Two years ago I asked my girlfriend to move in with me. It's a small house but I own it. With a judicious mixture of both of our stuff, it's crowded but manageable.
But, my girlfriend has a brother, Larry, a 50-year-old hippie who passes through each year on his way to or from the Eugene hippie fair. His VW van leaves puddles of oil, and he leaves transmission parts in my driveway. No biggie. He hangs out for a month or so—still OK, but barely. Here's the rub: When he rolls through, we share what we have and he shares nothing, except his shit-eating doobie grin. And he unloads his junk into my garage, which has become his private storage space.
I've talked to Larry about it, and he claims he's got nowhere to put it. He cries to her, she talks to me. Nothing goes down. Both of them remind me we all need to share. I dig peace, love, and sharing—but I'm the one doing all the sharing. Larry has nothing to share. The truth is, I think Larry is full of shit. In fact, my garage is full of his shit: surfer shit, ski bum shit, and, my favorite, Costa Rica shit—sea shells, bags of rice, weird beans, and rotten peppers.
I've had it. Either Larry's shit goes, or she goes along with Larry and his shit. Am I being unreasonable? Is this not above and beyond the call of duty? She makes me feel like I've sold out to the Me Generation, just because I own a house. The only thing I want to sell is Larry's shit.
Ready for a yard sale and a new girlfriend
Screw that hippie bullshit—it's time you went punk rock on Larry's freeloading ass. Give him a reasonable deadline to get his crap out of your house and stick to it. What kind of time warp are you living in that "selling out to the Me Generation" counts as a valid insult? Who cares? You'll also note that your inevitably stinking-of-patchouli gal pal "shares" this house that you allegedly sold your soul for! If she's so concerned about selling out, she should pitch a tepee at a rainbow gathering and live among her smelly, tofu-eating, hemp-wearing pals and leave you to enjoy your espresso machine and indoor plumbing in peace.
I often hear women propagate the myth that we are only attracted to men with "confidence." [Dategirl, Aug. 8] There is a huge gap between the confident man and the cripple, and along that continuum is where men are interesting.
A bunch of my friends are musicians, and inevitably the ones with talent and vision are the ones who criticize themselves after every show and are never satisfied with their recordings. They get teased about their negativity, but many are drawn to them because of their talent. On the other hand, the boys who regularly talk themselves up are some of the most annoying and tedious people I know.
Lastly, I'm not sure about older men, but among my generation using lowercase "i" is common and not indicative of self-esteem, just an attention to trends.
Yawn. This is why I hate 21-year-olds. Let me explain why you're wrong. Confidence doesn't negate self-awareness. Arrogance and cockiness are confidence on steroids, which is not what I recommended. The brand of confidence I was advising was of the variety that would allow him to snare sexual partners who didn't demand gifts or begging in return.
There are myriad mediocre men who spout on about their minor accomplishments. I don't encourage that, but nor do I have patience for the lame-o's you describe, whinging after every show about how they screwed up the third verse of the 15th song. These types are usually hinting for compliments and get more tail using that pseudo-sensitive insecure crap than any of the loudmouths do. After you've fucked your way through a few of these fakers—buying them beer and meals in the process—you'll realize I speak the truth. Probably after they've hit on your sister.
As for poor grammar—it's just wrong at any age.
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