to the south of France. I was furious at myself for hours. But when I got home, I downloaded software that retrieved all the pictures. Simple as that. But this hacking shit, there is no way it was that simple. These losers must have spent weeks (months? years?) retrieving these pictures from so many women. Pathetic. I mean seriously. But isn't this a good snapshot of our culture? People will spend an ungodly amount of time, and talent (computer hacking, not pervertdom) for what? To retrieve some pictures of asses and titties. I'm not even saying these virgins should be out solving the world's problems, solving the energy or clean water crisis. BUT surely there is a better way to use time and effort. It doesn't have to be Help The World related. Maybe some of that time could be spent learning another language or developing a personality, skills that might make it easier to meet a woman in real life. Sigh. Obviously I'm using stereotypes. I'm sure these dudes who hacked these pictures are unhappily married, raising little shithead kids that will grow up thinking, "Well fuck these celebrities, they have all the other advantages in life, I DESERVE TO SEE THEIR NIPPLES!"

I never understood the naked selfie. I'm an extremely lonely guy. I look at videos and pictures of random naked ladies online. I know it won't fill the overwhelming emptiness I have in my life. I know that. But I don't understand the naked selfie. I'll be the first to admit that I'm insecure about the size of Little Marty. So maybe that's why I've never had the compulsion to put my iPhone down my pants, fight through my pubic hair, and zoom in, all the way in, and take a picture of my enemy. Maybe if I was as beautiful as Jennifer Lawrence I'd get it. But I'm not, and I don't.

Sure, I understand, when you're in a relationship with someone, you're feeling good and good-looking, and want them to see you naked. So you take a picture, you send it, and you laugh about it later, or get turned on, or whatever. I get that. I've just never had the desire to do it. Let's say it's Tuesday afternoon and I (Marty) am dating a beautiful girl (obviously a hypothetical), and I'm out grocery/underwear shopping at Target. All of a sudden my phone buzzes and I see a picture of my [obviously hypothetical] beautiful girlfriend posing naked in our bedroom. How would I react? If I'm being completely honest, I would probably laugh, both at the idea she probably did so because she knew I'd think it was funny, but also that she physically took the time to stand in front of a mirror, make some ridiculous face, and snap a nude selfie. There is almost no way I envision myself sprinting to find a Target sales associate, frantically asking them where the nearest "little boy's room" is, then fighting my way through sale shoppers to the empty stall to jack off at a picture of my girlfriend. Seriously. I mean, if she sent me a picture like this, a more honest reaction would be, "Bitch, don't you got something better to do? How bored are you? Do you want me to stop by the library on the way home?!"

Wait a minute, I just realized that I assumed all of these women were sending these pictures to boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, or wives (if they're lesbians, which is perfectly fine of course...especially for the fantasy). What if Kate Upton is sending pictures like this to random numbers? What if she hired a nerd to find numbers of lonely losers like me and is sending pictures to them, hoping they drop dead of heart attacks? If that's the case, well then shit, that's genius. Wipe out the lonelies of the earth, the only way they deserve it.

In all seriousness, I don't know how to feel about looking at the pictures of these women. I originally did it out of curiosity. I do think this is a breach of these ladies' privacy. It's despicable. In no way, should anyone be allowed to rummage through any person's, celebrity or not, private life. What they do in their own time, in their own homes (or not, it doesn't matter), is none of our business. And I was being honest when I said I didn't dwell on the pictures. Maybe I've become numb to naked pictures because of all the porn I've already been exposed to. I just don't care. Great, I saw Jennifer Lawrence naked today. But I'm a 5'6" balding "bachelor" with an unbelievable imagination, I already saw her naked in Winter's Bone. She had clothes on in that movie? Really? And in Hunger Games? And in Hunger Games 2? And Hunger Games 3? Is that one even out yet? Ah, it doesn't matter.

I'll forget every nipple as soon as I'm done writing this. And this is what pisses me off the most. And I'm being completely serious. I can't stress that enough. Why do these hackers prey on these women? Every single day, a new woman that I don't give a shit about has pictures leaked on the internet against their wishes. It's wrong, it's stupid, and it's a waste of time. Can't we just run out of women? Can't we just run out of titties? Can't we just run out of coochie pubes? In a perfect world we would respect each other's privacy. This isn't a perfect world. And that's why I don't understand why there are never naked pictures of MEN! And I'm not talking about the Leonardo DiCaprios or David Beckhams or any other dudes that don't know what a dry penis feels like. Why aren't there pictures of Louis CK, bending over, red asshole hair steaming up the camera lense? Or Larry David, with his long balls, circumcised pecker, and insecure Jewish face? When are we getting the picture of Jonah Hill moving his speedo to the side to reveal a soft-as-marshmallow dong? WHEN?! I would be talking about this for weeks, months, years. Comparing notes. Have better, more interesting conversations with my friends. "Louie is really packing some thunder, does that make his insecure comedy less relevant?" "You think Larry David gave it a few pumps before he took that picture? Who was he sending it to? Why? I thought people his age barely knew how to use technology. Isn't it great? Linking one senior citizen to another, one semi-limp dick at a time!" The possibilities...

But nope, no one is interested. Here come the titties, and the pussies, sigh, I already forgot what any of these women looked like naked. Now all I want to think about is Zach Galifianakis' dick. And the hair around his asshole.

- Marty

My Titties.

Trudy. Photo courtesy of Gio Parkaia aka "MDNA"

My biggest insecurity in life, besides the size of my penis, or my height, or balding, or how much shit I talk behind my friends' backs, or my ACT score, is my man-cans. My chesticles. My titties. Somewhere in this world, there is a picture of me with my shirt off at a water park, probably 12 years old, with a set of knockers that would make the cover of the SI swimsuit edition. What was I supposed to do? I was eating 3-5 packages of Ritz mini cheese crackers, french fries, nachos, and pizza every single day for lunch. But I was also 12 years old and didn't know what was best for me. I think about that picture every single day.

Fast forward 17 years, and here I am. I'm not overweight, I'm not underweight, but I have titties. I admit it. A few years ago, it would have been unthinkable of me to even acknowledge them. Not because I didn't know I had them, I've always known, but because I didn't want to draw attention to them. It's not like I walk down the street and guys stare at my cleavage before they even acknowledge I'm a human. That's what we do to women. But when I used to substitute teach, I remember walking into a 6th grade classroom, introducing myself as Mr. C, and hearing a girl in the back whisper to her friend, "Oh, he got titties."

Over the years I've learned how to hide them, somewhat. I say "somewhat" because, well, you ever see a woman with really gigantic boobs that doesn't really like them? She wears baggy black blouses (alliteration), walks with a curved back, never shows cleavage, and has a whole game plan to make sure they go unnoticed. But it never works. Everyone knows they're there, and everyone knows that even the best attempts won't tame those monsters. 

I never wear white t-shirts. White t-shirts show the outlines of titties perfectly. Stay away. I envy guys that are confident to walk around with polo shirts that barely fit. By the way, polo shirts, are a tittyman's (a tittyman is a man who has titties, not a man that likes titties, a man that likes titties, is just a man) biggest nightmare. If you have titties and wear a polo shirt, you might as well walk around with your shirt off and a big neon sign that reads, "Check out the knockers on me, even though I'm male and not supposed to have them!" Instead, I wear big baggy tees with distracting graphics. I mean, if I'm walking into the wind, you can still see the outline of my titties perfectly. But I try to avoid the wind. I walk close to buildings, I draft behind really fat people, and I'm constantly throwing grass in the air like a golfer to see which way the wind is blowing. I'm always prepared. In the colder months I'm sure to wear a double pocket button down. Not because I have enough things to fill two chest pockets, I don't even know what chest pockets are for, but because I have 2 titties, and need a pocket to cover each one.

The problem with having titties from such a young age is that there is no one to look up to. Tittymen don't have support groups. There are celebrity tittymen like A-Rod and Simon Cowell but what's to learn from them? They're assholes. So we have to go around walking with arched backs and one too many pockets on our chest.

And of what use are they? Can I go through a drive-through and get a couple extra chicken nuggets by pulling down the neck of my shirt and revealing succulent cleavage? Can I titty my way out of a speeding ticket? Is it a good thing to acquire more beads than all the women at Mardi Gras? Can you turn those in for some therapy sessions with a good psychoanalyst? They're useless. The titties, not the psychoanalysts.

And this is why I can't enjoy the beach. Besides all the other fatasses, women and men, making me sick to my stomach because their bodies barely look human, I'm afraid I'll scare children. I was in the south of France a few weeks ago and dreaded taking my shirt off in public for weeks before I got there. I could picture it, my pale titties out, kids running to their moms, grown men crying for their moms. All because of my titties. Lives ruined. An optimist would say, "Well maybe those kids will be motivated to not grow up and have titties, maybe they'll reach higher, achieve more, dream bigger, with no titties." But I'm not an optimist. There is a humanitarian disaster going on in the south of France right now. A titty can never be unseen. 

I'm only sharing this with you because I feel like you deserve to know. I can't lie to myself anymore. I know you know about the titties. But I want you to know that I know you know. And I want to tell you that for those of you who still love me, like me, or simply tolerate me, that I appreciate it. I love you. 

"Oh, he got titties." Yep, I sure do, sorry.

Pug!

Titties.