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“Fuck, yeah. That’s good. Yeah, like that.“
See that guy—black suit, devilishly handsome? Yeah, the guy getting the blow job from the luscious redhead in the bathroom stall? That’s me. The real me. MBF: Me B

“Fuck, yeah. That’s good. Yeah, like that.“
See that guy—black suit, devilishly handsome? Yeah, the guy getting the blow job from the luscious redhead in the bathroom stall? That’s me. The real me. MBF: Me Before Flu.

So, like I said what you’re seeing right now isn’t the real me. I have the flu.
Influenza.
Have you ever noticed some of the worst sicknesses in history have a lyrical sound to them? Words like malaria, diarrhea, cholera. Do you think they do that on purpose? To make it a nice way to say you feel like something that dropped out of your dog’s ass?

But I have rules—standards, you might say. One of them is no screwing around at the office. I don’t shit where I eat, I don’t fuck where I work. Never mind the sexual harassment issues it would bring up;  it’s just not good business. It’s unprofessional.
 
And she works here. In my office, where I have sworn to never…ever…screw around. Her warm, soft hand slides perfectly into mine, and two thoughts enter my head simultaneously.
The first is: God hates me.  The second is: I have been a naughty, naughty boy for most of my life, and this is my payback. And you know what they say about payback, right?
Yep. She’s one hairy bitch.
 
“Well, you could do the noble thing and bow out.” Yeah—like that’ll happen.
“In your dreams.”
I smirk. „Actually my dreams involve you bending over something…not bowing.”
She makes a disgusted sound. “Could you be any more of a pig?”
“I was kidding. Why do you have to be so fucking serious all the time? You should learn how to take a joke.”
“I can take a joke,” she tells me, sounding insulted.
“Yeah? When?”
“When it’s not being delivered by a childish jackass who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
“I am not childish.”
God’s gift on the other hand?  My record speaks for itself.
“Oh, bite me.”
I wish.
„Nice comeback, Kate. Very mature.“
“You’re a jerk.“
„You’re a…an Alexandra.”
She pauses a second and looks at me blankly.
“What the hell does that even mean?”
Think about it. It will come to you.

Kate walks into her office and closes the door, leaving me standing on the outside. This is where men got the shitty end of the stick, people. When God gave Eve that extra rib? He should have given us something extra too. Like mental telepathy.
I once heard my mother tell my father that she shouldn’t have to explain why she was pissed.  That if he didn’t already know what he’d done wrong, then he wasn’t really sorry for it. What the fuck does that even mean? Newsflash, ladies:  We can’t read your thoughts. And frankly, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to. The female mind is a scary place to be.
 
Oh yeah. Just one more little detail you should know: I haven’t gotten laid in twelve days.
Twelve days.
Two hundred and eighty-eight sex-free hours. I can’t calculate the minutes—it’s too depressing. Remember all work and no play makes Drew a cranky boy? Well, at this point, Drew is practically a goddamned psychopath, okay?
 
Because you know how some people have gay-dar? Well, I have dump-dar. That means I can pick out a recently dumped female a mile away. They’re easy pickings. All you have to tell them is that their ex is an idiot for letting them go, and they’ll be begging you to nail them.
(view spoiler)[Kate (hide spoiler)] now falls into the aforementioned dumped category. Should be a sure thing, right?

Just so you know, men don’t expect a woman to smell like Winter Pine or Niagara Falls or whatever the fuck those feminine products say. It’s a pussy—it’s supposed to smell like one. That’s the fucking turn on.
 
I read an article once that said having sex extends the human life span. At this rate, Kate and I are going to live forever. I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve done it. It’s like a mosquito bite—the more you scratch, the more it itches.
I’m just glad I bought the extra-large box of condoms at Costco.

Did you know that if you put a frog in boiling water, he'll jump out? But, if you put one in cold water and heat it slowly, he'll stay in. And boil to death. He won't even try to get out. He won't even know he's dying. Until it's too late.
Men are a lot like frogs.

If, by some catastrophe, (view spoiler)[Kate won't take me back, (hide spoiler)] I might as well shave my head and move to frigging Tibet. I hear the monks are hiring.

You have no idea how important regular sexual gratification is for us. It's crucial. Vital.
I'll explain.
In 2004, UCLA conducted a survey to determine how highly women valued getting off in relation to other daily activities. You know what they found? Eight in ten--that's eighty percent--said if given the choice between sex or sleep, they would choose sleep.
In that same year, NYU conducted its own study. With rats. They implanted electrodes in the brains of male rats and put two buttons in their cages. When the lucky little bastards pushed the blue button, the electrodes triggered an orgasm. When they pushed a red button, they were given food.
Care to guess what happened to all the rats?
They died.
They f@cking starved to death.
They never pushed the red button.
Need I say more?
Anyway, here I am. Stuck in my own little cage with no goddamn blue button. But…

Pussy whipped, thy name is Drew.
Yeah, I know. It's okay. I don't mind. 'Cause if this is the Dark Side? Sign me up. Seriously. Don't be surprised if I start skipping down the street singing, "Zip-a-Dee-fucking-Doo-Dah." I'm that happy.