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

LOL I think this is hilarious. Therefore I am posting it so you too can giggle like I have for the past minute. If you haven’t already done so, why not take this opportunity to subscribe to my blog. What’s in it for you? Guaranteed laughs, free cookies, and if you’re ever in New York you can always crash on my couch*.

*After letting some random guy from Virgina who reads my blog regularly stay on my couch for a week, I’ve decided one night is probably the maximum time someone can stay on my couch. I still love you all madly, but after walking into my house to see a random kid who reads my blog sleeping on my futon with a naked prostitute laying next to him, I decided it’s better to keep our relationship fun and filled with some unknown (unknown being your addiction to Asian prostitutes and pooping with the door open).

Also if you haven’t seen it yet, check out www.StuffJewishPeopleLike.com

Daniel Dickey

Worst investment…ant farm. Those ants didn’t plant shit!

As I sat on my throne(ugly wooden chair I found on 14th street) yesterday, I starting thinking about all the toys and treasures I collected in my youth. Thankfully I had a mother who understood how important action figures, hot wheels, and Dr Seuss books were, because I had a lot. I also had a bunch of ‘other toys’. They were the toys that my mother refused to buy me…mostly guns, dildos, and ’silly shit’, as she would call it. Two of the things she categorized as ’silly shit’ was, sea monkeys and an ant farm. Truthfully, I thought she was fucking nuts. At 8 years old I was sure they were God’s gift to children…well, at least children with mothers who really loved them(my mom occasionally reads my blog. Now she’ll know the pain she put me through as a child).These were the only things I ever wanted growing up(I also wanted the book, White Fang, and after three years of bitching and swearing to God that I would read it if she bought it, she bought it for me. To this day I’ve never read that book, and don’t plan to because the wolf on the cover looks like a douche bag). Back to my story.

Well my shitball sister went to our dad’s house one weekend, without me, and secretly convinced him to order her a sea monkey kit from the weekly elementary school paper…you might remember it as, Highlights or Scholastics(and that sneaky little bitch wonders why I made her sleep in the basement when she came to visit me in New York). Yeah, you should of seen my face when I walked into her room and saw little sea monkeys swimming all around. She saw me and smiled, as if saying, “oh look at this little bitch, wishing he had some sea monkeys”. I was livid. I tried spitting on her, but her fan was on high and it just flew back into my eyes. I punched her wall, walked out, and ran right into my mom room crying like the little dick sniffer I was. “GOD DAMN IT!!!!!! WHY DOES ARIELLE HAVE SEA MONKEYS?!?!?!” My mother was taking a nap. She woke up, threw a pillow at me and said if I didn’t shut up the fuck up she was going to put me up for adoption. I left the room and decided I was going to light the house on fire…I later decided this would be stupid, because I would end up killing the sea monkeys. So I did the second best thing, I stole the sea monkeys and peed all over my sisters bed. This too didn’t work out so well, because when my sister walked into her room and saw someone peed on her bed and stole the sea monkeys, she got a butchers knife and told me she was going to stab me. I screamed bloody fucking murder and climbed out my window onto the roof. She locked me out and slept in my bed. My mother’s nap went all through the night and around 3-4am I feel off the roof and broke my legs.

The next day my family felt so bad that I feel off the roof ‘while trying to install a American flag’, as my mom told them, that my grandmother bought me an ant farm. And at that moment in time, it was all worth it…I had won, I had broke legs, but I had an ant farm. I sat in my bed for days just starring at my little ants dig tunnels, and do other ant things. I was the happiest boy in the world. Even when I woke up and saw my sister drew two giant purple dicks on my casts, I was still in a good mood. I loved life….until I realized this ant farm sucked. Why did they call it an ant farm? They didn’t farm. They didn’t plant shit. They just walked around and ate sand. I decided if I had to fall off a roof to get this, I better get my monies worth. I started playing games like, flood the farm and put the farm in the microwave. Both the ants and I started having way more fun. Next I took my little ants out to the park to meet friends. I thought they might like to meet Mr. Dragon Fly…and I was right, they thought he was delicious. Then I found another ant pile and got ready for a gang fight. I spent the next ten minutes catching ants and sticking them in the farm. It was worth it, as watching them kill each other was a lot more fun than watching them build tunnels. Sadly, even this got boring after a while, and when my sister walked up and asked, “what’s it like having Barnie’s dick on your legs?” I knew how I’d solve my ant farm problem.

As my sister slept in her piss bed that night I dumped that stupid ant farm all over her. After I felt the ants had evenly dispersed all over her body I took that stupid sea monkeys jar and poured that shit all over her head. I said a prayer to myself, crawled back to my room, opened up one of the Dr. Seuss books my mom had bought for me, and laughed the night away.

Trying to return my White Fang book,

Daniel Dickey

Kanye West,

You are an arrogant, egotistical, pretentious fool of a man. Your talents as a entertainer are diminished by your foul flaws as a person. Your obnoxious actions and shameless self-absorbed behavior are true examples of your pompous ego and are unrelenting reminders of how not to carry ourselves as adults. The general masses in America, and the world for that matter, find the most satisfaction supporting one of their own. We experience gratification seeing one similar to ourselves succeed, as it suggest the same is possible for us. But Mr. Kanye West you are unlike any other. I would think it safe to assume you would take that statement as a compliment, wearing it as a badge of your inability to create mediocrity, when really it should be a hood, used to cover your face from the shame you continue to bring upon yourself. Your childlike temper tantrums are not only crass and uncultured, but hideously embarrassing to you and those around you, causing many to question your mental state. I do not know you personally and therefore will not try to analyze what or who you are at your core, but judging by the flawed figure you present yourself as, you are a rotten, bitter centered man. One can only hope your sold out concerts stay sold out, or maybe, just maybe, you might be forced to come to terms with your ugly persona.

Watch the video here

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4dXqrdyAs0

Disgusted by your lack of respect for you and those around you,

Daniel Dickey

So I’ve been moving for the past week and don’t have Internet till September 9th (obviously why I have been slacking on keeping everyone up to date with my peculiar life). Rest assured the wait will be worth it…in the past week I meet Rihanna, had my new apartment raided by the NYPD gang squad at 6:30 in the morning, and filled out an application to buy a cougar…as you can see things are just normal. Just normal and wonderful.

Still under the influence of last night,

Daniel Dickey

It’s a grey day for my aging body.

Two months ago, after days of careful and emotionally painstaking scrutiny, I admitted to myself and those closest around me that I had my first grey hair. It was located on the front left side of my scalp, inches from my forehead and centimeters above my sideburn. Though only a single wave in the thick ocean of my perfectly maintain baby jew fro, when the wave that is this cock sucking grey hair crashes into my young, vibrant black healthy hairs, it causes a rip tide, pulling my youth from my scalp and leaving it a dry beach full of dirty sand and seagull shit.

For weeks with my self esteem at its lowest, I was forced to cover all the mirrors in my apartment with gym towels, as all I saw was a deep sea of grey. I knew my life was coming to an end (First comes grey hair, then a hearing aid, and right after that you die. It says that in the bible). Looking for emotional support I called my mother to tell her of my uninvited frienemy. Unfortunately her response just sent me into a deeper panic. She said something similar to,

“A grey hair! What! I have eight brothers and none of them got grey hairs till they were in their thirties. Have you been eating? You’re not eating! I told you, you need to move home. You’re too skinny, you look like a small girl. You sure it’s not mayonnaise? You were always a messy eater. Make sure it’s not some kind of condiment. Have you been tested for cancer? God forbid, maybe you have cancer. You need to move home. Get on a plane now! I’m hanging up to make you a sandwich. Get to the airport! You want turkey or tuna?”

I then planned to just pull it out, until I read online that it would cause more grey hairs to come in. This could be completely wrong, but nothing was worth the risk of having TWO grey hairs. I decided to just cut it really short and gel all my hair around it to cover it. Nobody can see it anymore…but it’s there. I know it’s there…growing…plotting…being a little prick.

A couple months went by and I was doing a good job forgetting it was even there. Well, until today. What happened today? Oh you know, just noticed a grey hair ON MY CHEST! Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously, you’re just fingering my belly button, right? On my chest! Who gets a grey hair on their body before they turn 70? If looking at Internet porn all day caused grey hairs to sprout, then I would totally understand…but it doesn’t. In a self abusive panic I decided to light the grey chest hair on fire. Of course it hurt and I burnt the crap out of myself, but I did it to let all my other hairs know if they even think of going grey they are going to burn…burn mother fucker, burn.

Sidenote: I’m getting grey hairs on my head and on my body, but thankfully I can still find comfort knowing all of my pubs are still platinum blond. Platinum fucking blond.

Picking out caskets,

Daniel Dickey

For anyone considering moving to New York my advice would be to move right before summer. I hate the heat and the lack of centralized air conditioning in New York, but there’s nothing like the city in summer. I’ve just started to really get out and experience everything that is The Big Apple. The city is jam packed with entertainment, people (Though many are not ones you’d like to know, they all come to together to make New York what it is) and the most breathtaking parks and views.

I think after months of being stuck inside, cold and bundled up, young vibrant New Yorkers thrive off the warmth and picturesque scenery. In the past month I’ve watched the city begin to bounce to a different beat and I’m eager to see what the coming months have to offer. I plan to spend more time picnicking in the parks and stimulating my love for this city with constant exploration of everything it offers.

Sweating in my kitchen,

Daniel Dickey

(This is the last picture taken of my ex girlfriend and I. I am the kitten)

After rereading my most recent post I’ve come to realize my blog has went from a completely random, always absurd comedy forum, to a depressing, mangina filled, period packed, lifetime movie website. To all my readers that visit my site do to it’s constant absurdity and wild rants about midgets and foot fetishes, I want to apologize. Everyday of my life has been filled with insane thoughts and inappropriate ideas, but since my girlfriend peace outted me a couple weeks ago all I can think about is The Notebook, starting a diary, and drinking red wine while I listen to Norah Jones.

I’ve received much appreciated break up advice from readers, friends, my roommates, even my mother has been filling up my facebook wall with inspirational quotes and positive messages. I’ve taken all the advice and words of wisdom into consideration, but have decided on my own way to deal with this. I’ve decided going out and banging out some little Brooklyn hotties will not be beneficial. I’ve decided filling up every second of my time with something to do will not be beneficial. I’ve even decided that starting a new religion where we throw rocks at anyone that looks like my ex, will not be beneficial…well maybe. BUT I HAVE decided I will listen to sad music about love, drink large amounts of beer, wines, and liquors, and I will think about my relationship all the time. Will I start crying like a little girl who got mud on her new shoes? Yes. I’m going to be a little flower smelling bitch. I’ll be sad everyday. I won’t eat, talk, sleep, and will only masturbate thinking about my ex. I’ll be depressed every second. But guess what? One day I won’t be. One day I won’t care. One day I’ll be over it completely and there won’t be anything left. And on that day I will pee all over every copy of True Life: Summer Romance. Until then I will watch it everyday, crying like a gay kitten hungry for man milk.

Thank you for your continued support and naked pictures (Those have been really helpful with this whole shituation. I’m hoping girls starts sending them as well).

Buying a diary,

Daniel Dickey

So it’s been a little over a week since the reality of my failing relationship sunk in, and I’m happy to say I haven’t cried, thrown up, or contemplated suicide all day. To the average person that might not seem like a big deal, but to anyone who still currently lives with their ex girlfriend of 2 and 1/2 years that is dating other men, it’s a HUGE FUCKING DEAL. I will admit occasionally when she’s getting ready for one of her many dates, I will make a gun with my fingers and shoot myself multiple times in the face and head (Originally I would shoot myself in the heart, but then I realized I no longer have a heart. After Stephanie broke it, she threw it in the garbage). She has been somewhat helpful though…like when I said, “I don’t think you should sleep in our bed naked anymore. You know, since we are broken up. I think it would make things easier”. She said, “Yeah, I don’t know. I’d rather not”. Then when I asked her, “So do you like any other guys?” She said, “Yes, I like a couple. Matter of fact I will be sleeping out tonight”. Or when I asked, “Do you want to go out to eat and maybe watch a Broadway show tonight?” She said, “Not really, but I feel bad for you, so I’ll go. Just don’t try holding my hand”. So all of this has really helped me a lot! I do now know I have no desire to get back together, as a girl who could start talking to multiple people minutes after our relationship ended, is not someone I’d be interested in having a future with.

Side Note: I do feel you can and will become the image you portray, therefore I’m trying my best to portray a really funny, handsome, happy, muscular, single, cool, well endowed, successful, handsome, funny, happy guy. I feel a little better all ready.

Cleaning my finger gun,

Daniel Dickey