Valentine’s Day is here and you’re single, buying yourself fatty chocolates and speed dating Swedish men over Skype. Why? You’re ambitious, witty and well-educated. Bikram yoga has your tummy tighter than Chloe in Kim’s clothes (is it okay to go there?), you can fillet a fish, open bottle of wine and know how to look damn good in a pair of heels. You’re going places. Well, currently you’re going back to that corner bodega to buy more of that almond filled Spanish chocolate, because it’s the only one that says, “Extra Large.” You don’t need a guy. And besides, if you wanted a sexy, successful man to take you out tonight, there’d be plenty. Probably 100. Well, maybe 3 or 4, but still, there’d be guys around. It’s just… they’re not the ‘right guy’, which is totally fine. Just because they aren’t the “big picture”, doesn’t mean they won’t do great as small portraits, stuck to the bottom of your purse, waiting for that night you’re a little tipsy, looking for lipstick in the base of your bag, when… “Oh, I haven’t seen him in a while.” Might as well get two bars of chocolate.

See, getting guy induced goosebumps and wanting butterfly kisses while watching The Princess Diaries is inherent to who we are. Even an alien, incapable of human emotion, watches The Notebook and thinks, “well if you’re a bird, then I’m a bird.” We no longer marry and raised youngin’ because we need children to milk the cows and tend the wheat. We marry for love and have children because we want someone to drive us nuts and draw on things that are important to us. Yes, there are zealous gold diggers who hunt for easily aroused execs and cougars who pounce on preteens still serving tables in Time Square, but they are not the norm. You, in you’re one room studio or three bedroom roommate share, with your new, but not so new career, you’re dark hair, because dying it blond had become ’sooo LA’, and the, damn it I’m sort of getting tired of being a bridesmaid, attitude… you are the norm. You’re thinking, feeling and reflecting on the same thing the foreign girl in 2B is. You might want it later, or with a different type of person, or in an unconventional setting, in a uncommon place; but what’s at the core, is the same seeds of love. WAIT. Then why’s she out tonight with an cute American boy, half way to getting her green card, and you’re trekking up the stairs with three bars of Extra Large chocolate (whatever, you wanted three bars of chocolate, it’s fine. I’m not judging) and Sex in the City in your DVD player?

You make mistakes. I could write a lengthy, considerably unpopular book on all the mistakes we make, but this isn’t a book and I’m trying to get you informed before you push play on the DVD and melt into the couch. The first one, you live in the city. Anyone here is undoubtedly the best or wants to be the best in whatever it is they do. They came here because wherever they were prior wasn’t going to give them all that they needed. You’re career oriented and will probably get married a lot later then your friends back home, but that’s fine, because packing lunches in the suburbs is not where you want to be right now. Number one is not you fault; blame it on your always wonderful drive to be great. Down the line it’s going to make you even more desirable… just don’t make down the line 38 and wrinkled.

Number two, stop trying to plan things. Love will not have pieces that fit like a puzzle, love is the puzzle and when it’s ready, it will build itself. Yes you can, and should, contemplate everything about your future, but when you meet the right person, your future will give you insight to where it’s really going. Stop ending things because it wasn’t what you previously pictured… you’re going to love where it ends up going. Yeah there will be things different then what you planned, some you’re not thrilled about, but overall it’ll lead you down the right path. And even if the path ends with that person, know what you’ve learned while on it will greatly extend the path for your next journey. Before this sounds like a Nicholas Sparks book… just remember to let things flow naturally and forever be growing.

Lastly, stop having sex with us so fast. Yes, I am a man and will soon be punched in the face for telling women to, “stop having sex with us so fast.” I say this hoping the girls I want to have sex with will never read this, but know it needs to be said for all my female friends who continue to ask me, “What went wrong?” Understand when I, speaking for all men, see a girl in whom I’m attracted to, my penis dances… no, sings. My penis sings a song so loud deaf ears duck for cover. For a fine chick, my dick is Celine Dion (Titanic style Celine Dion). Ever get a random ringing in your ears and wonder why it’s there? That’s my penis, and though he’s a little off key, he’s singing for you. And my penis sings so loud that on the night I first met you I didn’t hear a word you said. The second date, I might’ve caught your name and favorite ice cream. Third date I learned we both like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and love dead baby jokes. Don’t get me wrong, the penis is still singing, I just happened to make a couple more things out. But as time goes on, the song goes from the opera at Lincoln Center to a hum at a Williamsburg dive bar. Why does it die down? Because now that I’ve gotten to know you, learning more about you greatly outweighs tapping that tush. Still want to tap it, but I sort of wouldn’t mind if you wanted to cuddle afterward (again, I’ll be punched in the face). The only thing that will ever make the music stop is changing the song from a solo to a duet with your very lovely vagina… they would sing so well together. But if we sing that song too early, I’ll probably thank you for the stage time and then go on a genitalia tour. If you had me honestly interested in you first, we’d be up all night, all the time, conducting an orchestra to a packed house of ‘OMG this is sooo amazing’. Be the conductor, not some cool chick I slept with, but really couldn’t hear her over the music.

That’s it. I spoke my mind on the day of overpriced roses and dust summoning stuffed animals. I let you into my thoughts while we ate chocolate and exchanged toe socks. No, the article doesn’t exactly work for everyone, as some people feel they are completely capable of being fulfilled by biking through Central Park, reading a brilliant book in the bath and planting a vegetable garden. As am I. But guess what? Lettuce isn’t going to love you back, that book is gonna’ end and best of luck trying to ride through the park in the winter. Loosen up and enjoy the day, however you choose to spend it.

Daniel Dickey

If only they all came like this.

3 in the morning… this song has me busten a move.

It’s father’s day and boy am I thankful I’ve survived another year without impregnating some random witch that has flown my way. The key is to splash them with a bucket of water right after you ejaculate. They slowly melt away and die, and you get to go to sleep without some sweaty girl trying to cuddle with you and talk about ‘taking things to the next level’.

With that said, I hope I don’t have any children anytime soon. Children require your attention and cry if you don’t buy them things… if I wanted either of those qualities in someone else I would have kept my girlfriend around. Though when I think about it, I would consider adopting kids. But I’d only do it if the government approved me using them as slaves. Seriously, if I’m going to feed, cloth, and support these little bastards the least they could do is carry around some 50 pound potato sacks. Of course I would only be willing to adopt kids from Africa. Please don’t take that as a racist thing, because it’s not… it’s a genetics thing. If you were given the choice of child slave, would you choose some little Asian orphan that can hardly lift a stack of Twilight books, some Spanish twerp that kicks around soccer balls instead of building the dungeon like he’s supposed to, or a 6′6 ft 8 year old African that can bench press an elephant and pay his way through college with a football? Exactly.

Whether I decide to adopt or have a little child of my own, it won’t be for awhile, as I think 23 is too young to worry about anyone other than yourself. Fulfill yourself before you attempt to fulfill another. Blah blah blah chase your dreams (currently mine are serving Mexican food, staying up late and sleeping in).

Father’s Day… the most confusing day in Harlem,

Daniel Dickey

I’ve worked out at the same ghetto gym for the past two years. It’s a piece of crap, but it’s cheap, like myself, so I continue renewing my membership.  But due to it’s crappiness/ghettoness everyday is filled with head scratching moments and I am continually telling my friends about my odd and many times awkward experiences there (I even wrote about one here). Just last week it was 90 degrees outside, which means it was 120 degrees inside the non-air conditioned gym. After bench pressing 315lbs a man decided to take off his shirt and sweat pants and do his set of pull ups/the rest of his workout in only red jockey boxer briefs. While stretching my toes, I watched both amazed and confused as this giant black and/or dark Dominican man let his sweaty ass perspire all over the flat bench. Though it was extreme, it nothing out of the ordinary. My experience today towers far above the boxer wearing body builder.

There is a gay, retarded, Spanish man that works out at my gym. Yes, I needed to use all three descriptors for you you get a proper mental picture of him. He is skinny, and judging by the somewhat prominent gray in his hair, probably in his late thirties. His workout clothing consist of a yellow t shirt with a pink duck in diaper and a wide array of pajama pants. Again, please remember this gym is packed with ex cons, bikers, gang members, extreme hipsters and a midget who claims he was once the WBA feather weight champion, and this retarded homosexual is wearing a shirt with a diapered duck and yellow felt pajama pants with singing cupcakes (He also has a pair of mango colored silk pajama pants pokadotted with rainbow frogs and a forest green flannel pair with the words “pizza pizza” sewn onto the butt). While there, and he’s there everyday, he does several sets of starring at you in the eyes and smiling, and then increases the intensity of his workout by sitting on various benches until he has a full boner hard enough to support a six pound medicine ball. Well today was no different, well, until I went to put back a pair of weights I was finished using.

As I walked over to rack the weights he must have felt I came too close to his sky blue flip phone and decided to push me into the wall. Of course I wasn’t going do or say anything, but I was so dismayed that he pushed me that I was suddenly almost scared of this pajama pants bully. I didn’t really move much, as the push was similar in force to a small kitten licking my arm, and after racking the weights I turned and said, “hey, I’m really sorry. I want you to know I saw your phone there, but I understand you wanting to make sure I didn’t step on it.” He just starred at me blankly before spitting at my shoes and cursing me in Spanish (I’m pretty fluent in Spanish and after calling me a “puta” all he really did was try to order a fish sandwich with extra ketchup). I thought nothing of this and went back to my workout. This man has a physical handicap and I could care less what he called me if it brought him a sense of happiness and/or calm. Unfortunately after he finished his fourth set of sitting on benches with a boner, he began using the set of weights I had been using (note my strength, as a skinny mentally disabled man lifts the same weights as myself). Well after my little hiatus at the water fountain I calmly and reassuringly walked over to him and said, “hey listen, if it’s alright with you, can we share these weights? You know, you do a set and then I do a set?” Without hesitation, he immediately rubbed the sweat from his armpit and slapped himself in the face, as if to say, “Puta are you really asking me this right now?” He then picked up the weights and walked to the point furthest away from me, but made sure to come to a complete stop every couple of feet turning around to see if I was following him. Really? Not only did he take my weights, but he’s now looking at me like I’m out to get him. I again tried to make him feel calm and safe by not going anywhere near him, nor looking anywhere in his direction. But when I heard him barking like a small dog, I looked up to see him by a group of older men pointing at me. He saw me, made eye contact with me, formed a gun with his hand, waived it around and pointed it at me until I put my hands up acknowledging his weapon, then holstered it in his cupcake pants and walked into the bathroom. After the door closed the men burst into laughs while shooting each other with their own hand guns.

I wanted to know what he said, so I walked up to the only one of the men who speaks partial English and asked him what he was barking about. He replied with, “he said he was coming over here to warm us because you were trying to steal peoples weights and hide them behind the radio. He said you stole all of the five pound weights last night while the guards were sleeping and were trying to start your own gym. [he laughs some more] But he then told us not to worry because you were scared of him and if needed, he would protect us with his gun if I tried stealing any of our weights.” A little defensive I replied with, “he said I was scared of him?” The man laughed audibly as he spoke, “yeah he said he pushed you earlier and you said sorry little a little queer and ran away. Then when he walked away with his weights he kept stopping and looking at you to see if you wanted to fight, but you kept looking down at the ground like a sissy.” What the hell, I try to be extra considerate to the feelings and emotions of a mental challenged man lover and he calls me a sissy and tells the gym elders that he’s going to shoot me with his finger gun if I try stealing anymore weights… and to think he has a giant boner while all of this is going on. When he exited the bathroom with both hands on his hips like a cowboy ready for a gun fight I knew I’d either have to leave now and never come back or fight him right there in front of there squat press. This gym was far too cheap for me to leave, so I walked up to him and in Spanish, asked if him if he had a problem. He hissed like a snake before replying with the number to the local Papa John’s. I knew this was the number to Papa John’s because one of the three old Spanish men yelped in the background, “he just gave him the number to Papa John’s!” They began slapping themselves they were laughing so hard. I looked boner boy in the eye and told him the only order I’d be placing is for him, if he doesn’t leave me alone. He blinked slowly and then asked me to repeat what I’d like to order. Again I said, “I’ll place and order for you if you don’t let me be. Maybe I’ll even order a side of pain. You hear that, a side of pain.” Without pause he kissed me on the mouth and said, “you’re order has been placed.” Two of three men had now begun running for the door to get more people to come and watch as the third one fumbled to turn his camera phone on. I just stood there confused, with a feeling only comparable to that of an altar boy moments after a priest  came all over his boyish breasts. He had now stacked his hands on top of one another and placed them under his chin as he smiled. This was not what I expected, but he was back to his normal routine of smiling and starring… maybe a kiss was all he needed? After a moment he seemed to become totally oblivious to my presence and directed his stares and smiles to the old man with his camera phone. He chased him around, demanding he take picture of his new pants. With the two of them occupying each other attention, I walked over to the weights he had taken from me earlier, picked them up, walked across the gym and hid them with the rest of my weights behind the radio.

Starting My Own Gym,

Daniel Dickey

I’ve just laid in my bathtub for the past two hours trying to figure out whether or not the last six years of my life were a waste. Part of me is still dissecting and analyzing, in great detail, the final episode of season six. Was this a terribly anticlimactic finale with lackluster, if any, answers to the questions that have keep us tuning in week after week like the Tuesday and originally Thursday night lost addicts we are/were… I’m not sure. I’ll watch it again and again and… well, probably 60 times after that. I’m really not sure what I think yet. What about yourself?

You can watch the show’s final episode online here.

Daniel Dickey

So I’m only a couple weeks away from my one year anniversary and I’m pretty excited. For those of you who read that and thought, “Wait, what? Since when are you dating someone?” I’m not… it’s my one year break up anniversary. Yep it’s already been a year (if you weren’t a reader of my blog during that period, also know as ‘The Dark Ages’, then feel free to read the magina love rants here).

But back to what’s important… it’s my one year break up anniversary and I plan to celebrate! How? Maybe this email written to my ex girlfriend will help clarify it.

Yo Boo,

What’s up? Miss me (of course you do)? I just wanted to say I miss you as well and hope whomever it is you’re currently hooking up with has a bent penis and a hairy back. If I didn’t tell you then, that night I saw you on Bedford Ave your ass was looking mighty sexy (I guess it’s from all the rice and beans you’ve been eating in Washington Heights). Either way, I’m digging the curves on your fine frame and totally plan on hitting that next time you drunk dial me.

Speaking about drunk dialing, remember last month when I came over to drop off your sandals and instead I got your mouth pregnant… yeah that was fun. We should do it again soon… maybe even at our anniversary party?! What? Huh? Did he say party? Yep motherfucker! June 1st, 2010 is our one year anniversary and I think we should celebrate the shit out of it. But here’s the thing…

I think we should only invite the people we have hooked up with since we broke up. Of course it’s a little off beat, but still a fabulous (to say the least) idea. Think about how much fun it will be to sit around (drunk) listening to all the odd conversations that take place…

Possible Convo

• Girl: So how do you know Stephanie?
• Guy: We dated for a little… I met her on OkCupid. How do you know Danny?
• Girl: I gave him head on a roller coaster.

Another Possible Convo

• Guy: (sounding like a cocky prick) So you’re Danny?
• Me: So you’re the rich guy Stephanie stopped talking to because your dick looked like a toothbrush (I smile and blow him a kiss as he bows his head and leaves the party).

Um yeah, invite that short million who tried banging you in his penthouse, invite that Asian guy you made out with in Maryland, even invite all those dumbfuck guys you dated from wall street, and well, I’ll invite all the girls I’ve written about on my blog… even the fat ones… even the blind one(s). We can do it at your place or mine, it doesn’t matter to me. Let me know what you think.

I Love You Very Much,

Danny

PS: I got really drunk last night and texted your dad saying how I wanted to smear jelly on his face and lick it off… I meant to send it to my dad. Sorry.

Side Note: Stephanie is a wonderful young woman with big dreams and bright future. If we were to actually have an anniversary party there wouldn’t be too many men there (asides from the ones I’ve blown) as Steph has a high level of self respect and knows she’s much too amazing to settle for anything/anyone less than her standards of perfect. Also, very important, the curves caused from the Washington Heights rice and beans are the ideal kind (think Jessica Simpson, not Kristy Alley). She’s a pretty little thang and I’ll consider getting her pregnant next time we fool around.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You’re welcome.

Laughing,

Daniel Dickey

Little Susie goes home after school and tells her mom that the boys keep asking her to do cartwheels because she’s very good at them.

• Susie’s Mom: You shouldn’t do them! They only want to look at your undies.
• Susie: I know they do. That’s why I hide them in my backpack.

With that said, I want to send a big, “YOU MY NIGGGG” going out to Jamie Cobb. Jamie has rocked my blog as her homepage for at least a year now and I think that’s OFF THE CHAIN SONNNN. Jamie you are quite the gangster and my heart dances when I think about my blog on your MacBook. Thank you for the support.

Is My Blog Your Homepage?… Email Me And Let Me Know,

Daniel Dickey

Ladies and gentlemen,

I will try to explain my current situation.

It’s 12:34am on a Sunday night. I am piss drunk, in the bathtub, attempting to keep my laptop from falling in the water. I have played kickball for the past 10 hours in McCarren Park in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and have pulled every muscle in my body. I need to make it clear… I was made to tell jokes and finger girls… not to catch rubber balls and run bases. Despite my skin’s pigmentation I do not have the athletic ability of a Spanish man. I have blisters on my feet the size of small tomatoes and my right ass cheek feels like it was just kicked by David Beckham (I just peed in the tub… I would say it was just a little, but that would be a lie). My body aches so much, and I’m certain I will not be leaving bed for the rest of the week. Buttttttttttt it was all worth it! Why? Because my team (straight up gangsters) have been molesting our opponents. Not joking… we have molested the other teams (one player was actually raped by our third baseman, but it was during the 7th inning stretch, so it didn’t count as unsportsmanlike conduct). I’m so competitive and love nothing more to beat someone and then throw the loss in their face.

Possible things I might say to someone after my team kicks their ass

• Hey you played a great game… (coughing) for a bunch of pussies.
• You’re team tried really hard, unfortunately you’re all fucking losers… just kidding hehe… oh wait, never mind, you suck.
• Hey maybe next time you can… oh snap, there isn’t a next time… bitches.
• Hey, other guys nice… loss. Ha.
• (What I say as everyone is slapping hands and saying, “good game”) You smell like cow shit. You smell like cow shit. You smell like cow shit. You look like a woman. You smell like cow shit.

We have been the best team for the last two weeks. Next Sunday is the championship… I plan to murder mofos.

Daniel Dickey