Jack Cazir

The Baron days were good. He didn’t make you feel guilty if you went out all night, got drunk and had some crazy unsafe sex, so long as the next morning you brewed him a cup of coffee and set aside a little rum. I was always told that we were brothers and sisters in Christ, but the Baron was the first time I ever felt anything like spiritual kinship.

Once you’ve made a connection, invite that special someone out by saying, “I’m going to be doing [whatever], if you wanna come.” Not only does this make you a subtle wordsmith (you cad) and transform cheapskate date locales into something seemingly spontaneous, but also the implication that you were going to spend the day doing [whatever] anyway means you’re not responsible for paying for your date if they want to tag along.

Because here’s the thing: as often as writers come bundled with bad habits and insecurities, and as maladaptive as these things are in the real world—the bedroom is not the real world. And the compulsions that make writers so miserable on a day-to-day basis are the same ones that make them ideal at last call.

Two summers ago I bled out on a bare mattress in a foreclosed home in Miami. I’d been sick. I’d seen a doctor but, as an American without health insurance, I’d been able to afford only the diagnosis—not the solution. I went back to work.

“Lift your arms into the air, make the sign of the Diamond Dallas ‘Diamond Cutter,’ then bring them down into the sign of the cross, and then bring ‘em down and flex and Hulk It Out, brother! Yeah!” Truly the Holy Trinity of Yoga.

Has parenting become so stress-free and routine that you’re looking to ramp up the difficulty? Is your daughter on the way to visitation with your ex? Is this a vengeance-Frappucino?