I am frequently asked for advice about how one might move away from a life of debauchery and sin to a simpler, happier existence consisting only of chanting, grooming one's inner downward-facing dog, and burning gluten-free kale incense.
Now, I know I'm not the hardest nipple on the tit (if you take my meaning) but I don't like to disappoint my fans by telling them the truth - "You're asking the wrong guy. I don't know. I was sick the day they taught stupid question class. And anyway I have never dared attempt to unravel that nagging little mystery, primarily because I don't give a fuck about gluten."
I couldn't do that to them. It would break their hearts.
So, in lieu of the truth, I tell them this:
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How might one make such a drastic life change? Well, when I was a kid...
(I'm allowed to say that because to a man of my age, maturity, intelligence, and palpable sex appeal, everyone under 35 is a damn kid.)
As I was saying, when I was a kid I did plenty of things that were pretty stupid.
Or, at the very least, they were highly unlikely not to have been stupid.
And they were probably generously, embarrassingly stupid.
Actually, due to the nature of those behaviors I can't be at all certain about the extent to which they were stupid, and in fact it could be argued that I was effectively absent during most of them. I just can't remember anymore. But I feel comfortable beginning at "poor decision making" ballparking somewhere near "where is the nearest ATM/late night burger joint" and rounding up to "why did I come into this room?"
Ah, those were the days. Young and stupid.
But as the years continued to pass, the memories started to dim.
Then one day I woke up in a makeshift tent under the highway, covered in my own vomit (at least I assumed it was mine. To quote Nigel Tufnel of Spinal Tap, "You cant really dust for vomit") wearing a stranger's soiled delicates, and sporting a painfully fresh tramp-stamp on my balls.
I found myself confronted by several disturbing questions: "whose unmentionables are these, how did I come to be wearing them, were they soiled before I put them on, or did I...?" and there are just no good answers to any of those.
Oh yes, and lets not forget "A tramp-stamp on my balls? On My Fucking Balls?? The ones I sex with???"
As usual I had zero recollection of the events leading up to the undergarments, and this time I was damn certain that I would prefer not to have. It is at that exact moment when I started freely distributing handjobs to all the Patron Saints of Juvenile Delinquency for giving me the strength to so thoroughly fuck my short-term memory capacity.
On the positive side the experience got me thinking that I needed to change my life. I gathered up my tent, vomit, panties, and tat-sack, and voluntarily checked myself into the nearest non-denominational Whole Foods. I dedicated my waking hours to spreading the Gospel of Quinoa, indulged only in sacramental almond milk, meditated daily about seriously considering yoga, and participated in all manner of silly hemp-related festivities.
I changed my life and my diet, and dramatically decreased my intake of stupid.
I still don't remember most of my misspent youth, and I'm only about 1/3 of the way through the process of scrotum ink removal, but how do I think one might make such a drastic life change?
Prayer and clean living.
And poor memory.
That's how.
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(Of course, mostly none of that is actually true. But the fans keep asking so I stick with this ridiculous story because I can't seem to come up with anything better. Must be the whole soft nipple thing.)
