Listen bro I totally get where you&rsquo;re coming from, but just remember that next time you point a finger at Israel, there&rsquo;s gonna be three fingers pointing right back at you. You know what I mean? It&rsquo;s kind of like, if you live in a glass house, you&rsquo;re probably better off not throwing stones, right? All I&rsquo;m saying is that nobody is perfect&mdash;God knows I&rsquo;m no saint&mdash;and that sometimes you&rsquo;ve got to take into account the principle of charity and consider things from a different perspective. I mean, that&rsquo;s empathy, right? Remember that David Foster Wallace quote I texted you the other day&mdash;the one about the healing power of identifying with someone else&rsquo;s pain? I think this is exactly the kind of situation that he had in mind when he said that. Here I&rsquo;m pulling up the quote now. &ldquo;But if a piece of fiction can allow us to imaginatively identify with a character&rsquo;s pain, we might then also more easily conceive of others identifying with our-&rdquo; Holy shit dude. Have you ever thought about reading a book about Israel? I&rsquo;m serious. I honestly think that would help. Because, like, right now, you&rsquo;re judging a fish by its ability to climb a tree, so it&rsquo;s a no-brainer that you&rsquo;re gonna find some areas to criticize. Fuck actually you know what you should do? I&rsquo;m gonna send you a putlocker link to this &ldquo;Parts Unknown&rdquo; episode where Bourdain&mdash;may God rest his soul&mdash;visits Israel and eats a ton of this super delicious-looking shakshouka. I think you&rsquo;d find it really eye-opening. Obviously it&rsquo;s not gonna change your entire worldview or anything, but I think it might just give you a different perspective, you know?

Listen bro I totally get where you’re coming from, but just remember that next time you point a fing...

Advice

A successful relationship is about listening. That&rsquo;s why, when my longtime girlfriend started hinting at moving things to the next level, I took her to a fancy Italian place and proposed that we recreate the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp.
&ldquo;Wait&mdash;so you&rsquo;re not asking me to marry you?&rdquo; she stammered, repeating the exact same thing she had said last week when I accidentally proposed to her sister. &ldquo;Why would you think that? I never even gave you a ring!&rdquo; I replied, gesturing to the clump of pasta I had just removed from an engagement ring-box and immediately realizing how she might&rsquo;ve thought that.
This made me feel like a real asshole&mdash;a big, fat, stupid, ugly, good-for-nothing, down-on-my-luck, misunderstood, shy, sensitive, too-pure-for-this-world capital-A retArd. And I felt even worse when I saw that the pasta had gotten all tangled up and somehow managed to spell &ldquo;MARRY ME&rdquo; in huge capital letters across the table.
However, my girlfriend soon began to perk up, and after a little extra cajoling, agreed to recreate the spaghetti scene. &ldquo;You know, you might just be the best thing that&rsquo;s ever happened to me&rdquo; I said, staring lovingly into her beautiful blue blouse. &ldquo;Now hold this camcorder while I let the dogs out of their cages.&rdquo;
It took over fifty takes to nail the scene, but that was to be expected. After all, the dogs were first-time directors, and I kept spitting out my pasta because it tasted like a disgusting mix of flour, eggs, water and salt. It was all worth it though. When we finally kissed, I felt an incredible rush of happiness&mdash;mostly because our lips had created a pipeline that allowed me to suck the pasta from my girlfriend&rsquo;s mouth into my own, but also because I was in love!
After that I proposed and she said, &ldquo;No.&rdquo;

A successful relationship is about listening. That’s why, when my longtime girlfriend started hintin...

Proposal

I&rsquo;m going to be honest with you, reader&mdash;my sophomore fall didn&rsquo;t get off to a great start. Sure, I had a few things going for me: a n+1 suite in Adams (the &ldquo;Adams of the Quad,&rdquo; which is Pfoho), an early admit offer from the Porcellian Club, the healthy sex life I had maintained since middle school, and a regular brain with no learning disorders. But still, I felt like there was a gaping void in my life that could never be fulfilled, no matter how many drugs I took away from friends who were trying to stay clean or how much meaningless sex I saved women from by being an incredibly selfless lover.
Suffice it to say, I was depressed, and since suicide wasn&rsquo;t an option given my fear of death, I knew I needed to find some kind of cure. So in order to overcome my death-phobia, I turned to Eastern philosophy, but found the concept of reincarnation even scarier than the already extremely terrifying idea of going to heaven. Therefore, without the comforting certainty that death would be the end of all existence, suicide remained something I could only watch Pennsylvania State Treasurer Budd Dwyer (R-PA) do on YouTube or in the hundreds of flip book animations I had drawn.
So I began to see a psychiatrist, and after a few months of going out with her, I made an appointment with an analyst. While some people may dislike the idea of paying $200 to lie on a leather couch while some quack with a clipboard administers electroconvulsive shocks to your body whenever Dr. Milgram orders him to do so, I actually found it pretty helpful. For example, when I told my analyst about my fantasy where I walk into Sanders Theater with a fully loaded AR-15 to deliver a lecture on how to disarm an active shooter, he said it was just an expression of my resentment towards my father, who, back in the 80s, became the first &ldquo;good guy with a gun&rdquo; after he shot John Lennon.
Eventually, my analyst and I decided that it would do me some good to take a break and just get away from it all, so I applied to study abroad in Paris. But boy, did I feel stupid when I found out that, instead of applying to study in Paris, France, I had accidentally joined an ISIS training camp in Abu Kamal, Syria. Luckily, after only a week of training, I was sent home when a camp counselor caught me drawing a cartoon of Muhammad getting his dick sucked while I was in the girls&rsquo; dormitory after lights out.
As luck would have it, my flight back to Boston was hijacked by terrorists, who wanted to replicate the horrors of 9/11 by crashing the plane into a field in Pennsylvania. Luckily, I was able to overpower the terrorists and redirect the flight into the Pentagon. Anyways, here are some photos of when I went to Cleveland six years ago.

I’m going to be honest with you, reader—my sophomore fall didn’t get off to a great start. Sure, I h...

My Trip to Cleveland

After serving as head zookeeper for 25 years and chief hunting assistant during a disastrous week-long rebranding attempt, I was finally hanging up my boots. While my days of curb stomping misbehaving animals were over, my days of reminiscing about the curb stomping had only just begun.
As I walked into the zoo for the very last time, my arrival was met with loud cheers from the gorillas, the sign language equivalent of loud cheers from the more intelligent gorillas, and enthusiastic snaps from the super-intelligent gorilla who dabbled in slam poetry. I felt pretty disappointed because I thought the gorillas might do something special for my last day, rather than just giving me their usual welcome. However, my sour mood didn&rsquo;t last long once I realized that such blatant disrespect warranted at least three curb stompings. The goodbye lunch my coworkers organized also helped.
During the afternoon, I went around to each exhibit one final time, telling the animals what I really thought of them. Since only the good animals were left, I told them that they were all amazing, especially when paired with a full-bodied red. They all howled with laughter because they knew I was just kidding. &ldquo;We would obviously pair better with something more fruity,&rdquo; the super-intelligent gorilla signed sarcastically. Out of all the things I was leaving behind, I would miss our light-hearted banter the second most.
Before the day drew to a close, nostalgia got the better of me and I stopped by the first enclosure I ever cleaned. I remembered fondly how it took all night to get the area spic and span, but even so, throwing that party had been totally worth it. Just to think, if it weren&rsquo;t for those tiger tranquilizers, I would&rsquo;ve had the clarity of mind to just shoot the leopard when it broke free from its chains and started mauling party guests. But thank god I didn&rsquo;t. Otherwise, curb stomping would still be regarded as some deranged thing only real sickos do, instead of the widely accepted zoo-keeping practice it is today.

After serving as head zookeeper for 25 years and chief hunting assistant during a disastrous week-lo...

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Nicholas Grundlingh