My Seven Devils

My Seven Devils

It’s been a year a 3 months since I’ve been diagnosed with herpes. That’s also a common place for herpes, which can be itchy, and neither vaseline nor lotrimin would treat herpes. The fungal infection in your groin and scrotum may require a stronger antifungal. I remember one day in the 5th grade going to the bathroom to pee and it burned like HELL. You do that, and you get more protection than you can shalke a stick at. And if you’re not ready for sexual activities, and the risks involved right now, or if sexual endeavors make you flat-out panic, then wait to have them. I do have minor itching on my penis every couple days.

…I have had herpes for many years. Things were fine, nothing came up abnormal in my PAP results but after taking the pill (not sure how long after) I started getting vaginal discharge. Sometimes, a product may become of this labor – a child. Could someone pass on some information for me or help ease my mind? Road trips bring numerous opportunities to learn about yourself and the world. The infection is transmitted by skin to skin contact, so it is very difficult to keep from getting it (or giving it to someone else), especially in the same family and especially with married couples. Besides gas, I imagine the main purpose for a gas station to exist in the middle of nowhere is to release your bowels.

Unfortunately, I have not kept a log or signed my name at each bathroom where my bodily functions interrupted the building’s plumbing. Where as a cat always knows where he marked his territory, my attempts are carried to the ocean most times. My new method for remembering where I’ve erupted is if another guy decides to tuck his greasy weapon in long after he finishes his business. But all through my teens I always had these huge like blisters on my vagina–sometimes two or three. Perhaps it’s to warn new bathroom patrons that no penis bigger than theirs is capable of sprinkling the toilet seat like they did. More likely than not, they forgot that their anatomy does not work like a retractable dog leash by pressing a button. Thanks to the gentleman at the Wilkesboro gas station for scaring a new method for remembering where I pissed last deep into my psyche.

It’s as simple as parking it in front of your bedroom window, but people-watchers of the gas station-variety find this concept foreign. I had the doctor look at them when i went back the last time to get tested, and she said it was not an STD but could be something else. If I’m trying to decide which two Pepsi products to purchase in order to get them for $2.50, it shouldn’t feel like a PhD is examining my behavior through a one way mirror. I apologize for tattling on scientists who conduct their research at urine-stained gas stations in the middle of nowhere, but I am not dedicating my body to science just because it takes 10 minutes to decide how I’ll take a dose of diabetes. Gas station attendants have a straight-forward job description that fails to mention the number of deadbeats they have to put up with to earn a paycheck. It’s no wonder they keep their shelves stocked with junk food and cigarettes: to kill the customer for a paycheck. There were 4 people in front of me at the counter; each and every one of them bought cigarettes, chips or candy, and a soda.

After ringing up the first customer, the cashier’s face was painted with concern as if she was responsible for their ailments. By the third and fourth rude customer, that look dissipated. She was relieved to know that their poor diet choices would render them rude customers who couldn’t leave their hospital beds. I think she hated me, too. My teenage years taught me to zero in on the development of a juicy pimple, but I have yet to learn which gas station has cheaper gas in my adult years. The gas station directly across from the one I stop at will always have lower gas prices, even if they only differ by a few pennies. If I had known any better, 50+ more stops at random gas stations would have saved me enough pennies to buy a goldfish – a goldfish that will probably die in three days anyway.

I’m not good at being an adult. I ‘know’ I have herpes, about 30 years +, But I have also had cultures and tests run several times in the past, and they were all negative. Are you also struggling with the task of finding them the perfect Christmas present? Christmas is the time of year to fill hearts with joy like children fill Santa’s pants with urine at the mall. While a challenging endeavor, you can be triumphant in your quest by following the guide I have provided below. If Nicolas Cage can steal the Declaration of Independence, you can steal your lover’s heart with the spirit of Christmas. Independent research is crucial to finding the perfect gift for that special someone.

It shows that you put some extra thought rather than buying something spur of the moment like condoms from a bathroom dispenser at the gas station. A popular scheme to execute is slyly inquiring about some random fact or opinion held by your partner. This is usually done if the buyer is dead set on buying an article of clothing. However, I’ve learned that asking for someone’s measurements is generally a bad idea in self-conscious America. The numbers provided are not their physical measurements, rather they are coordinates to where they’ll hide your dead body. Consult the Internet, your lover’s friends, your dying ferret, or the shoe guy at the bowling alley before you ever ask your lover what they want for Christmas. You may be slithering in mountains of coin like Smaug, or you’re a non-reptilian deadbeat scavenging for change in a Cheetoh-stained couch.

Whatever the case, it’s good to gut your wallet for someone during the holiday season. It will go into remission for weeks or months at a time, and there is medicine that will make the symptoms go away in a few days which you will need to take. You could also hawk over the self-scan section at your local supermarket and collect leftover coins in need of adoption. These are beginner-level thievery courses that Helen Keller could pass without her sense of touch, and so could you. Eventually, to have enough for more expensive gifts, you’ll need to assume the role of the prophet Moses and part the sea of people in the Salvation Army and loot their cash registers. The parking lot at the mall is filled with rabid Christmas enthusiasts with the same goal in mind: buy their lover(s) the greatest gift their money can buy. However, for some reason, this requires parking in the closest spot possible.

The handicapped parking permit industry has recently skyrocketed due to reported symptoms of laziness, so you can probably stub your toe on your cat’s jungle gym and get a permit. If you can’t fake a handicap, go NYC taxicab-crazy on the oily hides of moronic strangers who want an Xbox for little Billy. If it comes down to the last spot, you can either rock-paper-scissors for rights to the spot, or hire the Westboro Baptist Church to protest Christmas in the parking lot. This will anger the competition, and they will be too busy to steal your spot. Part I: People at shopping malls during the holidays are like squirrels with Parkinson’s disease: they fidget uncontrollably and dart into traffic at the most inopportune times. When we were sperm, we mastered the concept of moving together as one to penetrate the almighty egg. However, birth introduced society to a world of stupidity and left what was learned inside their mother’s fallopian tube.

With this in mind, you’ll discover a rude species of human elbowing and crossing in front of you throughout the mall. To have a leg up on your competition, test the patellar reflexes of any unsuspecting individual crossing your path with a hammer. If you couple this with China Max employees waving samples of sesame chicken at the food court as a distraction, you’ll be at the shops before anyone else. Part II: Don’t be afraid to venture into stores you wouldn’t normally shop in. The giggling, prepubescent boys frolicking outside of Victoria’s Secret shouldn’t intimidate you; it’s the employees that are gazing your direction after they caught you smelling half of the store’s merchandise that you should fear. Whatever store you may end up in, employ the wizards of customer service to educate you on what to buy your lover. They can be your best friend or your worst enemy, but either way they’ll understand that you’re borderline clueless.

They also won’t let you accidentally purchase an acne solution kit as a Christmas gift. The worst part about Christmas gifts, besides trying to find the perfect gift for someone, is hiding it. Your lover will infiltrate the hiding location of your gift like the Navy SEALS did Osama bin Laden, and you don’t have the resources to fend off the Navy SEALS, so you’ll have to get crafty in the comfort of your own home. John Wayne Gacy hid his victims in the crawlspace under his house, so there’s that. You could also give your present a mustache and a monocle. Just don’t let any children in your house because they’re bound to find it and spoil the surprise. Children at Christmas time are the equivalent of the bomb squad trying to find explosives to diffuse.

Protect your house from snooping children with various pyrotechnics, then leave milk and cookies laced with anthrax by the Christmas tree for any survivors. They may love it, they may loathe it, but it’s the thought that counts and you gave it your best shot. Just pray that they still consider you a blessing, because if your gift sucks then they can go do something else like celebrate the birth of Christ. The gym is a wonderful place if you’re painfully average like me. I’m not fit, but I’m not fat. I sit comfortably in between the extremes and go about my awkward routine to get in shape. Along the way, I’ve sacrificed being cool in an effort to shed the dough waving about my figure every time I take a step.
My Seven Devils

Treadmills promise results as long as you’re willing to suffer through a form of boredom called cardio. That’s why we were blessed with music and headphones to aid this never-ending boredom. My iPod hosts a vast collection of artists that generally fall under metal or hip-hop. I’ve even gone the extra mile of creating a playlist that inexplicably quells my fatigue when I go Jesse Owens on that machine. We all have songs on our mp3 players that we don’t want other people to know about. In my case, this was ABBA’s Dancing Queen. It decided to interrupt my groove mid-sprint soon after I had eclipsed the half mile mark on the treadmill.

Rambo doesn’t obliterate the Burmese army to the tune of Swedish pop records, so why should I? With my arms swinging like I rolled a Yahtzee, I accidentally karate chopped my headphones and consequently ripped them out of the port. My iPod, in a screw you kind of fashion, blasted the chorus of Dancing Queen for the rest of the gym to hear. Nearby meatheads laughed maniacally as if I had just gotten out of a cold pool without a swimsuit on. What fun is the gym if you can’t secretly admire yet another dream girl from afar? It’s a little tougher for me to spy because my biceps don’t bulge enough for me to hide my eyes behind them. I’m uncreative and have to drop nickles on the floor just to have an excuse to look that general direction.

Or I strategically pick an open machine that already faces the one she’s using and plop my jiggly hindquarters there. There was one girl in particular I thought was a knock-out. I wanted to get to know her, but she was too busy working up a sweat on the ab machine for a blob of nerdy fat like me to bother her. I sat down at a machine adjacent to hers and put my wandering eyes to work. The sweat emerging from her body sexily traveled through the maze that is her abdominal muscles while my belly button suddenly turned into a salty Great Lake. My eyes scanned her every chance she wasn’t looking as I tried summoning an appropriate greeting to give her. She twisted her head and caught me staring; I looked like a cat guilty of pissing on her favorite dress.

I withdrew my ogling eyes and showed myself to the door. It’s safe to say I didn’t get her number. Deciding what to wear to the gym shouldn’t be much of an exercise in itself, but it’s obvious that people who frequent the gym base their decisions according to their shape and size. The aesthetically-pleasing tend to wear more revealing clothing to give others front-row seats to their progress. Couch potatoes sport longer sleeves and blacker clothing to hide what’s underneath. As for me, I dress like the kid who gets picked last for kickball. I sat down at some machine that was supposed to work the muscles in my back.

You reach up to grab the handlebars and then pull them down simultaneously to your sides. All is well like usual when you first start a workout, but as your muscles tire, your strength seemingly evaporates from your arms. When this happens, you employ other muscles in your body to assist the workout, even muscles that aren’t supposed to be involved as was the case here. I called upon my gluteus maximus to relieve me of the pain by sliding it forward and backward with each repetition. Before I knew it, the leather on the seat was being kinky and managed to pull my shorts and boxers halfway down my butt crack. I only noticed when I realized that my ass was no longer warmer than a furnace as it had been catching wind from people who walked by my machine. It was on exhibit for every gym member to see for a solid 30 seconds before I took action.

Dating is the foreplay of romantic relationships, just like job interviews are the foreplay of employment and a BAC of .29 is the foreplay of a one-night stand and genital herpes. You’ve managed to register your creepy reflection on the iris of an accidental onlooker and formed a coherent sentence to ask him/her out on a date. This date is meant to arouse the two (or more) involved in order to lay the foundation for a relationship. As the world is our playground, there’s an assortment of locations and ideas to engage in said ‘foreplay’. A traditional, tried-and-true option, this is the Human Centipede of sequential romance: Dinner-Movie-Relationship. It’s always a safe bet if you’re unable to be more creative or if your empty stomach is on the verge of digesting itself. A couple will frequent a restaurant for a first date because food is always awesome and it gives them a chance to monologue about their supposedly eventful lives, occasionally interrupted by the chaperone and third wheel for the evening – the server.

Once the chatting loses its steam and the food has converted your bowels into a fully functional flamethrower, a trip to the cinema follows. This allows both parties to rest their vocal cords while better-looking people, called celebrities, yammer about their characters’ inconveniences for 2 hours. Afterwards, the couple may believe a second date is a necessary course of action. Maybe one member of this party feels that this evening’s journey deserves mandatory thank-you sex because their wallet lost weight. I’d gamble the former is the appropriate next step because I want to consume another round of greasy tacos and continue our discussion on cat toys and Apple’s stock history. Nothing solidifies a relationship more than grabbing athletically-disguised murder weapons and doing something with them to score points. When we were 6 years-old, our idea of athletics were blowing bubbles and racking up grisly boo-boos to impress a fellow 6 year-old we thought was attractive.

We’ve now graduated to sports that contain phallic-shaped gear and cheap sex jokes about said gear. Miniature golf and bowling are common staples of the dating scene that allow friendly competition and flirtatious insults on athletic ability. Men fear that they’ll lose to their female date, assuming their inability to putt under par at a pirate-themed Miniature golf course leads her to predict his incompetence in the bedroom. Competition runs rampant when you’re on an athletically-themed date, but bowling a 49 versus a 271 has not been statistically proven to hamper your chances of a relationship or engaging in steamy bedroom acrobatics. Tinder is a mobile app that grants your index finger the power to select a date based on pixelated photographs and shared Facebook interests like Madonna and “When I was your age, Pluto was a planet”. Assuming that person also thinks you’re awesome and attractive, you will be matched and allowed to message each other. Like a sperm, you have to compete against other sperm who also matched with this person in order to be recognized.

When their full attention is captured by your stunning Tinder profile, the other sperm will fall like Jamaican Olympic runners in Cool Runnings. Tinder is also good at locating singles that aren’t within your immediate area; it reveals any specimen in need of loving within 100 miles that you’d probably not run into at your local pub or ratchet factory. Tinder matches are a bit of a wild-card, meaning you and your match’s virtually anonymous personalities allow for plentiful conversation and a chance to determine whether they’re the real Zodiac killer or not. The date hasn’t necessarily been arranged, it’s just a random encounter fueled by blue balls and alcohol-generated confidence. You’re also surrounded by a sea of loud patrons that produce more sweat than Foxconn. Given the date is now inaudible, a bud light and the movement of your eyeballs will guide the rest of the evening. Alcohol will progressively make you and your beer partner appear more attractive, transitioning from looking like a tagged photo on Facebook to a public profile picture.

Physical attraction is important here just like any other date, but communication is also essential to selling the product. Even if you’ve mastered the English language, being intoxicated may render your tongue stupid and encourage you to create words out of thin air like George W. Bush. Sounding like the inner-city version of a Webster’s dictionary, you’ve managed to convince your significant other that you’re worth it for another round of alcohol, shits and giggles. Unprotected sex may cause a rat race of sorts to the nearest pharmacy to purchase a Plan B pill. While the potential for a child is lost, the potential for a post-panic breakfast date increases. Just because you have sex doesn’t mean that you’re compatible with that person, but why not explore that option over scrambled eggs and scrambled ovaries?

Breakfast presents the opportunity to launch an investigation concerning last night’s shenanigans together. You may also get to learn each other’s names. Nothing screams romance like solving a mystery over breakfast the morning after you make a stupid mistake. 3. I’ve learned at college parties that I don’t get exponentially sexier when people consume more alcohol. Thus, my chances of saving the human race by reproducing in a post-apocalyptic setting are nonexistent. 7.

Miley Cyrus’ foam finger has had more action in one stage performance than I’ve had in my entire college career. Thus, I couldn’t get laid by a bed and pillow combination. 8. I’ve become an expert in making decent Netflix selections, awkward run-ins with an ex-girlfriend, and being painfully average. All skills that are pertinent to scarce jobs available in the real world. 9. I have yet to overcome my constant blushing problem even after countless presentations.

My boss will love it when my face becomes redder than his dog’s erection during a meeting.

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