"Does this guy know how to party or what?"

I'm blue. SO fucking blue...

When I was a kid, I believed that when I prayed in church and if I closed my eyes tight enough, that I was actually floating toward Heaven to sit in front of Jesus…

As some who know me might possibly attest, I am a man who is sometimes prone to lean on sarcastic wit to get my point across. After one particular instance when I was dealing with a co-workers subtle…I don’t know—whorybitchiness—I sent her an e-mail response that I felt appropriate for the situation. I shot back a not so subtle sarcastic response since she obviously didn’t know she was dealing with the Jedi Master of Talk that is me in order to attempt to crush her for the time being. But even someone as proudly dickish as me is always mindful of the environment I reside in. I made sure to include a smiley icon at the end of my message. And why do we do this, Children? Two words. Plausible fucking deniability.

HR Director: Now Rob, that e-mail you sent to your colleague seemed rather insulting and boorish. How can you defend the use of such an aggressive tone?

Me: Oh ma’am, this is a simple misunderstanding. If you look more closely at the e-mail I sent, you’ll notice that I included a smiley icon at the end of my message. This of course universally denotes any aforementioned comments prior to the icon as being of a good-natured jest.

HR Director: Oh, Rob you’re right! This is what happens when I don’t remember to use my prescription reading glasses. At a second glance, these comments you made on this e-mail cast you in the light of being both witty and handsome. I do in fact believe that you are overdue for a salary increase review. You just have yourself a wonderful day.

And I will. I’ve decided that for the time being, I'm going to insert the smiley icon up the sorry ass of my misery. I guess it works like a suppository. I put the "anal" in analogies. Yeah.

Today happens to be Wednesday so today is all about Anne Hathaway. Tang! For some reason that's the sound that goes off in my head or in my pants or in some semi-consequential area of my being when I see this week's Wednesday's Child. She's been in several movies from the Disney blech of "The Princess Diaries" to the mainstream success of "The Devil Wears Prada" (I cannot possibly convey how little interest I have in seeing this film) to the cred producing "Brokeback Mountain". I'm often asked if it was worth fighting my way through a movie I swore I'd never see just to get a gander at the previously smuggled beauty she was hiding beneath her blouse. Yes. Yes it was. Best 3.8 seconds of the last six months for me. In fact, during some of my online research (ahem), I've found that little Miss Anne "Sexual Mustang" Hathaway hasn't been too shy about being "artistically open" in other films as well. NetFlix may be becoming a good idea...

I'd also like to take this opportunity to salute the Holy Trinity of Hollywood Whoredom: Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Britney Spears. I've got some breaking news that you'll all care about. This just in! YOU DON'T CARE ONE BIT ABOUT THESE BITCHES.

You may be amused by them. You may be horny for them even though you would never admit it or you are horny for them and you too readily admit it. You may envy their money, their readily available coke supply, their clothes, their bodies, their connections, their fame, their access, their men, their women, their absolute defiance of the concept that hard work gets you far in this world. But never ever superever confuse all those potential truths with the idea that you really care about these women. You would not could not in a box, you would not could not with a fox give two honest shits about these girls. Because genuine concern is rooted in genuine care--the concept that your happiness is in some direct way linked to these individuals. And make no mistake, these girls in my semi-pro opinion are NOT happy. These girls are having fun and they just happen to have the choice means to have super strong hard fun in front of the world on exotic beaches, in exclusive clubs, and with prettier people than you and I surround ourselves with on a daily basis. These icons of the perverse American dream are putting the smiley face icon at the end of their statement of pain. They are living proof of the truth that happiness and fun are mutually exclusive concepts. If the three of them somehow miraculously died in a Buddy Holly-style plane crash, America would pay attention for about as long (and sadly maybe a touch longer) as we all did to the tragedy at Virginia Tech. Two weeks later, we'd be wondering why Hilary Duff thinks she's such hot shit to be dating (insert your random prick here) or why Jessica Alba is unoriginal for not wearing underwear in paparazzi photos in some sad attempt to salute the late pioneers of Hollywood skankiness who are now known simply as Paris, Lindsay, and Britney--the way other generations know who Brando, Cobain, and Elvis are as soon as their singular names are uttered. Let's all create a myspace petition, show up late to work because of all the coke we did the night before, or shave our heads and get right with the reality that we are too shallow to pay attention for that long while also not shallow enough to care about women with the depth of a John Mayer album.

And so in the spirit of focusing on all that's right and important and worth caring about, let's discuss me for a minute.

I think that I've always treated my therapy sessions like one big layaway plan. I bring my check each month and hand them to the nice lady so that one day, I'll show up and I'll have paid enough to be handed the bright shiny new box of happiness that I've been putting away for all this time. This past week, I think I truly discovered that therapy doesn't quite work that way--or that therapy is a piggy bank with some major bulimia issues.

So I was sitting on the new couch that my misguided optimism had helped to pay for and I was telling Dr. Genius (who insists I call her that under the constant threat of raising her hourly rate or a return to baseball bat to the head therapy) about a recent shitty dating experience. I told her that I didn't understand what I was supposed to learn from all this. This very nice, very attractive girl had asked me out, we went on two very nice dates, and without any warning or any signals (I'm a good signal detector--I think), the girl told me she just wasn't into it anymore. She had no reason, I had done nothing wrong. She just woke up one day and decided that that was that. Egg on my face, I had previously joked with her that I was good at keeping girls interested for a minimum of two weeks. We made it about ten days. Son of a bitch.

I was angry, I was pissed. I left her house the evening of this conversation literally yelling at the top of my lungs at God. What the fuck kind of lesson was this supposed to be teaching me? My mom used to tell me growing up about God's Plan and how everything happened for a reason and that lessons could always be learned. The only lesson I was gaining was that I really was pretty sure I hated women, hated love, and hated the idea of trusting anyone.

But I also told me therapist, "Hey, fuck her. I've worked too hard to learn the lessons of the last two years to let some useless girl knock me back to square one." I really have been pretty decent on my own and I've gained peace with my current situation, whatever it is. I also know that I'm responsible for my own happiness and that I can't depend on anyone else to provide it for me. And shit guys, the girl was a virgin. How much fun was that gonna not be after a while?

So anyway, I told my therapist that I felt stuck. I was in pain--not from being "alone" (whatever that really means)--but from having grown enough to be more confident in myself, seemingly at the price of my eroding confidence in others. I'm in pain, Dr. Genius. I've been bringing you my money for two years. Please give me the answer. Give me some hope. What can I do to not be in pain anymore?

And she stared at me for a bit and told me the truth. The fucking terrible truth. There's nothing you can do about pain sometimes. It's yours whether you like it or not sometimes and you have to deal with it. Deal. With. It. And I suppose that's when the click went off in my head about therapy. Therapy isn't there to make me happy. Therapy exists so that I can handle myself whether I'm happy or not. I feel sorta like the kid who goes trick-or-treating on Halloween and gets a box or raisins or an apple. I made all the effort for the kickass Yoda costume bit so I could get candy. I didn't get what I wanted even if I did get what I needed more. I hate how brilliant my therapist is. All she does is get me to ask myself the right questions and allows me to answer with truthful responses. I guess I'm growing and shit. What a fucking fraud.

So boys and girls, I'm not a happy person right now. But I'm dealing. What the fuck else can I do? I'll get up and go to work and drink some beers after work and watch sports and movies and hang out with friends and just deal with it. I may not be happy, but it doesn't mean that fun isn't coming my way. My summer of fun begins in less than a month. I'll surround myself with booze, girls, live music, road trips and whatever the hell else feels good at the time. Happiness will come back around whenver it damn well feels like it. But I'm gonna chain some fun up to a fencepost.

And Jesus wore a flawless white robe, was bathed in gorgeous light, and was warm. He wrapped His arms around me and I was warm and safe forever...

Album of the Week: "Favourite Worst Nightmare"

Artist: Arctic Monkeys

Song Highlights: "Fluorescent Adolescent", "Do Me a Favour", "The Bad Thing", "Old Yellow Bricks", "505"

Song of the Day: "Get Ready For Love"

Artist: Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Album: "Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus"

Lyric of Possible Relevance:

"Well, most of all nothing much ever really happens

And God rides high up in the ordinary sky

Until we find ourselves at out most distracted

And the miracle that was promised creeps quietly by."