Everyone has regrets. Your friends, your coworkers, my parents, the world is full of people who made bad choices and lived to feel bad about it, but maybe it’s a learning experience that we are able to feel regret, something we can internalize and use to grow and become better people. Or maybe some of us are fools who keep doing and regretting the same things over and over again in some horrible cycle of self loathing.
You wake up one day and look at yourself in the mirror and there, just there, beyond your ear, you see it. A wing. A tuft of fur that refuses to be placated by the addition of water or the use of a comb. Maybe you can use product to force it down but the fact is it’s been some weeks since your last hair cut and your head, now fully healed from the last barberic onslaught (see what I did there? Clever as hell, yo) has taken upon itself to make one of two decisions all human hair can make – afro or mullet. The afro or the mullet are the two natural stages of human hair, they are where your hair wants to be and what your hair continually strives towards while you continue to fight against it. And today you’re losing.
The normal amongst us would go and get a new haircut when this unruly problem arises but some of us, strapped for time, or just lazy, maybe intoxicated and in the middle of an online comedy article, think “Meh, my electric razor has a trimmer right here” and so you figure you can just give yourself a quick trim and your hair will be fine. But it’s not fine, is it?
Whether it’s the hair on your head, a beard, your chest hair or, God forbid, a touch of the below the belt landscaping, all of us have at some time made an egregious slip of the razor and clearcut a swath like we were out in the rainforest making room for cattle to graze. And once it happens your first instinct, for some insane reason, is to keep cutting in the hopes you can make it look natural in the surrounding areas. But you never will. You just butchered yourself and you refuse to stop doing it.
The worst part of this chicanery is, of course, that maybe in a few weeks, maybe in a few years, you’ll wake up and see the same problem and, fully aware of what happened last time, you’ll try it again but decide you’ll be more cautious this time. And this time you’ll do it on the other side or your head or junk or whatever. Tsk tsk.
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In fairness, this one is harder to manage than hair cutting as booze will slightly alter your brain’s perception of just what is and is not a good course of action for the evening. But the next day, after you send 50 texts to your ex proclaiming how you love them, miss then, masturbate to them, hate them and how they can suck your ass for not responding, none of which were spelled correctly, you’ll make that solemn promise to never do this again. Never ever will you get so drunk and make such a fool of yourself.
If you’re 21 or so right now, that last paragraph will not be nearly as funny to you as it is to someone 10 years older who knows that no, you won’t stop. You never do. Unless your drunkenness has lead to the death of another human being, odds are you’ve not hit rock bottom enough to actually stop drinking and change your ways. And so while now you may think sending a text message to that girl at work you like about how maybe sometime you could go to the bathroom with her and watch her pee sounds like just a terrible idea, after a dozen Jaeger bombs and some Listerine you’re going to be wondering why you never asked her before because it’s the simplest way to see her pee.
Eating Foods We Can’t Eat
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Do you like hot wings? Indian food? Jerk chicken? Ha. Jerk. Anyway, we all have at least one food that we really enjoy, something maybe too spicy, too acidic, too full of opium for our own good that we promise ourselves we’re never going to eat again until the next time we find it at a reasonable price or someone offers it to us or it’s 2 am and they still deliver and screw you, I’m an adult, I’ll do what I want. And that’s cool, live large, playa. Just remember what happens the next day.
If you’re a decent human being, you never talk about diarrhea, but this is Break and we do what you cannot do. So let’s just put these cards on the table – a plateful of slightly undercooked, suicide hot chicken wings is going to burn such a flaming, rage-filled trail out of your colon that the toilet paper roll will be stained with tears long before you manage to crawl whimpering from that bathroom. I know this because I have done this. More than once. At some point you, too have let your cravings take precedence over what your insides warn you about time and time again. And the result has been the catastrophic laying to waste of your insides.
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Your crotch is a moron. It can’t be trusted. The longer you live, the more likely it becomes that at some point, on some sad, desperate, lonely night, maybe after drunk texting your ex, you will agree against all sense and good reason to spend the night with a person who makes the Real Housewives seem like balanced, well adjusted human beings.
Sexual desire continually trumps good judgment, all over the world. And the worst part is, the desire is for the sex, not the partner, and that’s how people on TLC continue to end up having children. No one would willingly hump 95% of rock stars if the idea of the sex and the perceived glamor didn’t supersede the terrible reality of the partner involved.
The human desire to lay the hump down on something, anything, becomes so strong after you haven’t had it in a while that no amount of rational argument will stop you from accepting a willing partner even if it’s a one-legged CHUD that smells like salami. Don’t believe us? Check out Adult Friend Finder some day. That joint’s tragic.
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Yeah, but what are ya gonna do?