The unexamined life is not worth living, which is why it's important to live your life in front of a webcam, where it can be examined by hundreds of lonely men. But like any fine art, camming has its do's and don'ts.
Sometimes I'd get bullied while driving the driver's ed car. The guy behind me would give me a wet willy so hard that his finger would poke through my eardrum and into my skull, damaging the part of my brain that processed depth and time.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
Recently, I won a trip to New York City to appear on "New York or Butts?", a game show where contestants must distinguish aerial photos of Manhattan from pictures of bloody, hemorrhoidal anuses. While touring the city, I discovered some great spots that all visitors to the Big Apple should add to their itinerary.
I'm walking down the street when a white man asks me if I know what time it is. I think he's trying to mug me or sell me Bruce Springsteen tickets, so I throw my pizza at him and run.
CANCER FACT: A group of people called "Cancer Chasers" try to contract cancer by sleeping with cancer patients. Most are unsuccessful, except for a few who get cancer from smoking after sex.
Two zombies who've just finished their shift board the train and kick me out of my seat, explaining that the backs of haunted house rides are reserved for cool people.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Winter is a cold, inhuman force, so plow drivers are trained to be cold and inhuman as well. On their first day on the job they're subjected to Chinese snowflake torture - basically the same as water torture except with snowflakes instead of water and Christmas carols playing in the background.
The walls of my dorm are covered with supermodel posters. Today I tore one down looking for an electrical outlet and saw the words "HELP ME" written repeatedly on the wall in a mix of blood and hair gel, but then the poster re-affixed itself to the wall like a rapidly healing wound.
Scott said that he loved me but only as a friend, not a best friend like I wanted him to be. Since then our lunches have been awkward; the last time, when he vomited from Burger Hub's cadmium-tainted glasses, we just silently watched his vomit dry for 20 minutes.
Years of listening to my coworkers' stories about their weekends have given me the ability to see them as high-def 3D movies, more real than my own life. I walk into a coworker's campsite, her tent a skyward arrow indicating the course of her future.
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