It’s no secret, the economy blows. I don’t need to keep up on the latest word from the Wall Street Journal to figure it out. I simply look in my back pocket.

My wallet – a male symbol of maturity, of post-adolescent togetherness – was at one time filled, often to capacity, with crisp, green bills and an abundance of condoms. No longer is that the case. I look inside, searching for remnants of the past, a better time, but sorely I am greeted only by loneliness and the fleeting thought of what once was.

The crappiest part about it is that, concerning money or sex, you can be happy with one or the other. When you have money, if you aren’t shackin’ up with a gold-digging beauty, you can still be happy with your money. If you don’t have money, you can say, “Well, at least I’m getting my hump on,” all the while retaining some sense of dignity.

I was recently asked by a female, “Do guys really care about women’s imperfections?”

Yes. Yes we do. But not without cause.

There's no way around it. Some people are just awkward. And I believe there is no better resource of awkward conversation than right inside one's own family - my family, to be exact.

My family is a complex combination of my mother's assertive, loving and affectionate side and my father's reserved, quiet and sometimes unwelcoming side. It's the latter I find more awkward.

I'm not quite sure how it happens. But sometimes I guess I look like I care. And I guess that's my own fault.

I have always had the same approach toward things. For the sake of sociological interactions, I have two modes. 

Mode A allows me to put on the charm face when I want something or when there is somebody I need to bullshit with, which really means I don't like the person but my paycheck's depend on our interaction. Sometimes, you just have to bite the bullet.