Why are there about 3000 fucking tazos in my room? What are tazos I hear you ask? Tazos are those little round disk things you get in potato chip packets. Kids collect them and swap them and eventually start gang wars and kill each other for them. Besides for that, they have very little use. Except filling up precious space. Precious space for what exactly, I don't know. But I'm tired of being the goddamn Pablo Escobar of the tazo trafficing world.
My living quarters seem to be filled with bizarre objects that no other adult in his right mind would even recognize. Granted, adult may be a little bit of a strong word when applied to yours truly. But lately I've been trying really hard to let my personality catch up with the magnificent progress I make in my career. My career is going great, I've been promoted, at least I think so. A promotion is when the company pencil sharpener is moved to your work station, right? Right?
I suppose that the abundance of pop culture in the place I call "place of much rest and masturbation" could tell another person, when one comes into my humble abode one day, about me. For instance, the tazos gives someone a reflection on my dietry habits. And yes, you are correct to assume that my staple diet are potato chips. I blame the company that make chips. Back in the day when I was young, there were two flavours of chips, fresh and post-expiry-date. Nowadays they bring out a fucking flavour every two days. Being a bit of an amateur gourmet I need to get EVERY single new flavour on the market, so I can place them between the two halves of the bun I bought from the second hand bakery and enjoy my fine i'm-a-cheapass-ugly-motherfucking-single-loser supper. Chip rolls, a taste explosion!
Besides for tazos there seem to be a lot of condoms lying in strategic places around my room. Condoms you ask? What for? Well, I've been trying to get back into the dating scene. I figured that I should consider getting out more, mostly just so I can give my loveless pad some air because it smells like some large pre-historic elephant like creature died in there, but it's probably just me. But still, my room needs air for fuck's sake and it sure as hell is not going to get any while I'm in there paging through Hustler magazines from the mid to late 90's just so I can remind myself what a naked female looks like, in case I encounter one in REAL life.
Truth be told, I'm shit scared of ever meeting a girl in real life again. Things sure have changed since I was young. I remember, back in the day, you meet a nice girl, spend some time chatting to her about stuff, maybe take her for an ice cream and see how things progress. If you're lucky, she'd give you a phone number. Nowadays, you walk up to a lady and before you even get to open your mouth and utter the sentence you're been rehearsing in your mind for the past 2 hours at the dark side of the bar she says:"Before you say anything, what kind of condoms do you have on you?" Bam. And you're like:"Uhm, urg... do you know where the little boy's room is, I have a wee wee." There seem to be a serious lack of romancing these days. Why, back in my youth one could take a good 3 years before even thinking about a condom. But I guess this is the modern age with all it's diseases and equality and such and such.
But my point is, women today are very condom conscious. You can't just have any condom on you. If you're in some trendy bar, you have to accessorise. Goverment issue latex is not going to get you anywhere. So I've been experimenting with different rubber brands. Putting them on and pretending that my hand is a woman's vagina and taking notes on which condom makes my hand feel most comfortable, but at the same time aroused. I call it the "Sweaty Palm" test.
Similarly, I have to try find a condom that would at least give the woman the illusion that this dweeb she's fucking in her drunken state has some sort of experience and can last a while. With the government issue condoms I can fuck my hand... I mean test vagina, for about a fucking hour, which is great for creating the idea of studliness, but the fine woman might complain about its texture and lack of lubrication. On the opposite side of the spectrum, if I try use one of those ultra thin and natural bareback thingies I come before I rolled the thing down to the base of my dick, and believe you me, that isn't such a long journey. So, the research continues and will probably be published sometime within this decade.
But I've said too much.