Gaby Dunn

In a flash, it’s six hours later and I know the words to all of One Direction’s songs and I hate Finchel and I think bowties are cool and I want Sherlock to shag the bejesus out of John Watson. I look out my window at the people having fun on the city streets and I pity them.

What I actually said seems like something a fetishist would ask of a specialty hooker.

I am looking at you. Your furrowed eyebrows, your intent on your task, your dedication to working and to a lightened screen when the sun shines in from the outside through a window advertising chai lattes and I have one ringing, piercing thought: Let’s run away.

If Bigfoot is real, then what else is out there in the world — beyond the accepted walls of your city’s Museum of Science? What else are we wrong about? It would cause a re-examination of just about everything. It’d be fantastic.

5. Make the break clean, Dean.
6. Don’t date her roommate, Tate.
7. Don’t play games with her heart, Bart.
8. Only to dump her again, Len.

You just found me in the wrong universe. That’s all. This is, as they say, the darkest timeline. Everywhere else, nay, “everywhen” else — us in the Civil War, us in Ancient Egypt, us in the swinging ’60s — we are happy.

I can have weirder problems! Will you stay if I say that I think I go for men who are just like my father? Do you ever wonder if the Earth is just like, a reality TV show for aliens? Is that narcissism? One time, I ate toilet paper when I was a kid because I read a story about a goat that ate garbage and I wanted to see what it was like.

I am trying to find some flaw — just one — something that would make you unattractive to me, that would end this insanity I’ve been forced into feeling — and I can’t find anything, except the way your shirt rides up a little in the front so I can see your stomach and the way your hands move like they’d feel amazing on my back and then I’m just mashing my teeth again and trying to seem like nothing’s happening.

No me gusta. I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough! I am man’s goddamn best friend! I WILL DO WHAT I WANT. YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE WOOF, MARGERY. Now hit me with another tequila shot. Hold my jaw open and pour it into my mouth for me. I’ll just lick the salt and lime off the floor.

Sometimes if I’m walking with someone I don’t know very well I think about how pieces of a building could collapse on us in a freak accident and then we’d forever be tied by some thing that happened to us that neither of us could control. I think about how embarrassing it would be to watch a stranger bleed out.

This year Cinco de Mayo falls on a Saturday and your plans for the day are not solidified. On one of the most glorious drinking days of the year, your options are widespread and precarious. While Cinco de Mayo is a recipe for fun, it is also as some say about St. Patrick’s Day, “amateur hour.” It could be super fun or it could go all wrong. Thought Catalog’s second Choose Your Own Adventure inside!

In news fit to ruin your day/week/life, The Beastie Boys’ MCA (Adam Yauch) who had struggled with cancer in his parotid gland and lymph nodes since 2009, was found dead today at 47 years old.

The Chris Gethard Show is part-talk show/part-game show. There’s a house band called The LLC, a motley crew of bizarre panelists and a live musical guest — all corralled by the ringleader Gethard, a slight mad genius, who half-blushes with disbelief/half-delights in each non-sequitor of the show.

I imagine when aliens land on Planet Earth, the first thing that will happen is they’ll hear “We Found Love” blaring from someone’s car speakers. GREAT introduction to our world.

One of the biggest problems people have with honesty is that they expect a reward simply for being honest. Being honest doesn’t mean that the other person is obligated to like what you’ve just said.

There was a beat. Then, in the best parenting save I’ve encountered anywhere ever, my dad replied, “Yeah, sweetie. I don’t know either.” And that’s how I came to believe “oral sex” meant “talking” for the next six or seven years.

Look, kids in the suburbs. I get it. There’s not a whole lot to do other than invent new ways to get messed up. I was a teenage “rebel” once. My sister and her friends used to pound Red Bull and have “hyper parties.” I had a guy friend who used to try and smoke banana peels. One time, I attempted to get drunk off my dad’s O’Douls.

Sometimes I think what a shame it is that comment sections didn’t exist back when classic authors were writing their masterpieces. What a wealth of hilarious and insightful critiques we’re missing out on.