It’s Friday night and I’m home eating gummy worms and reorganizing my socks drawer… yes, another crazzzy night. People often assume I live this wild and crazy life… I don’t. Well unless eating gummy worms and reorganizing my sock drawer is wild and crazy. In that case, I’m sooo cray cray.

Yes, I tend to make erratic life changing decisions at a whim. Example:

• Quit my job in New York and fly to China.
• Skip my flight home from Israel and got to Spain with a girl I met a week before.
• Eat three jars of peanut butter and watch Julia Robert’s movies.

Okay I’m kidding about the last one. Not the peanut butter, I did that. Just the Julia Roberts… three minutes of Runaway Bride and I would go into a full on seizure. Though Pretty Woman will always have a place in my heart (only because I love prostitutes). But I’ve also made brash decisions with my career choice(s).

• Moved to New York to act in and direct movies.
• Drew all over my headshots, threw them in the garbage and tried to buy a bar in Brooklyn.
• Left bar business to travel around writing and reading books.
• Finished the books and moved back to Florida to go back to school.
• Got a job a Wendy’s so I could afford my frosty addiction.

Again the last one is a lie. I do have a frosty addiction, but it will never be bad enough to work at a job where I make less than a school bus driver. I don’t know how much school bus driver’s actually make, but their job is wayyy cooler than being Dave Thomas’s hamburger bitch. Nothing against Dave, he seems like a nice guy (I know he’s dead, but in old commercials he seemed nice).

I’m not really sure where I’m going with this, but I guess that’s the point of everything. I have no idea where I’m going, but as long as I’m moving forward and making sure every minute is enjoyable, it’s all good. I think, right?

Gummy Worms In My Frosty… Oh Em Gee,

Daniel Dickey

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

The bong rips roared loudly in the foggy, smoke filled room. Long black lights illuminated the psychedelic posters covering the windowless walls. The cloth couch, covered in dust, ash, and cigarette burns was missing it’s left leg and sat slanted against the back wall. Deep electro music rhythmically beat over and over. My eyes, small and glazed, were focused on a fluorescent poster of a rabbit stabbing a whale. Confused, I tried to analyze why the whale was smiling and why the rabbit had muscles similar to Rambo. I was beyond high, trying to take in my peculiar surroundings. I watched the eyes of a young girl high on extacsy roll back inside her head, as a hairless albino man rapidly raved with bright green glow sticks. When her eyes fell back into their sockets she grabbed one of the glow sticks and ate it like a carrot. There was a full suit of armor standing tall at the wall to my left. It freaked me out and I tried not to look in it’s direction, but it’s shiny body reflected like a small strobe light all over the room. A couple blunts were being passed around the room. A man resembling Kevin Spacey took in a hit from both blunts simultaneously. He blew out the smoke, but the air already so thick with marijuana smoke, made it impossible to see the fumes exhaled. There was a large card board box sitting in the middle of the room. People were stumbling all around, but this box remain untouched, unmoved. On the side facing me it said, ‘hello?’ in black marker. Who would write that, I thought. Though I was curious, I was much too high to concentrate on anything for more than six seconds. I sat back against the crusty couch, still trying my best to ignore the suit of armor, and watched slightly in awe, and slightly in amusement, as the Kevin Spacey look-a-like took off his shirt and started pouring honey all over his hairy chest. People were cheering him on. Why? Why would they cheer on a old hippie Kevin Spacey looking man pouring honey all over his grizzly chest? Like I said, I was very high and after a moment too started cheering, yelling things like, “Make the Albino guy lick it off. WHOOOW” and “Let’s tie this old guy up and throw him in an ant pile.” After I caught my breath from the mental picture of ants crawling all over him and biting his ears, I turned back towards the box. Surprised and confused, I saw it now read, “Wanna eat a mustard sandwich with me?” What the hell was going on? The single cardboard box in the middle of this smoke infested room, that had ‘hello’ scribbled on it’s side, now read “Wanna eat a mustard sandwich with me?” In a marijuana induced panic, I frantically looked around the room, searching for answers. Who was writing this? Why were they writing this? How did they know I LOVED mustard sandwiches? I scanned every face looking for the culprit. The girl rolling on extacy was now rubbing her face on the orange carpet as a random black man threw skittles at her. The Albino man was booty dancing with Kevin Spacey. Everyone seemed to be in their own world, not concerned with their surroundings let alone the mysterious box in the middle of the room. But if it wasn’t any of them then who was it?

The next twenty minutes were spent deciding whether it was the dog or an eagle. There weren’t any eagles at the party, but you never know. I was coming to the conclusion that…”OH MY GOD the box just moved!” “It’s moving” I yelled out. Why wasn’t anyone else reacting? Was I the only one who peed on myself? The box was moving, almost dancing to the beat of the pounding music. Was there something or someone in it? The box wasn’t that big. Could it be a midget? Maybe a radio controlled car? Both were realistic options, but neither would know of my craving for a mustard sandwich. Seeing that it was still unnoticed to the crowd I decided to get a closer look. I went to stand, but my legs were tired and I was fat from a bag of Fritos I munched on earlier. I decided to slide off of the sofa and cautiously crawled over the orange carpet towards the box. I was focus, but ready to run for my life like a scared child at any moment. Holding my breath, I got closer. The music was fading out and my hands were perspiring as I reached for the box.

There was nothing grounding it to the floor and when moved, it immediately exposed the hole in the floor. This box was a roof to a whole other world and/or the basement. The opening was the size of a basketball and before I considered going into it I looked at my fat Frito filled stomach. Could I fit in this? And if I could, did I want to go into this dark unknown world? Turns out I was on drugs and adventure being one of my fortes, I slipped my lower half in into the empty opening, sucked in my gut and fell into a dirty pile of clothes.

It took a minute or so to stop gagging at the smell of sock cheese and mildewed pants, but my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and I made out a figure in the corner.

• Me: Yo… how’d you know I wanted a mustard sandwich?

There was no response.

• Me: I’m serious. How’d you know I wanted a mustard sandwich?
• Evil Basement Lady: I know a lot more than that.
• Me: You know where my blue H&M scarf is? I lost it last winter and I want that shit back.
• Evil Basement Lady: You’re taller than I expected you to be.
• Me: Na, I’m just standing on your pile of old socks. Are you a witch? What are you doing down here?
• Evil Basement Lady: I live here.
• Me: In this shit hole? Why don’t you have a cleaning lady?
• Evil Basement Lady: Do you know why I summoned you here?
• Me: Yo, I’m high as fuck. A couple minutes ago I watched a Kevin Spacey look-a-like and an albino guy booty dancing… I don’t know what the fuck is going on.
• Evil Basement Lady: I called you because I need to drink your blood to survive.
• Me: (This wigs me out) What? (The opening in the ceiling seems to have closed) My blood taste like shit. How do I get out of here? I have stuff to do.
• Evil Basement Lady: (She lets out an evil laugh) Muahahahaha. I was just kidding. I’m not going to drink your blood. I called you down here because I think you’re cute.
• Me: (I’m going bald, so I’ll take compliments from anyone… even wacko vampire ladies) Thank you. Can I leave now?
• Evil Basement Lady: That albino man has 100 tabs of acid in his backpack and I need you to take them.
• Me: Why would I take them? He might be albino, but he looks like he knows karate… he could kill me.
• Evil Basement Lady: (She steps a little closer and removes her hood. I see her face for the first time. She was sexy as hell. She looks like what Megan Fox and Jessica Biel having sex would look like). I need you to take those tabs so–
• Me: (Before she could finish her sentence, I slapped her across the face) Sorry, I had to make sure you were real.
• Evil Basement Lady: (Holding her cheek. She looked pissed) What’s wrong with you?
• Me: Listen, I expected you to look like a little troll or a hairy hobbit. Then you took of that evil hood… you’re looking fine as fuck. Like I’m thinking about getting you pregnant… that’s how sexy you are.
• Evil Basement Lady: (Coyly smiling, she starts to blush) Oh, well, thank you. I think you’re cute as–
• Me: You have a boyfriend?
• Evil Basement Lady: (Still blushing) No.
• Me: Yeah, I forgot you live in this smelly dungeon. But now that I’m down here, why don’t we throw your clothes in the washer, mop up this kitchen and introduce our genitals.
• Evil Basement Lady: That sounds like it would be fun.
• Me: Hell yeah it does.

I went in for the move and kissed her chest… it tasted like honey. From there we spent the rest of the night sexing on a pile of old shoes. It was great. I planned to spend the rest of my life with her… until I woke up in the morning next to the Kevin Spacey look-a-like. He had on a wig and 98 tabs of acid in his hand. I jumped up, scanning the room for my Evil Basement Lady. Nothing.

• Kevin Spacey: (Casually turning over and batting his eyes) Wanna check the dryer and see if the clothes are done?

I could still taste the honey on my lips,

Daniel Dickey

Apparently I’m selling mattresses now.

Daniel Dickey

In recent weeks I’ve found a fetish in expensive soaps, shampoos, and body lotions. My new need to lather my skin in silky coconut milk and sunflower seeds is not a prequel to me becoming a flamboyant homosexual man, but more of a realization that I will soon become a beat up and enormously unattractive person, and I must cleanse my skin with only the finest oils until I retire away in a dungeon to rot and die. Of course it was my recent unexpected balding that made me quickly conclude my stream of steady poon would soon diminish from a raging river of ass to a stagnate pussy pond, filled only with ugly ex’s and fat girls covered in liquor induced vomit. Hence the increased happiness brought forth from a bottle of calf’s milk hair conditioner or green tea flavored toothpaste. What I’m trying to say is, when you know your life has begun heading into a shitty section of town, why not treat yourself to daily bubble baths and lash extending mascara? Totally kidding about the bubble baths… that would be gay.

Either way I’d blabber more about my mushy self, but I need to focus on an intense bidding war currently going on on eBay. I’m trying to buy some anti-aging cream made from seal blood for under $3. It’s quite a steal… or should I say seal.

Evil Laugh Muahahahahahahahaha,

Daniel Dickey

When you gotta dance… you gotta dance.

I love the videographers reaction of, “oh shit” after his friend was just HIT by an ice cream truck.

Five months after it was released in theaters, I downloaded Avatar. I decided it would be a spectacular choice as my in flight movie (I flew back to New York from Miami this morning). Now I know you’re thinking, “WTF this bum really hasn’t watched Avatar yet?”  No, I am poor because I spend all my money on rent and various brands of chocolate chip cookies. Therefore I waited for it to be uploaded illegally so I could watch it while trying to convince the flight attendant that I had diabetes and if she didn’t give me one of the jumbo cookies immediately I would die (I didn’t get the cookies, but she did give me a free cheese and cracker sampler. Think Lunchables for the sophisticated).

Long story short, Avatar was amazing and I regret not seeing it in theaters… but not because I think it would have made the actual movie better. Nope, I could careless about that. I’m in love with Neytiri. Not the actress who played her, but the actual Avatar. Though fascinating, I really didn’t give a shit about the story. I was more concerned with seeing a nipple slip and her taking off that sexy alien thong as she talked to trees with her long french braid. I spent the three hours imaging how many sexually positions I could complete with a fully grown Avatar (700). Matter of fact I I’m so sexually attracted to Avatars (strictly female… though I would have hooked up with the king with dread locks before he died) that I no longer think I can hook up with women. I know I can sometimes exaggerate, but I’m completely serious about this. I don’t think I will ever hook up with woman unless she’s 12 feet tall, has blue skin, and knows how to ride on the back of a terradactyl.

Since the end of the movie I have only listened to Pandora (rain forest station), as it makes me feel closer to my future wifey and even changed my interest on Okcupid from ‘women’ to ‘tall aliens that own and operate bow and arrows’. I then searched the internet of a porn site consisting of  strictly Avatars… unfortunately I didn’t find one, but did end up masturbating to a website that houses pictures of girls giving handjobs to the Travelocity gnome. It wasn’t Neytiri, but was surely a close second. It’s now close to midnight and I plan to watch the movie for the third time after publishing this blog (after I landed I called out of work to watch it for a second time. I told them I was sick… love sick).

On Photoshop Trying To Turn Myself Into An Avatar,

Daniel Dickey

Due to both of our quick wit and lack of editing inappropriate comments, I often have interesting conversations with my mother. This was our conversation this morning.

(This is a picture of my mother and I at my Bar Mitzvah…three days before my 19th birthday…I skipped a lot of Hebrew school).

Mom: What are you doing?
Me: Just got out of the gym.
Mom: How’s the weather?
Me: Cold and rainy.
Mom: It’s 70 degrees here. You ready to move back home?
Me: Mom, New York is my home.
Mom: Danny just come home, I’ll cook for you.
Me: Mom I got bitches cooking for me.
Mom: Jt moved home. I bet his mother is feeding him good.
Me: Yeah he did move home. You know what happened? He got fat and he’s not getting any poon.
Mom: Danny you have your whole life to get poon. I’m not going to make you cheese omelets forever.
Me: Mom, don’t even joke about that shit. You know how much I love cheese omelets.
Mom: Didn’t you say Tara (my wonderful roommate) was out of town? I bet you’re really missing your momma right now.
Me: Actually being home alone reminds me of being in your womb.
Mom: Danny, what’s wrong with you? How do you think this stuff up?
Me: I’m a scientist.
Mom: I sometimes wonder how you’re my child.
Me: Well ever since you started listening to country music I often wonder how you’re my mother.
Mom: You hear that? That’s you sister, Paris, eating the breakfast I cooked…her second serving.
Me: Maybe she should have stopped at one. She’s 12 and has boobs the size of my head.
Mom: (to my sister) Paris your brother says if you’re boobs don’t get smaller you’ll never be able to marry a Jonas Brother. (to me) She said if your mouth doesn’t get smaller you’ll never be able to marry anyone.
Me: That’s fine with me. You know I’m all about fingering hoes.
Mom: What did you just say?
Me: (casually backtracking) I said I had my finger in my nose.
Mom: No you said fingering hoes. I told you about using that language in front of me.
Me: Mom you want me to lie to you? I can’t help that I love vaginas.
Mom: I’m happy you love vaginas. (to sister) Paris cover your ears. (to me) I don’t want to hear about your love for vaginas.
Me: Would you rather me love dicks?
Mom: Yes. Love dicks.
Me: I can’t. I love vaginas.
Mom: I’m going to throw my phone at you.
Me: Mom, since I’m in Brooklyn and you’re in Florida, I don’t think it will hit me.
Mom: Oh ha ha Danny. Didn’t you call me crying last week about Stephanie?
Me: No. What are you talking about? Shut up!
Mom: (mimicking me) Mommy, I’m so sad.
Me: Stop it!
Mom: (still mimicking me) Peaz mommy I miss my girlfriend. I just watched, When Harry Met Sally, and I’m soooo sad.
Me: Mom…I’m getting on the train.
Mom: Ok, I love you.
Me: I love you too.
Mom: Call me in the morning.
Me: Ok. Bye.
Mom: Bye.
Me: Oh Mom?
Mom: Yes.
Me: Fingering hoes!!!! (I hung up before she could respond)