Do you think necrophiliacs ever have relationship issues? Does the man get annoyed when “How was your day?” goes ignored for once? Yes, I’m assuming the necrophiliac is a male because 99% of those engaged in paraphilias are men.

Warning-Please don’t read this. Really. It’s horrible. I’m an awful person and I blame sexology classes for it. But it is funny.

I’m pretty sure dead girls suck at cuddling. I’m also pretty sure sex is always going to be in the same position, which must get boring. But they must argue too, right?

“Well I don’t KNOW if it’s any good for you if you won’t speak up! Look, I love you, I want to make you happy. Stop giving me the silent treatment, you can’t be mad at me if you never react!”

She, of course, says nothing.

“Well I’m sorry if you’re embarrassed but you have to say something. I don’t know if that’s labial engorgement or post-mortem bruising! Why are you ignoring me?”

End me being a terrible, terrible person. At least for this entry.

In the process of getting my physical, I came to realize just how much of a worrier I am. I’m pretty sure this is the same thing that happens to everyone, though. You go in, you get poked and prodded, and suddenly your brain goes into overdrive.

“Oh god, I’m scared of the test results!”

Whether or not there’s any reason to be, and more importantly, as if the test results have anything to do with things. They’re only and indicator of what’s already happening! But the human mind wants to  assign blame for what hasn’t happened and may not ever happen. “Oh god I MUST HAVE THE AIDS!” it says for absolutely no reason. “My cholesterol is going to be sky high! I’m a walking heart attack!” follows. “Cancer! I have testicular cancer!”

It never goes to simple things, like “I could lose a little weight” or “Well, my cholesterol is a touch high, but I’ve been changing how I eat so that’s going down anyway.” It’s always a worst case scenario, thinking about that tiny, tiny lump that you know biologically belongs there anyway, or that one questionable encounter with that one questionable girl. Odds be damned, it’s always something terrible that you never thought of before that you MUST have now.

It’s a three day wait for “Oh god. The doctor calls with results thursday, but it’s not going to be the “You’re fine!”, it’s going to be the “I need you to come down to my office” because Arizona law mandates positive AIDS test results be delivered in person!”

Intellectually I’m entirely aware that ANY results are a benefit to me. I’m sure most people are when they get their tests. If against all odds I was a walking heart attack with AIDS and testicular cancer I’d be better off knowing so I could treat it. Instead, my primate brain says “ook ook you’ll live forever if you don’t know ook ook!”, not “Hey, that’s good, your heart won’t explode and shower HIV on everyone around you since you can treat the problem!”

Stupid primate brain.

Not that I knew it before I left. I just threw on the same thing I always wear, a t-shirt and jeans. Summer, winter, whatever. I walk across campus, thinking “It’s awfully chilly today. Must be down in the 60s or 50s with everyone so bundled up.” Hell, people here in Phoenix put on jackets in the 70s sometimes.

But I have a cup of harden the fuck up and walk across campus, taking care of my business on the other end. Back to class, once more across campus.

“Hey, what’s with the broken glass on the ground? So not cool! Wait…that’s ice.”

Out comes my phone, I refresh the weather.

39 degrees.

39 degrees and I’m sauntering about in my summer clothes complaining it’s chilly, while everyone else is huddled up, shivering like a caffeinated chihuahua.

I guess I really am Canadian when you get down to it.

“Etsy already banned me for trying to sell my bodily secretion sculptures.”

“No way! When did Esty stop taking period pieces?”

It’s a regular bra, by the way. Not a sports bra.

I couldn’t get a front angle on this, but it had a neon print on the front, much like the 1990s “Malibu”, “California”, and “Hawaii” shirts. I tried. Sorry. It was colored like the bra, though.

Come to think of it, maybe it was pink bra day at Wal-Mart.

They’re presenting it as the adaptation of life, and people learning to live within the twilight bands and probably underground like we’re Twi’leks or something, but guys, it’s been done before, and in a WAY more awesome way by Mr. Ryan North via T-Rex.

Click it for the full comic! It doesn’t fit in my meager central column, T-Rex cannot be constrained by these proportions!

PS, Dinosaur Comics are awesome in general.

Today, I went to Pizza Hut. I was picking up a pizza for my father, who’s undergoing chemo right now. Unsurprisingly, getting something that even tastes okay is a challenge, so when he thought that sounded good, I jumped.

I also spent my only $5 I’ve got for my own pleasure this month on a delicious 4 pack of Stuffed Pizza Rollers, which I haven’t had in ages, but have not forgotten the joy of.

Upon my exit from the store, a woman in a dirty white t-shirt with large gold hoop earrings stopped me. “I was going to ask the guy inside for help but I’m going to an abuse shelter in the morning with my kids and my grandmother. We’re staying in a motel right now and don’t have any money for food, can you order something please?” My first instinct was disbelief. I’ve spent a lot of time around people who are making up stories, afterall, from my retail work in the ghetto. You learn which people are really on hard times and want some food versus who needs a little crack money fast, especially when they try to sell you a Banquet frozen dinner.

But, I’m not omniscient. I could be wrong, and while I had no spare money, I knew I didn’t NEED the pizza rollers. A little sadly, afterall, I’m a fat guy who had a tasty treat, I handed them over. She ran to her truck, parked just a space from me and handed them to someone on the other side saying “Here, save these for the kids.” I would have liked a thank you, certainly, but maybe she had other things on her mind. I probably would, and she ran into Pizza Hut immediately.

As I pulled out, I saw a guy on the other side of the truck. “That’s a guy!” my brain said. “And he looks like an asshole! And he’s just glaring at me, you can at least give me a “thank you” courtesy wave or nod!” It was followed by “Fuck, I bet she was just trying to con me for a meal. Well, she told him to save it for the kids, anyway. If they can’t afford something for them that’s fine, but they shouldn’t be lying about it.”

Cut to 20 minutes ago. I experimented in the kitchen with pita bread and cheese, attempting to recreate the lost tastytreat. The first attempt was too crispy, but had a good flavor. The second was closer in texture, but the flavor wasn’t as good and it was too wet. Mentally, the thought popped up “God damn it, I really wanted those. That was the last five bucks I had for eating out, she’d fucking better have been battered!”

A few moments passed. Of course, much like REM sleep it probably all happened within the span of a second, but it sure seemed like a long time in my mind.

I knew what I’d just thought, afterall. And then the next thought popped up. “Wait, that’s horrible. I think I’d rather have just been conned for five bucks.”

For once, I really hope my charity offering was just me being a sucker. I didn’t ever think I’d think or say that, but there it is. I also know there’s an insensitive prick in my barely-conscious thoughts now, but I kinda figured he was there a long time ago, having moved in as a response to my habit of dating emotionally draining/abusive crazy women with severe personality disorders.

But I still hope I was just a sucker this time, because I just had an awkward moment in my own head, by myself. I didn’t know that was even possible.

With apologies to George Lucas, who I hope never sends me a cease and desist order.

Do your expeditions always result in casualties?

Are you sick of the countless wasted hours spent in an ancient ruins throwing bags of rocks and remote droids down every hall to set off falling celiings, spike pits, shock floors, and who knows what else?

Do you still get injured due to traps that only react to certain conditions that only organics seem to set off?

Well waste time and lives no more! Hire Admiral Ackbar’s Adventure Assistants! Yes Admiral Ackbar’s Adventure Assistants work cheap and they work well. They always scout ten feet ahead of you in any situation and come for far less than Calrissian’s Crawlers! Calrissian’s Crawlers are often ex-mercenaries who want the treasure you seek for themselves! When you hire from Ackbar, you get a sharp-eyed Mon Calamari who scouts ten feet ahead at all times. When your young Mon Calamari senses the slightest hint of danger, he’ll yell “It’s a trap!” at the top of his lungs and bolt down the nearest safe path to the exit, providing you with a clear way out that won’t result in grievous bodily harm!

And that’s because Admiral Ackbar’s Adventure Assistants come with a quality guarantee! Admiral Ackbar only hires college archaeology students as interns desperately seeking credit who want nothing more than to just go home, just like the Admiral himself at the Battle of Endor. Admiral Ackbar’s Adventure Assistants consider safety to be job one, two, and any other number a Givin can come up with! Forget Calrissian’s Crawlers, that is unless you want a face full of acid and no artifacts to sell off to pay for the expensive reconstructive surgery!

Remember, if it’s not Admiral Ackbar’s Adventure Assistants, it’s a trap!