I'm Having More Fun Than You Read Online Free Page A

For instance, I sometimes Google misspelled words to find web sites with poor proofreaders. When using a new bathroom, I often search for the little indent where the doorknob keeps hitting the same spot on the wall. I’m not really a lover or a fighter. I fret, worry, observe, write, and repeat. In essence, when it comes to relationships, it’s not that I’m high maintenance, per se; it’s more like there’s no instruction manual and they stopped making the parts.
    Another wonderful trait I have is noticing little things about people—a certain word they use, an idiosyncrasy or flaw they possess—and then calling it to their attention, thus making them incredibly self-conscious. Then I profusely apologize for doing it. Finally, after the issue has long since been forgotten, I get drunk and bring it up again, thus aggravating old wounds. After apologizing yet again, I usually make another comment about the person’s clothes, career, or hygiene, and the pattern continues.
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    NEAT FREAK
     
    Some might say I’m a tad obsessive-compulsive. When I was a little kid I went to this museum that had a piece of, like, four-thousand-year-old glass that you could touch. People were amazed at feeling something that our ancestors had created so long ago. But all I remember thinking about is how many other people had touched it since.
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    My cell phone number happens to be comprised of multiple variations of the numbers six and nine. When I give my number to chicks, they look at me like I’m a dirty bastard. Some guys get a bad reputation from sleeping around. I got mine from T-Mobile.
    The people tanning at the pool in my apartment complex in LA always look like they’re in such anguish. Is that supposed to be relaxing? Perhaps I’m just jealous because I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I am the palest motherfucker in the state of California. The problem is, being in the sun doesn’t help because I just go from white to burnt without any browning in between. I seem to carry the recessive gene for tanning but the dominant gene for beer belly.
    ACT YOUR AGE
     
    During my five-year college reunion in 2006, I snuck into my old fraternity house, which at the time was being used as some sort of community service dorm. As I wandered about taking pictures, a student approached and asked politely, “Excuse me, who are you?” Instinctively, I turned around and yelled menacingly, “Who the fuck are you ?” The girl scurried off, but the incident made me wonder if or when I’m ever going to act my age. Consider this: I’m thirty years old, with three books under my belt, regular car insurance payments, and pillowcases that match my comforter. Yet at the same time, I can’t drink one beer without drinking twenty, I can’t converse with a girl without trying to fuck her, and I can’t even step foot in a fraternity house without immediately regressing into an asshole. Am I young at heart or just immature?
    The last time I was in Miami, I crashed with my college friends, Jon and Jana, who are now married. We went out and got stupid drunk. I then proceeded to vomit all over their guest bedroom and, when that room proved no longer inhabitable, passed out in the living room on their white leather couch, staining a pillow with the stamp from the bar on my hand. But the worst part was that Jon and Jana didn’t really get mad at me. They understood I didn’t do it on purpose and I did my best to clean everything up. That really bothered me. The fact that they weren’t upset made me feel like their rascally little kid who is always caught up in some hijinks. They should be pissed at me. Hell, I’m older than they are!
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    PARTY FOULS
     
    I was at a party once and pulled an Amstel Light out of the fridge. Two of my friends whipped bottle openers out of their pockets. And not sophisticated bottle openers, mind you. I’m talking about the big, round keychain kind with half the paint chipped off and a college