Day 5: Why Your Girlfriend Won’t Blow You

Choose a common or menial task with which you are familiar .

The Girl Friend

The Girl Friend (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Try to describe it to your reader in a fun/ interesting way, or possibly shed new light on something mundane.

Rohlin, Richard (2013-02-25). 30 Days of Writing Prompts (Kindle Locations 335-336). Excelsior Publishing. Kindle Edition.

Ok, I decided to go way outside the box on this one, and give my fellow man some advice on why a woman may not want to kneel before his altar.

There seems to be a crazy obsession among guys about getting blow jobs. And sometimes, guys get frustrated because their girlfriends, fuck buddies, or whatever either have to be convinced to blow them, or they won’t do it at all. So leave it to your lovely Perverted Sage and friendly neighborhood digital vagabond to clear it up for you. The Internet in general seems to be fond of writing articles that consist of lists, so here you go!

1) You taste nasty.
Let me explain. What you eat has an effect on how your man chowder tastes. So if she’s given you a blow job before but won’t now, this could be why. For God sakes people, use Google and be intelligent enough to know what information is real and what isn’t. But for those Google challenged folks out there, try eating more fruit, the sugars and citric acids affect the way you taste. Who knows, she might like you better in general if you taste better. As a side note, stay away from overindulging in cruciferous vegetables. They make you fart and taste funny.

2) Lack of cleanliness.
This should go without saying, but proper hygiene will do wonders for your sex life. Your partner will want to have sex with you more, because you smell good and taste good. So clean yourselves for Fuck’s sake!

3) Man-Scaping.
You know how there’s been a trend lately to want a smoother playing field on a woman? Well just like you don’t like to eat grass, it’s likely that she doesn’t either. Even women who do like a little bit of hair down there, would prefer that their man does a little bit of trimming. So indulge the woman, and either shave or trim. Trust me, you will thank me later.

4) The Principle of Reciprocity
Those are some pretty big words aren’t they? Basically, you have to give it to get it. Trust me, it’s been my experience that if you can give good oral, she’ll let you do whatever you want. So if you’re not willing to give it, don’t expect it in return. You have absolutely no right to make demands on that sort of thing. Sex is about mutual pleasure, not self-aggrandizing superiority and selfishness.

5) You suck at giving oral.
This is pretty much self-explanatory. If you really don’t know what you’re doing, there are books out there. But I have a better solution, and it’s much, much cheaper. You know when you’re sitting there wishing that your significant other were more like a porn star, all the while watching porn. Pay attention! You might learn a few things. You expect her to, so why don’t you?

Well guys and girls, that’s the end of today’s lesson. I hope you enjoyed yourselves… And if not, I hope you soon will :-)


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Day 4: I Don’t Like to Write

Share one of your favorite (or least favorite) quotes. Tell the reader why it is significant, important, or meaningful.

“I don’t like to write, but I love to have written”

-Michael Kanin


English: David by Michelangelo(back side)

English: David by Michelangelo(back side) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I couldn’t agree more with this quote, I don’t like to write. It probably seems like an oxymoron, and if you wanted to argue with me about it, you’d probably win. Why don’t I like to write? And why do I still love to have written? Writing is painful. Imagine having so many ideas filling your head, all of them sloshing around endlessly to the point of causing actual physical pain. And then, just when you think it couldn’t get any worse, you feel that one idea floating to the surface of your mind, as if it were gasping for air. More agonizing still, is that once it finds its mental, ethereal oxygen source, it pounds inside of your skull like that pesky relative knocking at your door while you pretend you’re home, this one idea could persist in this ever annoying state for hours on end, even days.

It gnaws at you like a ravenous beast until finally, you are forced to put it down on paper. I remind you that this is not an act entirely of your own volition, but rather an act that stems from the need for relief; it is an almost animalistic instinct, a demiurge of sorts. And once you begin moving your pen hastily across the surface of the paper, or typing frantically caught in the fury of nerd rage, you come to a startling revelation; your words, your facility with language is imprecise, imperfect, and broken in comparison to the gold that has carefully sifted its way to the surface of your mind’s eye. You find that the glittering piece of magnificence, that inner Joule is inadequately expressed through the use of your blunt instrument.

Then, like a sculpture who has found the perfect piece of stone, you begin to chip away like Michelangelo feverishly working on his masterpiece, David. Until at last, though not perfect, that jewel in your mind’s eye begins to shine to the outside world. And while you see its flaws, everyone else sees its glory… That’s why I also say, “I don’t like to write, but I love to have written.”

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Day 3: The Little Revolutionary

Recall a significant moment from your childhood or past – something that shaped and defined who you are today. What were you doing/ thinking/ feeling? Why was it important?


Rohlin, Richard (2013-02-25). 30 Days of Writing Prompts (Kindle Locations 309-310). Excelsior Publishing. Kindle Edition.

Dr. Martin Luther King at a press conference.

Dr. Martin Luther King at a press conference. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We often think of some sort of revolutionary change, no matter how small, as being the result of revolutionary ideas. We think of them as things that don’t happen under any other circumstances except the extraordinary. I don’t think that’s true. Sometimes, all it takes to institute change is a willingness to think deeply about what we’re taught, and an unwillingness to do anything but accept the right answer. There was once a little boy who believed the very same thing. What follows, is not my story, but his. A homage to a little revolutionary.


The year is 1989. The season is fall. There is a little boy born with a condition called cerebral palsy, a neurological condition that in his case was caused by a slight brain hemorrhage shortly after birth. This little boy was born early, but born smart. He used a wheelchair to get around, but he was mostly spoiled because for the longest time, he was small enough for mostly anyone to carry them around wherever he wanted to go. But this particular year, he started the first grade.

He was a particularly precocious little boy, who had a randomly peculiar obsession with two things; all things outerspace, and the dinosaurs. As such, he was an advanced reader which meant he was likely to be an advanced thinker. This little boy was always getting into a particular kind of trouble; he wanted to play with kids that weren’t in wheelchairs like him, because he saw how much fun they were having. So there it began, a series of days sneaking around the campus of the local elementary school to find a way to the other side of the playground where there were normal kids playing. Not that he didn’t particularly think of himself as normal, but he knew he was somehow different than those around him.

One day at recess, he began what would be a long string of troublesome bouts with school administration. They usually followed the same pattern; the little boy, named Abel, knew the school really well, and he knew there was a rule against the people in the special ed program playing with the kids on the other side of the playground, “the normal kids.” He would look out to the other side of the playground, day after day. He would see these kids having so much fun, and he just wanted to join in. So he would wait until no one was looking, and he would take several alternating routes to get to the other side of the playground without being seen. One day, while he was playing with the kids on the other side of the playground, he was seen. He was caught. He thought it was over. And he was extremely sad… After all, he had done this time and time again, and he had gotten away with it, he played with the other kids on the other side of the playground, and he found out they were having just as much fun as he thought.

A few days after being caught, two of the school administrators came to Abel’s classroom. Their names were Mr. Price, and Dr. Mah. Abel didn’t like Mr. Price very much, he thought Mr. Price was far too rigid and had a stick up his ass, but he liked Dr. Mah. He thought Dr. Mah was very reasonable, and very nice. Dr. Mah knew this, so Dr. Mah decided to be the first one to speak.

“So Abel, why did you go to the other side of the playground? You know it’s against the rules.”

“I don’t know.” Abel replied

Mr. Price chimed in, “you know it’s against the rules, there has to be a reason you disobeyed.”

“I wanted to play with the other kids; I wanted to make some new friends.”

Dr. Mah paused pensively, and then said, “look Abel, it’s not against the rules because we think there’s something bad about you wanting to make new friends, but you have to understand that if something happened to you, we are responsible.”

Abel understood, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He thought for a few minutes, Mr. Price then interrupted him. “Well, do you have anything to say?”

“As a matter of fact I do, Mr. Price.”

“It’s black history month. And you taught us about Dr. Martin Luther King. The way I understood it, Martin Luther King went through all that so that one day, people could be friends with whoever they wanted. He wanted to end this thing called segregation; it was where people had to be kept separate because they were different. How is that different from me wanting to play with the kids on the other side of the playground?”

Dr. Mah and Mr. Price looked stunned. They never thought of it that way. To them, it was simply a matter of insurance and liability. They were only trying to keep people safe, and avoid lawsuits. But they conceded the boy’s point, and they agreed that they would think about what Abel had said. A few days later, they came in to announce that there was no longer a rule against playing on the other side of the playground. And that over the coming months, they would train the playground monitors to watch out for certain things that could be potentially dangerous for disabled children. Abel went on to make many friends on both sides of the playground. He had changed his little corner of the world.

Today, I more frequently go by the name Ron, Ronald, or Captain Gimpy. I’m 29, and this remains one of the most formative experiences of my life. The perception of disabled people in our society continues to be something that I strive to improve. But this is where it all started, it all started on the playground. And to be perfectly honest with you guys, I thought I’d lost that stubborn fire that caused me to keep fighting. But the truth is, it never left. I had to take this opportunity to say thank you to my younger self, in this case, you’re much wiser than I could’ve ever hoped to be.

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Day Two: The Straitjacket of Sleep

English: A Comedy icon, based on the Drama Icon

Hello my lovely readers! I’m sorry I’ve been away for a while, technical issues prevented me from maintaining my writing schedule, but I’m back! From here on out, I’ll be writing every day until the end of the 30 day challenge that I’m sharing with you. The prompt for day two asks me to personify an object in the room that was part of the prompt for day one. I hope you enjoy.


My bed. It wraps me in the gentle embrace of a lover who is missed their better half after a long hard day. It sings softly in my ear the siren’s song, calling me to a supposedly ever-peaceful rest. That is the ideal, but not the reality. The reality is that it wraps me in a soft embrace like a crazy lover, wait, more so like a straitjacket. It restricts me, and clutches me like a relentless harpy carrying me to the darkest recesses of my mind, all as I simply stared at the ceiling waiting for sleep to come. I wish I could tell you the noise in my mind was simply white noise that could be forgotten, I wish I could tell you that the solace that the supposed comfort of my bed provided to something to be treasured, but rather it is to be as feared as perhaps a psychotic best friend. She leads me to wonder if I’ll be the same person tomorrow as I was when I went to sleep.


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The Room of a Weary Would-be Hero

Whittingham Asylum 09

Whittingham Asylum 09 (Photo credit: nickcummins)

Welcome to our Writerly month with the Digital Vagabond. This is my mini blog project for the summer. The goal of this blog is to work through the book 30 days of writing prompts by Richard Rohlin. It’s an attempt for me to get to create some new content, and to take myself out of my comfort zone. I also hope that over the next 30 days I develop better habits as a writer, as well as explore my stylistic strengths and weaknesses. I’m looking forward to taking this journey lives, and online, and am happy to be sharing it with you guys. So, without further ado, enjoy!

Describe the room you’re in, as though you’ve entered it for the first time. What does it tell a stranger about its occupants?

The room is bare, organized enough, no one would ever call this the messiest room they stepped into, but it certainly isn’t the most organized. Books are Piled away in very specific and unobtrusive places, it is as if the occupant is hiding his or her own intellect, although in this case it is very likely he. The only marks of the occupant’s personality are found in a Dragon oil warmer, a Justice league poster, and the Superman figurine. It is as if the room houses his boyhood dreams of being able to save the world, but at the same time telling us that he’s all but given up on that dream. The lights are dim yellow, his light is slowly fading, his desk is worn and abused like an old friend who’s been with him for far too long, and carried far too much weight, or perhaps he feels as though he has. Coffee is obviously the insomniac’s cure, providing a tasty escape, and a much-needed dose of clarity, and one of the few people closest to his heart provides him both the solace of memory, and a healthy dose of caffeine as her memory is immortalized on a coffee mug. The room belongs to an incandescent mind, a potentially unsung hero, but a hero that is given up almost all hope for humanity nonetheless.

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