One Egg Shy

The musings of Chris. Writer, humanitarian, hero.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Red Sox Man

Red Sox Man stood tall and threatening. He took first initiative and blasted out work experience questions. Luckily I countered the questions with a quick dodge and was able to fire back a comment about the big homerun David Ortiz had hit the previous night. The power of the comment hit him so hard that he thought I answered his question properly and took off nearly half his power bar. Not to be out-witted so easily, he again fired a fury of shots.

"What would your previous co-workers say about you?!" I jumped behind his desk and the question sprayed papers everywhere.

"What would previous managers say about you?" I knew I still had some juice left with the Boston remarks, so I raised from behind the desk and told him that Jonathan Papelbon looked like the real deal at closer. This shattered his spirit and knocked off his business man suit, revealing the true Red Sox fan he is. His energy bar was nearly diminished. Now was my chance! I began to joke with him and kissed a little ass. After a few laughs, the last few notches on his energy bar ticked away and he burst into thousands and tiny energy balls and vanished. Immediately afterward I was infused with the power of Guest Service Knowledge.

After winning the battle against Red Sox, I figured I'd leave. However, only a few feet in front of me, a ray of light emanated from the floor. The trailer began to shake, the light became stronger, and the floor exploded! Dust filled the room. I shielded my eyes and waved the dust out of way, and there I saw the silhouette of another man. The dust settled, and it was none other than Jester Man!



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Friday, February 24, 2006

Going the Distance

I'm so hot right now
Here's the thing. Sometimes young men and women do stupid things, like get into long-distance relationships. If you currently happen to find yourself in one, first I'll say you're dumb, but secondly I'll let you know that there is hope. Since I've done the long-distance thing, I've been able to compile ways to keep in contact with that distant lover. I hereby present to you, the "One Egg Shy Guide to Long-Distance Sex."

Pony Express Sex
Pros: This has a certain appeal, as it harkens back to the days where women wore corsets and hid those real little guns in their nether regions, adding an element of danger.
Cons: Asking, "what are you wearing?" isn't quite as exciting when the reply takes a 40 day cross country voyage to get back to you with a disappointing reply that reads, "Scuba gear, why?"

Skywriting Sex
Pros: This is great for the exhibitionist in you, as everyone in your county will know that you are getting some. Also, it's sure to reach your mark, as long as they are outside and looking at the sky at the exact right moment.
Cons: You've heard the expression, "Wearing your heart on your sleeve?" Well, skywriting sex requires wearing your heart on a canvas viewable to the unwashed masses. Plus, if you have spelling or grammatical mistakes, God will most likely laugh at your lame ass.

Sonnet Sex
Pros: History has shown the effectiveness of quoting poetry to the object of your affection, so sex via poetry is sure to please your honey as well. Plus, the rhythm of stressed/unstressed/stressed/unstressed is sure to make anyone hot.
Cons: Writing poetry is hard (just look at the wall of any public restroom to verify this), especially with rules as strict as the sonnet. And guys, quoting rap lyrics like N.W.A.'s "She Swallowed It" (Punch the bitch in the eye/then the ho will fall to the ground/Then you open up her mouth/put your dick, move the shit around) just doesn't have the same romantic effect as something by Lord Tennyson for most girls.

Morse Code Sex
Pros: While Morse Code itself isn't the most seductive language, imagine if you could somehow connect the vibrations to your naughty parts? That'd be hot.
Cons: Honestly, good vibrations aside, unless you actually read Morse Code, ..-. ..- -.-. -.- just isn't that sexy.

Pigeon Sex
Pros: The hours it takes to train birds to carry messages of passionate love will show just how devoted you really are to that special someone.
Cons: You have to be careful how you propose this manner of lovemaking, since, "We should have sex with birds" can be easily misinterpreted. Finally, there is always the danger that the bird can take a dump on your partner, which for most (I shouldn't knock the Cleveland Steamer until I try it, I guess) wouldn't be too fun.

Smoke Signal Sex
Pros: Fire is already closely linked to sex with expressions such as "You're making me hot," "She's an old flame," and "Seriously, this isn't a pickup line, my house is actually on fire," so there is a logical leap between this sort of thinking and the erotic technique of the smoke signal. You can set up a series of colors to indicate your level of arousal that will leave your partner gasping (literally) for more.
Cons: The Vatican may think you are hitting on them.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Jester Man

Jester Man had a sunny disposition, complete with twinkling eyes and a wide smile. I immediately opened fire with an array of jokes from my blaster. “What does the vet say when neutering the race horse? ‘And they’re off!’” He erupted in laughter. He was enjoying this battle. He asked me a few easy-toss questions, each of them parried and answered easily.

However, he caught on to the skills I was using against him, and fired out his hardest question yet: "What is the most important aspect of serving?" The question hit me square in the chest, knocking back into the wall. The cheap plaster walls shattered and rained down in a heap around me. I fell to my knees.

"How can I defeat him!?” I asked myself, “His knowledge of the restaurant business is that of a god!" Then I remembered the skill I gained from Red Sox Man. I equipped the Guest Service Knowledge power onto my Mega Buster. Within seconds I had all the answers to anything that dealt with Guest Service.

Since Jester Man saw how much damage the last question did to me, he tried to fire the same one again, this time with anger in his voice: "What is the most important aspect of serving?!" With my new skill at hand I shot back. I rejected the traditional "Service with a Smile" answer and followed that up simply with "Attentiveness." This nearly depleted his energy. He was awestruck! He replied, "That is without a shadow of the doubt, the best answer I have ever heard to that question."

This must have scrambled his thinking patterns because then he asked me to tell him a funny story that had happened to me recently. I told him a story about my Italian Grandmother after I had determined that he, too, was from the land of tomato sauce and mob bosses. He laughed so hard that it drained what was left of his energy bar. Like Red Sox Man before him, he exploded into thousands of tiny energy balls. I was then infused with the power of Management Skills. With these powers, I would have literally 20 years of restaurant management under my belt.

As I wiped the dust from my Megasuit and thought about looking around for food for my trusty dog Rush, the trailer rumbled. Giant footsteps were approaching! Dust fell from the ceiling with each step. I coughed and aimed my blaster at the door. Suddenly, the sound of tearing wood filled the room as a huge metal claw ripped off the side of the trailer! There before me stood Dr. General Manager in a huge robotic suit!



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Monday, February 20, 2006

Dr. General Manager


“They tell me you have absolutely no serving experience!” he said and laughed. His huge claw came in and made a grab for me, but I rolled out of the way and fired a few blasts back at him. They bounced right off his metal exterior! This was going to take some serious ingenuity.

"What makes up for your lack of experience?" he asked.
I tried a joke on him, thinking it'd hurt him like it did with Jester Man. “A doctor walks into a bar looking to have a few shots!” I said. He didn’t even smile. Dr. General Manger grabbed a chunk of the wall and heaved it at me. I tried rolling again, but it struck my side, lowering my power bar.

"Come on, Chris," he taunted. "Why would you make a good addition to our team?"
I thought maybe that kissing his ass would work. “I can already tell this restaurant will be great! I'll just add to it!” He responded by shooting miniature rockets at me. I shot two megablasts to blow them up before they got me.

I hid behind the desk, panting. I could hear his steps and the circuitry of his suit hum as he circled my position. “I hire a lot of servers,” he said, “so why should I care about you?” My mind raced. What did actually set me apart? I peeked from behind the desk and saw his claws pinching menacingly. I knew he could easily lift the desk and reveal me. I beat him to it.

I powered up my megablast and aimed it directly at the desk. I fired and the desk exploded in a fury of smoke and splinters. Under the cover of the explosion, I ran directly under Dr. General Manager’s robotic body. I jumped onto his back and located a simple “On/Off” switch.
“You should hire me because I think on my feet!” I said and turned the switch to off. His suit disengaged and crumbled to the ground with a dramatic crash, leaving him wearing only his lab coat and glasses.

“Chris,” he said, “You’ve impressed me. I’ll take a risk on you. Welcome aboard!” We shook hands.


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Friday, February 17, 2006

Ending



With the game beaten, I was ready for the sequel: You Got Served 2: Server Training.




CREDITS:

Story: Chris and Tim
Writing: Chris
Animated Pic: Jake
Still Pics: Phil

Check out the many other One Egg Shy productions or subscribe.

Thanks to Tim for helping with the original idea. Check his site out here.

Thanks to Phil for pics and Megaman info. Visit The Grand Shamoozal.

Thanks to Jake for the animated pic and work on others. Check out his photography here.



Wednesday, February 15, 2006

What a difference a day makes

So yesterday I was bumming. Valentine’s Day, dirty snow, the cold, it was all getting me down. I passed this couple while I was walking to work. The guy was skinny, geeky and carrying the case of some instrument. The girl was wearing a snow cap and had black, curly hair framing a cute face. They were young and in love and holding gloves. I say gloves because it was too cold for exposed skin, so they literally had their mittens just touching, since, as we all know, it’s hard to link fingers when the mittens make your hand pretty much one GIANT finger. So I saw this couple and thought to myself, in typical curmudgeon fashion, “God, how lame are they? They can’t even store away their affection for one goddamned minute?”

I got a few valentine offers from friends, which made me feel even worse. I appreciated the gesture, but the “Aww…you don’t have a valentine? I’ll be yours!” really just made me feel worse, not better, although I did appreciate the offers. As I predicted, I fell asleep by myself, unsaved by a Valentine’s miracle.

But.

But I woke up this morning with an IM from a friend telling me that a friend of a friend had linked to one of my articles on her myspace account. She seemed to like it, which was cool.

I also got an e-mail letting me know that this short play I wrote is going to be performed next month. It’s going to be at a high school but still, it’ll be neat.

The sun was shining when I walked outside. The snow was melting, running in small streams along the curb. I went to breakfast with my friend. On my way into work, I passed a couple. The guy was skinny, geeky and carrying the case of some instrument. The girl was wearing a snow cap and had black, curly hair framing a cute face. They were young and in love and holding hands. It was too warm for mittens today. I smiled to myself, happy for them.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Valentine's Day

Why I need photoshop
Most of you know the gig. I hate Valentine’s Day. This year I showed my hatred for the day
by participating in a college humor writers collab. The other one that I submitted that didn't get posted was, "Love is like the toilet seat in a dirty bar: there when you need it, kinda ugly, and bound to give you gonorrhea."

Last year for the event I took a survey of people on my buddy list (some of whom didn’t make the cut) to gauge what the general feeling on the streets was regarding this holiday.

I set up the survey thusly: people were given three possible replies to the question “What do you think about Valentine’s Day, either A) It’s an awesome chance to say “I love you” B) I don’t have strong feelings about it either way and C) It fucking blows and you know it, asshole. I received 29 replies.

3 people answered A
18 people answered B
8 people answered C

It turned out that people weren’t as jaded as I was, although a former college classmate of mine said, “I highly doubt that one day of being romantic and charming is really going to make up for the other 364 days of being an asshole.”
I responded with a resounding C when I polled myself (man, why does that sound so sexual?). The funny part is, for all of my bitterness about being single at the time, I ended up getting laid that night. I’m hoping that the unexpected, non-relationship sex of last Valentine’s Day was the beginning of a yearly trend (of course, if I were in a relationship, I’d be satisfied with relationship sex).

I’m going to put my sex life in the hands of the fates in terms of getting laid tonight but more likely, my sex life will continue to depend upon my own hands.
Ladies, here is your chance. You know how to reach me.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Snow Day

So the snow that hit Saturday night into Sunday had me at home watching a good amount of television. One of the main programs this weekend was, of course, the Olympics. I watched some women’s hockey.

I’m not a huge hockey fan. I think the diehards are a little intense for me, and I referred to what is now commonly known as the mullet as “hockey hair” for years. I will, on occasion, sit down and watch a hockey game. I like the speed, the violence and the amazing control some of the players have with both their sticks and their bodies. Speed, violence and control: all three of these things are lacking in women’s hockey.

I probably tuned in at the wrong time, as well. I turned on a match between Canada, a perennial hockey powerhouse and Italy, a country not traditional lauded for their ice skating abilities. The score when I turned it on was 8-0 in favor of, you guessed it, Canada. I continued to watch this train wreck as Canada scored goal after goal. The final score was 16-0.

Other than my obligatory (yet genuine) affinity for the ol’ US of A, I always pull for Italy in national competitions. My mother was born there and came first to Canada (she doesn’t play hockey, unfortunately) and then to the United States, so I feel a sense of national pride when my olive skinned country mates engage in sporting events. When it’s soccer, it’s great. When it’s women’s ice hockey, not so much.

It hurt me to see my motherland’s representatives so thoroughly humiliated on the ice. The Canadian ladies passed, shot, and twirled (okay, there wasn’t much twirling) with great ease while the Italians huffed and puffed, waiting for their shifts to end so they could have some espresso and warm up on the bench. But even the Canadian women, who were clearly light years ahead of the Italian women in terms of hockey prowess, weren’t that impressive. They were slow, they shied from physical contact, and their shots literally trickled along the ice and through the legs of the Italian goalie, who was thinking of the wine she’d drink after she was done wasting time on the ice.

Now, if I was the Italian coach, I probably would have told my girls to start representing their country a little better. I would have allowed them to start checking the Canadians at 8-0, and to use their sticks as weapons once they faced a 13 goal deficit. But I’m old school, and the Olympics are supposed to be about great feats of athleticism contrasted with horrible, life-altering failures, not unadulterated violence. Still though, some bloody Canadian mouths would have taught a simple yet valuable lesson, I feel.

Oh well, at least the Italian women’s curling team is supposed to be pretty stacked this year.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

My first piece of hate mail


Today was a momentous day. I received my first piece of hate mail in response to my latest collegehumor piece. A guy left the following comment on my blog, in reply to the part from my piece that read:

"If possible, find a job that applies to your major. I work in a writing center because I am a writing major and know the difference between 'your' (belonging to you), 'you're' (the contraction for 'you are'), 'ore' (a mineral from which a metal can be extracted) and 'O.A.R.' (a shitty band that only chicks and pussies like)."

The comment, by "Harryeballlls", read:
"You're a dick for saying 'only girls and pussies' like O.A.R. You're a writer of bullshit collumns on some bullshit website. Don't make crude opinionated statements liks that when your opinion is held in no regard whatsoever."

God, I kind of want to frame that comment like a business owner would frame the first dollar bill he's ever made.

I'm not going to attack Harryeballlls. That would be unfair. I'm glad that he is passionate about a band. There are plenty of bands I like that are considered lame by others. I have six tracks by ABBA on my iTunes, including "Dancing Queen." Not that I'd passionately defend them, but I will occassionally listen to one of their tracks and spin slowly in my room like a princess.

All I'm going to say, in my defense, is that if collegehumor is not a place to make crude opinionated statements, then what is? I'm bound to offend some people with what I write, and I'm okay with that. You can't make everyone happy all the time.

So thank you, Harryeballlls, for your opinion and for reading.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Sexual HarASSment

I read a story the other day about a six year old boy who was suspended for “sexual harassment” after he allegedly put two fingers inside a girl’s waistband while in school. All I can say is, what the fuck? Why do teachers everywhere keep trying to make children grow up so fast?

Sure, I can see a little girl getting upset about a little boy touching her, but 1) the poor kid got a three-day suspension and 2) he’s going to carry the stigma of a sexual harassment punishment around for the rest of his school career. He’s a freaking kid, for the love of Chuck.

At six, I had only a murky idea of what made a girl different than a boy. I knew that older girls had boobies, and that boys and men had wee-wees. I didn’t know about the hoo-hoos that girls hid in their pants, and I certainly wasn’t trying to stick my fingers into any waistbands to find out.

There was a time in the second grade, however, that a classmate of mine dared me to run around lifting up skirts during recess (I went to a Catholic grade school where the girls wore jumpers). I agreed, not out of any sexual interest, but because I knew they’d be annoyed. I had no idea what I was doing or looking for, and I can bet that this poor kid didn’t either.

I heard a recent story that another school has banned the game of tag, saying that it fosters competitiveness and inequality among children. OF COURSE IT DOES, IT’S FUCKING TAG! When you play tag, you go for the fat kid. Once he’s “it,” you run circles around him, poking him with sticks. This is America, where poking fat kids has been celebrated since the first three presidents used to tease Benjamin Franklin for his portly stature (his glasses didn’t help, either).

I just want to let kids be kids. This boy will have his whole life to sexual harass broads, but that doesn’t mean he did it purposefully at age 6. Teachers and parents need to chill out with that crap.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Who Wants to Cuddle?

At the end of last semester, a friend of mine was bemoaning the fact that her sorority was totally lame. I said I would rather the girls be moaning because of something I did in the bedroom. She didn’t laugh.

She was tired of the mixers, the movie nights and the traditional keg parties. As penance for the bemoaning joke, I told her I’d do some research into a new kind of party that would totally kick ass.

I went home, hit the Internet, and after watching three videos where women stuck various sports equipment into various orifices (who knew a lacrosse stick could....never mind), I googled the word “party” and began searching. Two hours and four clowns hired for a private affair later, I stumbled upon a gold mine: the cuddle party.

Cuddle Parties, according to cuddleparty.com, are “affectionate play events for adults, designed to provide a space to explore and enjoy touch, nurturing and communication.” Basically, it’s a bunch of people lying around and hugging in their pajamas (which are the mandatory attire). This sounded like a perfect event for a sorority! I mean, how many times have men pictured sleep over parties where women lounged about, hitting each other with pillows. Not only did a cuddle party encourage this, but it was mandatory, and the men could be involved. I read on.

At a Cuddle Party, people can get their R.D.A.W.T, or Recommended Daily Allowance of Welcomed Touch. It turns out that, as humans, we have instinctual needs to be touched, hugged, and massaged by people that we like. My R.D.A.W.T. as a healthy young male is ALL THE FREAKING TIME. But yours may vary. Consult your physician before engaging in excess cuddling. So I felt like I had the perfect solution to the sorority soiree situation. I was ready to make my presentation until I came across a section of the website entitled “rules.” These rules have made me rethink my proposal.

1. Pajamas stay on the whole time.
This means you have to pee or shit your pants should the need arise, which will make you less cuddly.

2. No SEX.
No sex. Cuddling? Sure. Sex? Nope. More on this to follow.

3. Kissing and nuzzling, as well as other forms of touch, are allowed, but you must ask permission and receive a verbal YES before you touch anyone.
Okay, you can kiss and nuzzle, but no sex. So it’s pretty much just endless foreplay. Sounds like most of my dates. Asking permission? “Hey, can I kiss and nuzzle you?” If you have to ask, you’re probably a giant loser already.

4.You don't have to cuddle anyone at a Cuddle Party, ever.
What? Why not? I don’t go to super bowl parties and not watch the super bowl. Or birthday parties and not eat cake. So why would you go to a Cuddle Party and not cuddle?

5. If you're a yes, say YES. If you're a no, say NO.
6. If you're a maybe, say NO.
I would do the opposite, just to mix things up. “NO! NO! NO!?”as I cuddle the hell out of someone.

7. You are encouraged to change your mind from a yes to a no, no to a yes anytime you want.
Ask Kobe Byrant how he feels about people changing their minds midway through.

8. NO DRY HUMPING!
DAMMIT! Clothes stay on and you can kiss and nuzzle, but you can’t simulate sex with your clothes on? What kind of lame party is this? I’d try to argue, but they wrote it all in caps. How can you argue with ALL CAPS!?

9. If you're in a relationship, communicate and set your boundaries and agreements BEFORE you go to the Cuddle Party. Don't re-negotiate those agreements/boundaries during the Cuddle Party. (Trust us on this one.)
Hey hon, I know we are together and everything, but I REALLY want to cuddle with this hot chick. Please? Honey? Where are you going?

10. Get your Cuddle Lifeguard On Duty or Cuddle Caddy if there's a concern, problem, or question or should you feel unsafe or need assistance with anything during the Cuddle Party.
Hi. I’m a cuddle lifeguard. Please shoot me in the head. “Um, Cuddle Caddy, could you help me? My zipper is stuck and I really want to fuck this girl I’ve been cuddling with for an hour...oh, rule number 2 you say? How about if I just....oh, rule number 7.” Do you think the Cuddle Lifeguards use rape whistles?

11. Crying and giggling are both welcomed and encouraged.
WHAT?! CRYING?! I don’t even know what to say to that one.

12. Please be respectful of other people's privacy when sharing with the outside world about Cuddle Parties and DO NOT GOSSIP.
Apparently the twelfth rule of cuddle party is you don’t talk about cuddle party.

13. Arrive on time.
14. Be hygienically savvy.
I can see the need for 14, but 13? Why is that a steadfast rule? I’d think there would be an advantage to being late, that way you could scan the field and pick a cutey to cuddle up with. It also takes out the awkward first moments when you are trying to see if that certain special someone will listen to you giggle and cry.

14. Always say thank you and practice good Cuddle Manners.
Hey, thanks, thanks a lot for those terrible 13 hours of unrequited lust. I had a great time.

So, if you are a pervert like I am, you are probably wondering about one thing. Well, they even answered that in a subtle way.“Erections. Erections. ERECTIONS. There, we said it.” You sure did! All that talk about erections has made me...well, never mind. I guess it is inevitable that these things would come up, and their explanation of what to do is this: “At a Cuddle Party, erections become Mother Nature's way of giving us the thumbs-up sign.” Just really think about that statement for a second. Read it again. Close your mouth. If I had known that erections were Mother Nature’s thumbs-up sign, I probably wouldn’t have been so embarrassed all the time in grade school.

So I decided that a sexually frustrating get together might not be the best plan for a sorority shindig, what with the ignored erections, awkward crying, poor hygiene and the stink of rejection that would linger when someone was a “maybe,” which we all know is actually a “no.”

Let’s just have a kegger.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Living with the three stooges


Within all of us there are three stages of existence. These stages are as well known a trio as Manny, Moe, and Jack of Pep Boys fame or as Larry, Moe, and Curly of the Three Stooges. No, I'm not talking about blood, bones, and bile, or childhood, adolescence, and old fartitude. What I'm talking about is our past, present, and future selves.

Now, I'm sure many of you realize that we exist in the past, in the present, and will exist in the future, but I'm willing to wager that none of you have thought about these three stages as very different and even manipulating individuals.

Our past selves are more than the embarrassing individuals on that old VHS tape who were singing the Macarena wearing only torn He-Man underoos. They are more than that chump who sat through hours upon hours of math classes as a youth just to incorrectly figure out change for a disgruntled customer or the teenagers who were caught having sex with your lubed up couch cushions. No, our past selves are made up of every experience that we can remember, plus some that we have blacked out thanks to years of therapy (I never had a pet rabbit who died on my birthday, I never had a pet rabbit who died on my birthday). Our past selves are a combination of every decision, thought, and haircut that we've ever had. But our past selves have led a dark ... um, past.

Now to the present self. The present self is who you are right now. No wait, right now. Hold on, this is your present. Okay. Your present self is the person that you are who exists just before you try to decide that he is currently existing. Get it? It's okay, I don't either. Anyway, your present self is the moderator of both your past and future selves, and the "number one" that you are trying to always look out for. The problem with your present self is that he always becomes your past self when you aren't paying attention.

The final self that we harbor inside of us is always lurking around the corner, and that is our future self. Our future self is the person that we imagine with rock hard abs, a firm grasp on biochemistry, and who is fluent in Italian. Every penny we save, class we take, and porn download we begin is aimed at improving the lives of our future selves. So if everything went like it should, these three stages of our beings would live in harmony, perfectly coexisting within our lives. But as many of us unfortunately realize, this isn't always the case.

The main complications come from the fact that our past selves are fucking dickwads. As an example, I'll use the Chris that used to be, called Past Chris. Now Past Chris is hard to classify. Sometimes he does things that are great for the Chris enterprise, like starting saving accounts, studying for tests, and treating women with respect. But there is also the other, more lazy side to Past Chris, the one who decides to play video games instead of going to class, to run water over his hands when a thorough washing is really necessary, and to spend money on a new remote-controlled robot vacuum instead of paying a credit card bill. This jerk cheaps out on toilet paper, forcing poor Future Chris to deal with hemorrhoids when he becomes Present Chris. Past Chris doesn't feel like flossing, so Future Chris's gums bleed. Past Chris ate donuts every morning, which contributed to Future Chris's love handles. If the Future Chris that will become the Present Chris is a jerk when he develops into Past Chris, the Future Chris down the line could be homeless and living in not only a dumpster, but the dumpster that the homeless people use to throw their trash out into.

So what can be done to help avoid a rift between your separate stages? The key lies in your present self. Every once in a while, he has to look out for your future Marge or Sam or Judy. This can be done in several simple ways. You can occasionally choose a low-fat option at Old Country Buffet instead of going straight for the deep fried ice cream. You can learn a new hobby like painting or rain dancing. You can even try to surprise your future self by putting some money into a jacket you know you won't wear for a while or by buying an extra bar of soap for when your slivers run out. The point is, you must respect yourself, but not only yourself. Your self four days ago and your self that is yet to arrive.