I love waking up in a drunken blur and finding a random woman in my bed. Sure, I may not remember what in the hell I did the previous evening, but that woman is validation that I at least did something right. I mean, her presence almost makes up for the obligatory empty wallet and stained sheets.

Over the last week, the strangest thing happened to me: I haven't wanted to fuck. Okay, scratch that. I mean, that's just stupid. But for the past week, I haven't wanted to put any effort into getting laid. I had some good conversations with women, and a lot of these chicks were giving me all the obvious “I wanta fuck” signs (heavy smiles, conversations that segue into sex, and the constant touching of my arms and legs), and I just kind of shrugged and nodded my head. I mean, my body language has basically been saying, “Look, the only way we're having sex is if you ask me, point blank, to fuck you right now.” Could it be that I'm actually getting too lazy to flirt? Man, I need to get back in the gym.

I recently moved 180 yards (or, as my friend Bobby said, “Nate, you ain't but moved five speed bumps away). In doing so, I forgot my welcome mat (I'm one of those literal, uncreative idiots whose welcome mat just says “WELCOME” on it, in case you were wondering). So, I called my friend and former neighbor, Ryan (he was on his way over, anyway) and asked him to grab my welcome mat for me. When he got by my new place, he dropped the welcome mat in its rightful spot and said, “Damn, Nate. You know the kind of looks a black man gets when he grabs somebody else's property? People thought I was stealing this damn thing.” As if on cue, right after he said that, a cop drove by and Ryan and I cringed. I hate this country sometimes. Sometimes I really do.

I recently purchased a new battery for my car. And, quite frankly, I'm a little depressed about it. I mean, asking people for a jump is a great way to meet them. Why, on Sunday alone (before I bought the battery), I got jumpstarts from and subsequently met an old accountant and a chubby sorority girl. Actually, on second thought, I'm glad I got the battery.

This Fourth of July, I am doing something I have never done before: I am not buying fireworks. Throughout my life I have had bad luck with fireworks. Actually, that is incorrect. Throughout my life, because of my addiction to fireworks, other people have had bad luck. I almost killed my buddy Tim's wife once. I've scarred a few people, offended a few neighbors, assaulted a bunch of vacationing Ohioans and set fire to perfectly good living rooms. The problem with me is not what happens on Independence Day (at least, that's not the problem every year), but what I do with the fireworks on the days after the Fourth. You see, I have never felt that fireworks should be prohibited form igniting inside of cars, homes or businesses. Apparently, the law sees otherwise. And, now that I have a pretty nice apartment, I have decided not to risk its destruction by buying fireworks. Wish me luck on overcoming this addiction. And if you know of a support group out there for people like me, please let me know. I really do need help.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are getting drunk at a barbecue, I leave you with the following, which I overheard a beautiful moron say in a bar on Friday:

“Is July 4th Memorial Day or Independence Day?”

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