Can someone tell me the name of the guy my friend Pete is dating? I want to find him on Facebook, but Pete won’t give me any leads. He thinks I’ll go blabbing about it in my column. He’s like, "I don’t want the country knowing what I put in my butt."
Anthony Paull is a syndicated columnist, author and filmmaker from Sarasota, Florida. Visit anthonypaull.com for more info.
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I guess one could say I have a love/hate relationship with social media. I want to shoot my load all over it but don’t want to stick around to see the ugly afterbirth.
My god Becky! The new ’IT’ boy in the neighborhood is a serial rapist. He’s the hottest thing since those hideous lawn globes.
My friend Josh has a dilemma. Single for two years, he’s graduated from making love to kitchen utensils. It won’t do anymore.
I try to see the best in people. Like my friend Carey, who would have guessed him to be so crafty with a skinning knife?
Did I miss the memo? Since when is it all right to solicit someone for sex in the middle of the day without offering food or money?
It’s a whirlwind, growing up. I can’t get the hang of it. I’m on tour with a new book but I don’t know how I got here. I say aloud, I have to earn my stripes. But am I ready for scars too?
My column is late, my love life is on hold, BUT I’m going to live really long. I just have to eat like a goat and designate the toilet as my new bed.
For the sake of keeping things fresh, I’m taking on a thrilling, new mysterious role in my relationship by keeping my boyfriend guessing about my exact location at any given time. The problem is the plan keeps backfiring.
Yes, being a writer is glamorous and interesting, but sometimes I feel like I’ve written myself in a role I can’t fulfill. I ask myself, how did I become a dating expert?
I don’t know if I like my 30’s. I’ve been told I’ve become too put together, too flashy to piss on my shoes at a rock show, and that upsets me because I enjoy pissing on my shoes, at least if they’re cheap.