Thought Catalog

17 Experienced Guys Answer The Question ‘How Long Do You Have To Go Down On Her?’

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 08:00 PM PST

via twenty20/SashaNell
via twenty20/SashaNell

1. “As long as it takes? Really though, tongue cramps are a real thing. If it’s over fifteen minutes then I probably won’t be able to speak at all afterwards.”

—Nate, 26


2. “Simple answer is that you don’t have to go down on her at all but she’ll never love you if you don’t and she’ll tell all her friends and you’ll never have sex again.”

—Jackson, 23


3. “This really varies. I’ve dated girls that absolutely could not come from oral (or from my oral) but I’ve dated other girls that basically cum as soon as I’ve gotten to ‘D’ in the alphabet. I guess it depends on whether she’s comfortable with herself enough to relax and enjoy it.”

—Keith, 25


4. “I don’t do oral. I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings and I love women but I’ve just never liked the taste.”

—Richard, 20


5. “Twenty minutes is a looooong time for someone to have to go down on a girl. If she’s wanting more than that then she’s just being greedy.”

—Martin, 22


6. “If it takes longer than fifteen minutes or so then you should rethink your technique. Guys, ask her what she likes and don’t pressure her to get off.”

—Jonathon, 29


7. “A better question might be why do I ever have to stop going down on a girl? This is literally my favorite thing to do. I’m a huge fan of wrapping my arms around her legs and pulling her crotch into my face and holding her there. This pussy is mine!”

—David, 30


8. “It shouldn’t take longer than twenty minutes but I’ve noticed that even if you’re doing your best and really trying to get feedback on what feels good to her some women will not tell you either because they don’t know what they like or they’re too embarrassed to actually say the words.”

—Alex, 27


9. “If it’s taking a really long time then try nibbling the clit. Be very gentle at first and see what happens. I’ve dated girls that literally wanted me to flick it hard between my teeth but didn’t know it until I did it. Then they got off like crazy.”

—Melvin, 21


10. “I’m ashamed to say it but I’ve never gotten a single woman off through oral and believe me I’ve tried. Once spent forty minutes doing my best with the man in the boat and at the end of it she still hadn’t gotten off at all and I was completely exhausted.”

—Gary, 20


11. “The only times I’ve found this to be an issue is when the woman I’m with really isn’t present mentally. When that’s the case, no amount of oral skill or dedication is going to get her to orgasm. So, I just understand that sometimes she’s not going to be able to get there and it has nothing to do with me.”

—Adam, 31


12. “I’m willing to make myself uncomfortable in order for my girlfriend to get off but ladies, please, PLEASE, just tell us if it isn’t going to happen because it can get really painful after a while.”

—Bryan, 28


13. “I have to confess that I’ve never liked going down on anyone. I do it for as long as I have to because I’m expected to. But fair is fair. I know that not every woman (maybe even most women) really aren’t into blowjobs.”

—Darren, 27


14. “This isn’t ever a question I’ve asked myself. If my tongue gets tired then I just use my fingers and lips until it’s recovered. Besides, dudes who only use their tongues for cunnilingus are completely doing it wrong.”

—Oliver, 25


15. “It’s hilarious because up until last week I’ve never gotten tongue cramps before I’d made a woman cum. If a girl is 45 minutes into a deep muff session with no end in sight then maybe she should accept that she’s either not turned on or she’s not giving her dude good instructions.”

—Peter, 23


16. “If it takes longer than ten minutes then she’s not telling her man what she wants or he’s just ignoring it.”

—Sam, 30


17. “You have to go down on her for 15.634 minutes. If you go longer then your tongue will fall off and she will die. If you go for less time then you are a misogynist.”

—Tim, 24 TC mark

You Are A Girl Walking Into The Storm

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 07:15 PM PST

Close your eyes and think about that boy. Tell me how he makes you feel. Let your mind trace over his tired shoulders. Allow your thoughts to linger on that beautiful smile. Take a deep breath and try to put those dark thoughts aside. For once, let go of the reins you’ve wrapped so tightly around your heart. I know you are scared. Who could blame you? Love is a hurricane wrapped inside a chrysalis. And you are a girl walking into the storm. TC mark


Lang Leav’s new book Memories is now available via Amazon, + The Book Depository and bookstores worldwide.

17 People Reveal The Weird (And Incredibly Bizarre) Things They Do While Having Sex With Their Partners

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 07:00 PM PST

Twenty20 / cecileamposta
Twenty20 / cecileamposta

1. When she gives me a handjob, she sometimes pretends my dick is a stick shift, or a control stick of an airplane. It’s weird, yeah, but I get hard anyways.

– David

2. I love to unbuckle his pants and grab his semi-hard cock and slap him across my face. It’s so hot.

– Jessie

3. When I go down on my wife, I always greet her vagina. It makes her laugh. Always.

– Ian

4. I’ve smacked her face with my penis trying to do the windmill. If you don’t know what that is, it’s when a guy gyrates his hips to make his penis look like a windmill.

– Josh

5. We just recently got a pet guinea pig, so before we come, we “wheek,” which makes us laugh and gives us more time to have sex.

– Emerson

6. I always try to put it in the wrong hole.

– Damien

7. My boyfriend tries to make me queef when we’re having sex. It’s the weirdest thing, but I guess he likes it because it makes me laugh too.

– Anna

8. Ugh, I hate it when he quotes Spongebob during sex, but he always does it before I cum. It’s the fucking worst.

– Valerie

9. My partner and I are really into BDSM. My thing is to tie her up and grab some frozen fruit and put it on her stomach. She’d first cry out from the cold, but I’d go down from her collarbone down, eating the fruit and licking her with my warm tongue. Always a blast.

– Jay

10. We have tongue fights. Take that how you will.

– Lorenz

11. My husband does the most disgusting thing. He takes his penis and pretends the opening is a mouth. He uses his fingers to open it and close it like it’s saying something. And it’s always something along the lines of, “Hey Marisa, have sex with me,” or “Marisa, let’s boogie right now.” Such a weirdo.

– Marisa

12. When I’m going down on him, I make sure to kiss on his hips, because I like the way he buckles. He’s really ticklish, and I hate giving blowjobs, so I’m slowly trying to condition him to associate blowjobs with tickling.

– Natalie

13. I say, “Another one,” when she cums, like I’m DJ Khaled. She doesn’t like that, but she likes it when I go down on her.

– Patrick

14. I like to smack myself with her tits when she’s on top of me. God they’re amazing.

– Andrew

15. To get him hard, I rub his penis while whispering car names into his ear. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he knows he’s getting sex. It’s really funny. He does it to me with names of presidents. I get wet every time I hear the name Millard Fillmore now.

– Charlotte

16. We film ourselves having sex and we usually watch the previous session while we’re having sex.

– Quinn

17. As a joke, my wife once suggested we go to the bathroom to have sex while we were on a train. Now every time we want to have sex, one of us says, “Wanna go to the bathroom?” TC mark

– Nicholas

Some Thoughts On How To Love Better

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 06:14 PM PST

Twenty20 / sunnycph
Twenty20 / sunnycph

Love is an exhausting concept, feeling, experience, “thing,” that human beings never seem to tire of. From the great philosophers to modern scientists to ordinary people – you and I – we attempt to discern it, study it, define it, and most of all, experience it.

But what does it really mean to experience love? Some say that joy and happiness are the fruits of love. Others determine that love cannot exist without pain. Love is about giving and receiving, tears and laughter, living and dying; love is about sacrifice.

I’ve been thinking about love a lot lately. That’s not news. You probably have too. We’re all always thinking about love even when we don’t call it by its name. We think about the loves that we’ve had and won, and the loves that we’ve lost. We think about the loves that could have been and would have been, and the loves that were never meant to be – the latter of which are the toughest loves to accept. But mostly I’ve been thinking about how to love better.

We’re all always thinking about love even when we don’t call it by its name.

A few quotes come to mind: “We accept the love we think we deserve,” from the movie, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. “You are terrifying and strange and beautiful, something not everyone knows how to love,” and “I’m sorry that you were never truly loved and that it made you cruel,” from the poetry of Warsan Shire. “I don’t want to be a sweetheart, I want to be the fucking love of your life,” from Chimamande Adichie’s Americanah.

I love these quotes, I do. I think of them and how they are mostly about how we wish to receive love, or not receive love. Or they’re about that space between the love we want and the love we have. But they always seem to be about the subject – the other and love. Not me, not you – not what we love or what we give in love, but the other. Am I even making any sense? Let me think of another quote.

“You are what you love, not what loves you,” from the movie, Adaptation. When I first heard this, it gripped me for days. And I thought about it strangely and deeply in the last few days and I realized in some Eureka! sort of way, that love should be about the self. Not in the way you think. It’s not that love is ultimately about what you are getting or giving, but rather that love and the way we love and who we love says something about us. And not just something – it says a lot about who we are.

It’s not that love is ultimately about what you are getting or giving, but rather that love and the way we love and who we love says something about us.

See, many of us think that if we can give love to someone, then by the essence of that gift, we are a better person for it. We’re not necessarily a worse person for it either but if it is human to love, then doing what is the most natural thing to us, doesn’t make us better (or worse). We also think that by virtue of loving someone, that we are owed love in return. We don’t like to think we hold this truth but subconsciously, many, if not all of us do. We’re taught it somehow from birth, and it’s why we break our own hearts so often throughout our lives.

We think too and perhaps most commonly in our modern romance, that we don’t choose love – that is just sort of happens. But what if everything we think about how we love and how we choose love is not serving love’s real purpose? What if the purpose of love is not to define what it is, but rather to define who we are by it? Maybe we can can be better at doing love. I wager that the succeeding thoughts are how to love better.

Love is part chance and part conviction. Look, God, and the universe and the stars and that last failed relationship, or that you chose that gym or moved to that city or were working on that assignment in that location, or walked into that coffee shop, or swiped right or swiped left or whatever you said and did, or didn’t say and do, to meet your person at that particular moment, is chance. (Let that run-on sentence be.) It’s a lucky one-in-a-million chance. But at some point you had to say, “Yes. I choose you. Let’s do this.” You had to make a choice. Your choice is your conviction.

Love is a confession of character. I go back to that Adaptation quote – “You are what you love, not what loves you.” If you think about it carefully, you will do a little dance right at this very moment, and be eternally grateful. Because that means that you can love people who are extraordinary, and wonderfully sad. You can love people who are kind and generous and intelligent and conversational and weird and happy and funny and fun and adventurous and complicated, in the most iridescent, life-altering way possible. You can love people who are terrifying and strange and beautiful. (Thank you Warsan.)

Love is a confession of character.

You don’t have to love people who are angry and jealous and cynical and hateful; people who give you more pain in a life filled with so much of it already. Because your love is a confession of your character, let the people who you love tell the world who you are. And even if and when those people cannot return that love in the same way, let it speak of the beauty and the resilience of your soul. And last but most certainly not least, let your love be the most spectacular thing about your life.

I know – we’re not supposed to say these things out loud. We’re all supposed to walk around afraid to ask for what we really need, afraid to take risks, afraid to give everything for the chance of getting absolutely nothing in return. Because not being afraid to love is foolish and reckless and rare.

But I think you should be afraid. I think you should be entirely nervous about the kind of love you want and the kind of love you are. I think when you realize that your days are short and numbered and temporary, you should be very afraid to love. But because of these very things too, you choose that fear and you move forward with it in love anyway.

And I’m not just talking about loving someone, anyone. I’m talking about becoming the kind of person and being the kind of love that says, “Yes.” The kind of love in which you confesses that you are hopeful and beautiful and sacrificial and exceptional and always a little bit or a lot, afraid. But still always ready to let your love be spectacular – risks considered, foolishness felt, rarity endured. If we do this, how can we not love better? TC mark

If You Can Read This, There’s Still Time: Your Official Warning Regarding Transdimensional Lizard People

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 06:00 PM PST

Flickr / WedlockPictures
Flickr / WedlockPictures

You are probably going to read this and think that it's a joke. That's what It wants you to think. It assumes, like most people, you won't bother to look between the lines. You've got your own problems, your own mouths to feed. You have work in the morning and no time for bullshit. Right now, all you want is a well-crafted lie with a nice tidy bow on it that says:


A bit of free advice: if someone tries to sell you on that reality, start running. They are not your friend. They are a fucking lizard person. And no, I'm not saying that they are ACTUALLY a lizard person. Lizard people don't really exist. Physically speaking, they are more similar in appearance to amphibious anamniotes like the newt. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

You're not going to want to believe any of this is true or that I'm actually talking to you specifically, but I am. Make no mistake about it. I've typed your name into this document a thousand times but It keeps erasing the words. There is a limit to my power. A limit that It skirts wherever possible, so please, pay close attention.


One night when I was seven, I awoke from a deep sleep to hear a sound outside my bedroom window. At least it started as just a sound. It was eerily beautiful; like a choir of robotic angels with Casio keyboards for vocal chords.

Then the sun came up (it was the middle of the night and of course what I was seeing wasn't really the sun; that's just how my child's mind interpreted it). At some point, I had begun to hover above my bed and then my window opened all on its own and I glided out through it.

I was carried up into the night, growing higher and higher until the false sun's cold yellow light began to envelope me. That's when I was told the truth about what we perceive to be reality. What It calls "the real truth" and that knowledge is normally something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy (It already knows everything anyway, but that's neither here nor there.) Everything I'm about to tell you is for your own good.

I awoke the next morning to find that the world around me had taken on a number of changes, the most important of which being that I had become essentially clairvoyant. Just to reiterate: at seven years-old, I was fully prescient. You can only imagine the difficulties this caused for me, growing up. But that's yet another story and as it stands, you barely have enough time to hear this one.

When I use the term "clairvoyant," you probably pictured me gleaning the future from little movies that played out in my mind's eye like clips from the "Next Time On…" for some gritty HBO series. Sadly, the truth wasn't nearly as convenient. See the way that all of this actually works? Time and space and destiny and that kind of stuff?

All of it is more-or-less dependant on a species of fourth-dimensional shapeshifters that, in their natural state, resemble vaguely reptilian bipedal lifeforms who we're going to call "Smegheads" because "secret amphibious world-building dicks" is a little wordy. (Also, Jesus… I don't say this stuff out loud a lot and sometimes I forget just how dick-in-a-doughnut crazy it must make me sound. I mean, I knew but WOW. Anyway…)

As fourth-dimensional beings, Smegheads perceive time differently than you or I. They also don't age and are basically immortal. It's worth noting that Smegheads CAN be killed, but it requires something comparable to a sun collapsing on them.

Now, at the point in a species' evolution where they become essentially un-dead-able, something interesting happens. Quality entertainment becomes more sought after than a hot girl with good credit and three breasts. If you find that hard to believe, just think about it like this:

Since no one can die, the general population has to stop reproducing to keep itself in check (they could just go super gay, but I guess that means we can add "apparent homophobes" to the list of things that make Smegheads suck, but it's starting to feel a little needless at this point).

And even though the Smegheads would probably never admit this, in some ways fourth-dimensional lizard people are actually pretty similar to us puny three-dimensional primates. Specifically, since their every action was no longer ultimately motivated by the constant desire to get laid, they were very likely to stop caring about anything else.

Which is why, in an effort to stave off a growing species-wide apathy, Smegheads began a movement to use their ability to engineer three-dimensional universes to create the most truly perfect medium of entertainment that would ever exist. They began to break that shit down to a science. Namely, OUR science.

In the simplest terms, Smegheads had the ability to create what is generally referred to in our reality as "everything" and seemingly from scratch (though "from far enough away" and all that). Meaning, all of those various divisions of unflappable rules we call "Chemistry" and "Physics" and all of that, Smegheads dreamed it up. Every last natural law. Oh, and that ever-expanding universe that we live in? It's nothing more than the byproduct of a period in popular Smeghead culture when fabricating elastic universes that comprised of big spinning balls of chaos was all the rage. The version that we're currently running just so happens to be a variant specifically designed to spawn sentient life. Lucky us, huh?

Now, if you were somehow able to follow the preceding paragraphs, then congratulations. You are a lunatic. Also, fair warning. From here, it's only going to get worse: I've explained all of the above so that I can provide some context as to why It gave me the ability to perceive Smegheads…and I mean all of them; not just the few truly unlucky suckers who got roped into having to portray permanent roles in our visible reality like powerful heads of state or CEOs of multibillion dollar corporations; the ones that are actually dumb enough to let their human disguises slip from time to time….

I mean all of them, but ESPECIALLY the billions of completely invisible Smegheads sentenced to forced labor in this three-dimensional universe and whose collective efforts act as a proverbial "hand of fate."

What that means is these lesser smegheads are essentially slaves forced to use their ability to alter space and time to orchestrate the type of events that we call "karma" or, if you'd prefer to sound like a radio personality from the 1940s, "comeuppance."

Their actions are dictated by whole armies of unseen "directors" tasked with generating an endless supply of live around-the-clock entertainment they can then record and package for the amusement of the rest of the Smeghead masses.

Of course, there's still stuff like coincidence and random chaos and all of that, but honestly? Hasn't there been at least one moment in your own existence where you were pretty much certain that the universe had a super sick sense of humor?

Well, that was probably the work of Smegheads. They're big fans of anything cruelly ironic and are often drawn to acts of extreme selfishness and/or depravity. They find human emotions inherently amusing and are impressed whenever they discover someone who appears to act in direct defiance of any type of moral compass or a basic understanding of right and wrong (and yes, that means Hitler was almost certainly their fault — basically the Smeghead equivalent to the films of Michael Bay).

Once you've watched the Smegheads long enough to learn how to identify the signs when you see them, it actually becomes quite easy to spot what's coming before it happens. Sort of the same way that you can always guess the killer in a Law and Order episode by picking the most famous guest star.

Alright, it's a little more complicated than that, but like I said, we don't really have time for me to waste on stuff like perfectly accurate analogies. So I'll just tell you about the traffic accident that was destined to kill 44 people — including my mother.


She had carpooled to work for years without incident and then one day when I was about 12, I spotted one of her coworkers pulling up to my house. I had just started heading toward my bus stop at the end of the block but then I saw the approaching sedan and it froze me in my tracks. There were three Smegheads perched on the roof of the car.

Of course, by this point I was already well acclimated to their customs. These particular Smegheads weren't looking at my mom or anyone in the car itself, which meant the pending accident was most likely karmic retribution for someone completely unrelated — my mother and the rest were merely collateral damage. I knew it was going to be an accident based on the Smegheads' color.

The ones bound to our reality are able to interface with it through some sort of physiological process that is reflected in their appearance and body language. Neutral colored smegheads like white or gray meant that some kind of accident was about to take place (white represented innocent targets; gray, not so much). Red Smegheads meant an act of intentional physical violence was going to occur, yellow and orange represented varying levels of natural disaster, and so on.

As soon as I saw the squatting Smegheads, I sprinted back towards my house. I cut across the front lawn so that I could block my mom's path just as she exited the front door. I began to beg her to stay home with me, though the only excuse my panicked 12 year-old brain could think of in that moment was that I was about to have diarrhea and I was probably going to miss the bus, meaning she would need to give me a ride to school.

With a roll of her eyes, my mother sighed and went to tell her coworkers to leave without her as I hurried back inside. When I heard her re-enter the house a few moments later, I made a good show of imitating the groans and other various sounds one tends to produce during a dehydrated bowel movement. You should probably make a note of that:

If you're going to try and secretly save people from their own fateful demise, theatrical skills are something you'll want to hone.

And, sure. Out of context, it might not have been my proudest moment, but it was also kind of hard to feel embarrassed about my actions after the morning news began to report on the vicious pile-up that had just occurred not a mile from our home. It claimed 43 lives, including everyone in my mom's morning carpool.

For what it's worth, she never questioned the validity of my bathroom breaks again. What a happy ending, right? That's what I thought too. Turns out I was a fucking idiot.

"Oh my god," I heard my mother say with a gasp as I finished filling the toothbrush-cup with water and began to pour it into the toilet in slow spurts.

"What?" I shouted through the closed bathroom door while making sure to feign a vaguely uncomfortable tone. I could hear the TV in the kitchen though and already had a pretty good grasp on the outcome. As I turned back to refill the cup, the cabinet below the sink flew open and a single Smeghead began to crawl out.

Its wrinkled, sinewy skin was a shiny black that I had yet to catalog before. The fact that I COULD see them had never seemed to be of much interest to the Smegheads until now and before that moment, I hadn't had one even so much as return my gaze. So it was a bit of a shock when this Smeghead tackled me to the floor.

It straddled me and knelt with its knees buried in my shoulders, pinning me in place. I started to scream and the Smeghead jammed its slimy, disfigured hand into my mouth. My body went rigid as what felt like a massive static shock tore through me. My vision blurred and then faded to black.


When I could see again, I found myself watching my own earliest memories as they played out in a fast forward sequence. I realized it was actually the Smeghead doing this. It was digging through my memory in an effort to figure out how I could see them. Once it got to the night of the false sun, the replay finally stopped and the Smeghead began to implant a story from its own memory into mine.

In the memory, there was a tiny opening beneath our world. It was about the size of a golf-hole right now, but much, MUCH deeper. The opening led to a hole in the ceiling of a prison cell. It had called this cell home for a very VERY long time and was far too big to fit through the opening I had seen. But then my mom didn't get into her coworker's car and the opening got a little wider.

I had prevented something that was supposed to happen and, based on the arbitrary rules dictated by what the Smeghead directors have conditioned us to think of as "fate," my doing so resulted in a paradox. Apparently, paradoxes caused a lot of wear and tear on that whole fabric-of-space-and-time thing.

From what the Smeghead showed me, I deduced that It knew that causing enough paradoxes would eventually make the hole big enough to escape through and into our universe. And based on what I saw next, I'd choke the life from my mother with my own bare hands if it could prevent THAT from happening.

The Smeghead showed me why It was put in that cell. I'll spare you, but let's just say that if you knew the reason, you would applaud my hypothetical matricide. So then why don't I just tell you?

A) I'm not going to force any more horror on you than I need to right now and B) Fuck you, dude. You think I wanna sit here and try to conjure up enough synonyms for "terrifying" and "needlessly cruel" to properly describe that shit? If so, I kindly suggest that you eat ALL of the dicks.

The solution was thankfully a lot less demanding than that though, right? Just don't try to change the future anymore. It's soooooo simple and if you really believe that it would be easy to constantly see what's coming and KNOW that you can't do a goddamn thing about it, then the guy eating all of the dicks can fill you in on the rest.

Like in August of 2001, when I attended a class trip to New York City. I had been asleep the night we first touched down at JFK and didn't actually lay eyes on the World Trade Center until that next morning. Still, I could tell something was not right. The entire city was crawling with blood-red Smegheads and when I finally came in sight of the Twin Towers themselves, that "crawling" turned literal.

What had to be thousands of them were moving up and down the sides of either building to the point where the towers resembled two giant overrun anthills. I was 17 then and in the 10 years since I had started seeing them, I'd become quite accustomed to the general site of Smegheads. But when I first saw this, I nearly lost my shit. Both metaphorically AND for-realzies.

My first instinct had been to run, but I was on a tour with my class and bolting wasn't really an option. I briefly considered trying to figure out a way to keep any of us from having to go inside, but I was worried that the effect would somehow trigger another paradox and who knew what I'd find under my sink then?

There were so many Smegheads crawling along the outside that they blotted out most of the sunlight, draping every floor we visited in the somber darkness of its impending doom. Eventually, I figured out why they were crawling up the sides of the buildings: each Smeghead was tracking its assigned victim as their targets moved about the tower.

Needless to say, I was the only one who noticed any of this and the thing that made it truly surreal was that everyone around me was smiling and laughing and talking like nothing was wrong. Because it wasn't — not yet at least.

Of course, a tiny little retarded part of me kept insisting that I needed to tell someone, but who would I tell and what would I even tell them? I knew this epic act of intentional violence, whatever it would be, wasn't going to take place for at least a couple of weeks. Red smegheads emit a low hum that becomes increasingly louder as the violent event grows closer. At that point, the ones crawling up and down the towers were still relatively quiet.

But that was all I knew and, as you can clearly see, it wasn't exactly the easiest thing to explain. Eventually though, I broke down and as a compromise with little retarded me, I went and found a pen and hid in the bathroom where I scribbled a brief warning on the back of the stub from my admission-ticket:

In a month, everyone here will be dead.

I figured, What could it possibly hurt?

Now remember that this was of course, PRE-911 and at the time my idea didn't seem absolutely boneheaded like it does today, where it would probably get me sent away to some secret CIA black site where they would ask me the kind of questions that require jumper-cables on your genitals to properly answer.

As we were passing the front counter on our way out, I casually pulled my phone from my pocket and "accidently" dropped my ticket stub in the process. A few minutes later, while we were outside and waiting to cross the street, I heard someone say, "Excuse me, sir?"

I turned around to see a Smeghead standing behind me dressed as a security guard with my ticket stub clutched in its hand. The Smeghead held up my stub and said, "I think you dropped this back there."

I'm pretty sure I was the only one who could see the blurry protrusion which suddenly darted out from the Smeghead's mouth and jabbed me in the chest as it spoke. Most of of my class couldn't even recall seeing the security guard; all they remembered was us exiting the building and then me suddenly falling in front of an oncoming bus.

I was still in recovery when the attack on the World Trade Center took place and I watched the second tower go down from my hospital bed. The one tiny sliver of a silver lining was that I no longer regretted trying to warn them. Sure, I've got an elbow that will never retain full range of motion and a knee that still clicks when it rains, but that definitely beats the guilt of thinking that I could've possibly prevented 9/11. SO fucking worth it.

Now, this last part you're probably not going to like. You know how I've been referring to my little diatribe here as a warning? Well, that was a bit of a lie because "warning" implies that you had a chance of avoiding what was coming next. For the record, you never did.

And in case you haven't figured this next thing out yet, It has selected you to become the newest member in an ever growing army of possible paradox-causer. I've figured out a way to track them down one-by-one that I can't reveal here but the point of finding the newest recruits especially is so that I can tell you my story and warn you not to make the same mistakes I and probably countless others have already made.

I haven't gotten to everyone yet and sadly there are a lot of selfish idiots in this world, so god only knows how big that opening is by now. Just, please, heed my words:

The biggest favor you could possibly do for yourself is learn to ignore them. You're only other options are "unleash an eternal evil with the potential to devour our entire reality" or "end up a lonely freak show who has nothing better to do with his time than rant about invisible lizard people to strangers on the internet." And trust me; that last one isn't nearly as fun as it sounds. TC mark

Women Are Disappearing From My Town And I Think My Son Has Something To Do With It

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 05:00 PM PST

Flickr / Leon Fishman
Flickr / Leon Fishman

People look at me strange when I tell them that I have an 18-year-old son. I’m 33. When James and I go out, it isn’t uncommon for people to ask if he is my little brother. He could easily pass for being in his 20s, and so could I. The past 18 years haven’t been without their trials, but I like to think I did the best I could given the situation. During my freshman year of high school, I knocked up my girlfriend. Her parents were going to put the baby up for adoption, but my mom stepped in and helped me get custody.

My son is a straight-A student. He is a point guard for the school basketball team. I scrounged together enough money to get him a halfway decent car. He’s popular in all the ways I wasn’t. By the time I was his age, I had a two-year-old son, a GED, and a job at the local Pella factory. We live in a two-bedroom apartment duplex a few blocks from his high school. He does his homework without much prompting and spends his downtime with friends or in the living room kicking my ass at Call of Duty.

At one point, I thought he might be gay. I wouldn’t have cared, but I thought it was weird that a boy his age had never had a girlfriend. I asked him about it and he smiled. "No dad, I’m not gay,” he said. “I just want to wait until I’m a little older to get out there. Wouldn’t want you to be a grandfather in your 30s."

That was our sex talk. Between the internet and the sex-ed class I had to sign a permission slip for, I figured he knew the basics. A few months ago, he told me he going to out late. When I asked why, he told me he had a date. I didn’t ask any questions. I slipped him a hundred dollar bill and told him to be home in time for breakfast. He was a good kid. I trusted him.

After that, it became a semi-regular thing. He’d let me know on Friday afternoon he was going to be out late that night. Each Saturday morning, he’d be home sitting on the couch playing on the Xbox before I climbed out of bed. I never met any of his dates, but I figured he was keeping it to himself. Like I said, I trusted my son. He had a good head on his shoulders and I had no reason to suspect that anything was amiss.


I don’t normally watch the news. Between my Facebook feed and Twitter, I usually knew enough about current events not to care. For whatever reason, I found myself sitting in front of the television at five-in-the-afternoon and decided to watch the news. I kinda wish I hadn’t. The television switched from a commercial to showing the anchor sitting in front of the camera with a somber face.

"Later tonight we’ll cover a developing story,” she said. “Several area women are still missing as police look for clues as to whether or not the disappearances might be related."

We lived in a sleepy little town. The idea that something like that could be happening so close to home shook me a little. The idea that my son could be out and about with something like that happening in town scared me a little too much. I talked to him about it. He told me not to worry. James was a big kid. He stood just under seven feet tall and had a wide frame. I wasn’t worried about someone getting the jump on him, but as a big guy myself, I knew that having a large frame meant very little if someone else had a gun.

James assured me that I had nothing to worry about. Just to be safe I swiped his cell phone while he was asleep. I installed an app that allowed me to see his location at all times. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but I remembered being 17 and thinking I was invincible. I didn’t give it much thought. After setting the app to hidden mode, I put it back on the charger in the kitchen and didn’t pay it much mind after that. I figured if I ever got worried while he was out I could pull up the app on my phone and see his location. As long as it wasn’t too out of sorts I’d relax and go back to watching Netflix.


I started following the case of the missing women online. It was developing into a bit of a media sensation in our area. Six women had gone missing over the course of 10 weeks. They varied in age and appearance. No bodies had been recovered, but police were operating under the assumption that foul play might be involved. When the seventh woman went missing, my heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t seen Rochelle in 10 years. She came back around when James was about seven. She tried to do the mother thing, but didn’t have the chops for it. After a few months of broken promises and missed appointments I got filed a motion for the court to do a drug test. After she failed the test I had my lawyer file another motion stripping her of any visitation with our son. I didn’t want my son to have to deal with that.

It was Saturday morning and I was very apprehensive about going downstairs. James and I didn’t talk about his mother very much. She had spiraled out of control after giving birth to him and used just about any drug she could trade her body for. By the time she had come around to visit him, she had aged 20 years in only seven. Her arms were covered in track marks and her teeth were yellowed to the point of decay. To be honest, I was surprised she stayed alive long enough to be abducted. With a heavy heart, I approached my son in the living room.

"Son, we need to talk about your mother," I said.

James sighed and paused his game. "What did she do this time?" he asked, looking up at me.

I sighed. "She went missing last night. Police say there were signs of a struggle at her trailer."

James stared at the television like he was looking through it and unpaused his game. He continued looking forward. "Yeah, well that really isn’t news. Is it?"

James and I didn’t talk about his mother because he didn’t like talking about her. One of the main reasons I involved a lawyer was because during one of her visits she picked him up and took him over to her apartment. Apparently she had a few customers come by while my son sat on the couch. His first real visit with his mother turned into junkies sitting next to him on the couch as they plowed twenty bucks a pop to nail his mother. Three hours later, a guy James called Steven dropped him off at the house. He was there when I got off work. I asked him what happened and all we would say is that his mother didn’t want him there anymore. He had sat outside without a jacket for four hours.

Of all the things that could have happened to him, I was relieved more than anything that it had been so minor. I’d heard horror stories about situations like that which ended in much more gruesome outcomes. I immediately put James into therapy after that. Within a few years his affect returned to normal and the visits to the therapist became less frequent. Up until that night he had asked me about his mother about once every couple of months. In the time since I think he might have brought her up once.

The following week, he let me know he was going out on another date. My penned up worry manifested that night in pulling up an app on my phone. He drove to a random address on the other side of town and then out to a spot in the middle of nowhere. I installed the week several weeks prior and didn’t give it much thought. However I hadn’t been aware that it had been tracking his movements. According to the logs, he had been to that location in the middle of nowhere at least four times in the previous six weeks. I looked over his stops and his routes and noticed that one of the places he had been was Rochelle’s trailer the night she went missing. I was suspicious but unwilling to grasp what every cell in my brain would have been shouting out me if it was any other kid.

I threw my phone onto my bed and pulled a bottle whiskey from my nightstand. I drank myself to sleep and woke groggy the next morning. James was downstairs playing Dark Souls and eating a Poptart. I knocked back a Red Bull and stumbled out to my car. I had decided to go out to that spot in the middle of nowhere and check out where my son had been taking his dates. I really wish I hadn’t. I really, really wish I hadn’t.

Why I’m Not Overlaying My Facebook Profile Photo With The French Flag

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 04:53 PM PST

For a moment my fingers lingered in mid air while my cursor hovered over a button that, if clicked, would add a colored filter to my Facebook profile picture. Earlier that day, I had been moved by the hues of blue, white, and red littering my Facebook newsfeed, but as I examined the photo of myself — veiled in the colors of France — something stopped me from going through with it.

Following a flicker of curiosity, I searched to see if there was a similar overlay of the Lebanese flag. But, other than a few scattered links redirecting users to custom overlay websites, I found nothing. Shutting my computer off, I stared blankly ahead; stunned, but somehow not surprised.

As many of us already know, a series of attacks in Paris on Friday left over 120 people dead and several hundred wounded. The attacks catalyzed an immediate emotional reaction from people around the world — including myself. In addition to the millions of Facebook users who have adopted the French flag overlay, countless celebrities and politicians have flooded Twitter and other social media sites with words of support for the people of France.

Days later, the world is still in mourning.

On Thursday — less than 24 hours before the Paris attacks — the city of Beirut was shaken by a similar tragedy, an event that many of us altogether missed. The attacks in Beirut claimed the lives of 43 people, and left hundreds more injured. However, media coverage of these events has been scarce.

Compared to the frantic coverage of France, the tragedy in Beirut has failed to incite the same feelings of rage and compassion, and has been largely ignored on Western social media. This was made glaringly obvious on Facebook, where Lebanon's flag is missing from the choice of available overlays.

Most Westerners empathize more naturally with the struggles of other Western nations, and to feel compassion for France is not a bad thing. Yet, the contrasting reactions to these two, very similar attacks should be cause for concern or, at the very least, some reflective thought.

Though Facebook overlays may seem a trivial topic, they are based on extensive analytics and embody the reality that Western society routinely ignores the struggles experienced in certain parts of the world. And although we may not necessarily need a Facebook overlay for every atrocity occurring internationally, we ought to take a closer look at which tragedies have the power to send our societies into an empathetic frenzy, and which simply get overlooked.

Despite being surrounded by the colors of French patriotism, I decided to leave my profile picture untouched. Looking forward, I hope social media users will pay closer attention when tragedies occur in countries that contrast from their own. We are all capable of widening the scope of our compassion if we start taking a more critical look at which stories make it onto our news feeds, which overlays make it onto our profile pictures, and never stop asking ourselves why. TC mark

What Does ‘Humanity’ Mean To You?

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 04:15 PM PST

Twenty20 /des_tiny.lee
Twenty20 /des_tiny.lee

Every once in a while I conduct live broadcasts on Periscope. And recently I also released my book for free online. So some interesting questions have been coming my way. Recently a viewer whose name I unfortunately do not know asked me about the concept of humanity and the purpose of life.

For a moment I was speechless at the first question. While both are loaded topics, I was stuck on just how much the concept of humanity means to me. So I quickly answered the second question and said "love is the purpose of life," and then proceeded to elaborate as best as I could about humanity. But what I felt was a feeling, not a word. And what I saw was an image: Nelson Mandela.

I began to explain my conception of humanity starting from the basic fact that I believe we are all entitled to human rights by the very consequence of being human. I believe these rights to be inalienable and ever-present. From that base, I went on to describe humanity as best as I could in the moment. And now I am reflecting on that answer and think I need to elaborate a bit more.

We all have beliefs. Some that we would die for, some that we take for granted, and some that are based on what our hearts and minds dictate to us is real. What is real? Well, I guess that depends on what you believe.

But beliefs have torn societies apart, beliefs tear families apart, friendships, relationships, etc., and the list goes on. What do you do when your belief system is the reason for your downfall?

I ask you this question, but what I am really asking you to do is envision the question. Do you see an image? Experience a feeling? Feel an emotion?

I am thinking of these things at a multi-level, so however you reacted to that question, hold onto it, and come back to that thought once you get to the end of this piece.

Humanity is the right to experience your own reality, live out your destiny, and do it in the most harmonious, and peaceful environment possible.

Humanity is feeding a homeless man who hasn't eaten in over 36 hours with food that can sustain him until he can find his next meal.

Humanity is treating your enemy with the respect he or she is due as a consequence of existing in this world, and having enough respect for God to honor his place in the universe.

Humanity is love.

I am humanity.

You are humanity.

You are human, you are reading this, so therefore you are humanity. If you choose to be.

It's a choice really. Do you wish to help your fellow humans, or do you wish to tear them apart? Do you wish to uplift women from gender inequality, or do you not? Do you wish to empower children and have them be more integrated in society, or do you not? These choices are yours, and they are within your power as a human being to make.

But let's refocus for just a second, what then, does it mean to be human? Does it mean only serving our own species, or do you extend that same humanitarian nature to animals or the environment Who are you in this conversation? Are you humanity, or are you not?

How do you define humanity? And what does it mean to you? TC mark

Trauma: This Is How You Will Hurt

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 04:00 PM PST

Processed with VSCOcam with j1 preset
Audrey Reid

This is how you will hurt.

It will be a sunny day and you are still in your room, your curtains drawn to keep the light out, your body shaking under a blanket that just won’t warm you up, but then again, you haven’t felt warm since the day it happened. It is like he took every bit of warmth from your soul, and the only way you will ever feel warm again is if the entire sun grew inside of you.

Your mother is knocking on the door. You pretend you don’t hear her. Your greatest deception since it happened is trying so hard to be normal, and today you do not have the energy for it.

Today, you are going to stare into the darkest corner of your room and wonder why the darkness doesn’t do you a favour and swallow you whole.

This is how you will bleed.

You will only leave your house when the sky is filled with clouds and it is raining. You do not feel the need for warmth anymore. The only thing you feel is numb, your mind doing its bare minimum to hold itself together and your body doing its bare minimum to keep your bones from falling apart.
You have become robotic in gestures, fluent in nothing words and social cues.


"I’m fine, thank you." "How are you?"

It is only when you walk by his house, that your heart suddenly feels like it’s trying to claw its way outside you, you feel hot and cold at once, your breath quickens and your stomach churns like you are being force fed the universe and you can’t say no — even though you are full. So you throw up, right there on the pavement, so close to his door.

Almost where it happened. But not quite.


This is how you will try.

Your parents will take you to a therapist because they are so tired of asking you what’s wrong and you’ve run out of nothings to tell them. You’ve tried and they’ve tried, but the words just turn to ashes every time they try to leave your mouth. They start as fire in the pit of your stomach, but come out in a puff of smoke.

So here you are sitting in front of a person you have never met before, a stranger you need to tell all your secrets to. And for an hour, you just sit there trying to find the words to speak, but when you can’t even talk to your best friend, how do you speak to someone who doesn’t even know how to pronounce your name properly?

You are not you anymore. And you don’t know how to fix this. The worst part is…you don’t even know how to try.


This is how it will end.

Your parents are tired of trying to get you to speak. So the doctors recommend a place for you to go to. A place where they treat special cases like you.

It will be good. They promise. And when you come back, you will be better than ever – a new person almost. Recovery is a wonderful thing, you will see, when they open your mind up to understand what is wrong with you.

Recovery is a wonderful thing, they reassure you as you are led away to a car that doesn’t belong to your parents, bile rising in your throat, but your body doing what it’s told. You want to say no, you don’t want to go.

But your mouth no longer knows how to speak for your heart, nor your soul. Because to you, recovery is not a wonderful thing.

Recovery is just an eight letter word.

And so is insanity.

"I am fine." is just three words.

And so is: "He raped me." TC mark

21 Morgan Tookers Quotes That Will Give You Life (And Laughter)

Posted: 16 Nov 2015 03:00 PM PST

The Mindy Project
The Mindy Project

1. "Number two sexiest female organ: the butt. Number one sexiest female organ: the brain. The ba-donk-a-donk and the ba-think-a-think."

2. “You guys aren’t even famous enough to be in a feud. You’re just two basics having a bitchfest."

3. “This is the last time I’m going to say it: Saturdays are for one thing–cartoons.”

4. "Are you kidding me? A winky face? That's like emoji porn."

5. “It's not the outfit that makes nurses sexy – it's the helping people that makes nurses sexy.”

The Mindy Project
The Mindy Project

6. “I kissed my grandmother so tight on the lips this morning, she said, 'Get the hell off me.'”

7. “Sherbet is not ice cream. I just wanna make that clear."

8. "If he’s not exclusies, you’re not exclusies."

9. “Are you giving me the silent treatment? Okay, so the silent treatment doesn’t work. Grandmother gave me the silent treatment. She didn’t talk to me for eight months. I never stopped talking. Turns out she had a pretty severe stroke.”

10. “She's the whole package! Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.”

11. [referring to opposing basketball team]”Do they have more points? Yes. Do they have more skills? Yes. But do they have more heart? Yes! And that is why we are leaving right now.”

12. “He's using you for your perfect body and your cover girl looks, and you need to dump this scrub.”

The Mindy Project
The Mindy Project

13. “Whoa, weird energy in here. Is the ghost back?”

14. “I did play Effie White in the Otisville production of Dreamgirls. My cell mate said it was, 'better than solitary.'”

15. “Everyone’s got problems, okay? I’ve got a bad back, back hair, bacne, other stuff with my back…My front is a mess.”

16. “One time to get a girl back, I drove a motorcycle through a flaming hoop.”


Danny: “What are your strengths?”
Morgan: “Upper body.”

18. “You own 40 dogs and think one of them might be Air Bud but… no.”

The Mindy Project
The Mindy Project

19. “Think of the best, strongest warrior version of yourself. Give that warrior a name. Never tell it to anyone. Mine is Axehead Lundgren. (Come on, Morgan!) Okay, okay, then whatever he's doing to the warrior, he's not doing to you, so you find his weakness, and you tell your warrior to go get him.”

20. “Oh my feelings. My quuuuaaaallllmmmss. I have all these qualms.”

21. “Natalie Portman would throw up if she saw you.” TC mark