I try to post new material once a week–at the latest, once every 10 days–and when something comes up that prevents me from maintaining my blogging schedule, I always put up a notice to let you guys know why I’m on hiatus, and how long I’ll be away. It’s the least I can do for you guys because I know you all have things to do with your time, but you choose to spend some of it on my site. Having your footprints is something I am very, very grateful for.

This post, however, comes nearly two weeks after my last one, and was not preceded by any notice or explanation of my disappearance. That’s because this blogging break wasn’t voluntary. You see, I’ve been dealing with a mess that some douche bag gave me around the time of my last entry.

It started when I was driving back to my apartment after spending the afternoon with my sister. We had originally planned to hang out at my place, but there had been an unusually high number of car accidents clogging the freeways that day, and it would have taken two hours to go from Los Angeles to my area. Since my sister had to work the next day, we decided instead to just do some grocery shopping and then hang out together some other time.

As I was on the I-5 freeway…

…I noticed this white car driving very, very close behind me.

I don’t like it when people tail me, but I hate it when they do it on the freeways…and I really, really hate it when those idiots are tailing me on the I-5. I don’t know how the 5 freeway is in Northern California, Oregon, or Washington, but as far as So-Cal is concerned, there is always a slow-down somewhere along the 5. Always. Sometimes the traffic is caused by the roadwork that’s been going on since dinosaurs walked the Earth, sometimes it’s because of one or two car accidents. Regardless of the cause, the result is always the same: you will sit motionless on the I-5 at some point.

Considering the nature of the 5 freeway, there were only two reasons why the driver had the nerve to tail me like that: she was either (1) retarded, or (2) a crappy driver.

10 minutes later, I noticed the cars in front of me had all slowed to a stop–and, of course, I ended up stopping as well. But as I was preparing myself for the inevitable 25 minutes of congestion…

My car suddenly lurched forward and struck the truck in front of me!

It took a few seconds, but I eventually realized, “Holy sh*t! I’ve just been involved in a f*cking car accident!”

I’d never been in a car accident before, and thus had no idea what it was I supposed to do at that moment. Do I grab my license and vehicle registration? Do I exchange insurance information with the piece-of-sh*t ass carrot who just plowed her car into mine? Should I forget trying to figure out the formalities and just beat her ass with a rubber hose?

Since I’d left my beating hose at home, I decided to just get out and survey the damage to my car.

Hmm…what’s the car mechanic-ish term for “hot sh*tty mess”? Because that’s what I was looking at when I saw the damage inflicted on my car: a hot sh*tty mess. The hood was lifted off its hinges, but fared better than I expected–then again, I was expecting to find it reduced to bits and pieces of metal, so finding a jacked-up hood isn’t much of a consolation, is it? As for the back of my car, the trunk compartment was still there but the parts underneath it were gone, and one of my back tires was deflated and missing its hubcap. There was more damage than what I’m describing, but thinking about it causes diarrhea pains so I’ll move on.

I was beyond pissed–and I had a whiplash-induced headache–but I managed to keep my rationality intact long enough to call the police. I’ve known people who were in hit-and-run accidents, and there was no way I was going to let this driver get away–not like she could since almost the entire front of her car was strewn across the freeway. Speaking of the driver, she eventually came out of her car and started talking to me…

Honestly, I wasn’t registering what she was saying at first. All I could think about was, “Ugh…she’s Asian.” Great, just great. Not only did this hag wreck my car, but she also set all my efforts to overcome the Asian/women-bad-driving stereotype back a few years! What’s the point of maintaining a pristine driving record now, right? And imagine how many people looked at us and thought, “Wow, Asians really can’t drive!” As for the people in the truck my car was pushed into–they were both Mexicans. It was like living a bad joke, “So a Chinese, Korean, and two Mexicans walk into a bar…” or being at an under-publicized minority rights rally.

Anyway, the driver was trying to explain her side of the story–maybe because she thought I had the power to cut her some slack–but unfortunately, that was a judgment call I had no right to make.

Okay, okay, that’s not how things really went down. The girl actually didn’t say she was sorry.

I’ve always wondered what my guy friends meant when they said a girl’s vagina was loose. I always thought the term was used when discussing skanky va-jay-jays, but apparently it is also used to describe vaginas that are literally loose.

But how do you make the determination that a particular pussy is loose or not? I’ve never had the opportunity to find this out for myself, so I can only assume that a vagina is loose when it has a lot of empty space–like, the lips are so saggy that they clap in the wind.

I tried to find out the truth behind this mystery by posting a question about it years ago. And I ended up with a lot of answers, but most of them were analogies. Don’t get me wrong: they were extremely fun to read and did give me a basic idea of the law of looseness. The ultimate message, however, was lost on me. The analogies could only be decoded by a person who had actually been all up in someone’s snatch. And that person was so not me.

A few examples of the cryptic responses:

“When there are pictures up of all the famous dicks that have eaten there.”

Can you name all the Dicks featured in the drawing?

Update: No one seems to know who the first guy is…not that I blame you or anything. His name is Dick Swett. I’m not kidding! Dick Swett!

“It feels like throwing hot dogs down a hallway.”

“Loose ones are like pool parties: Everyone gets to take a dip–all at the same time!”

It’s really sad that such brilliant answers were wasted on my feeble mind. Really sad. But based on the analogies, I’m guessing a vagina is loose when it doesn’t feel like anything when you get all up in there? You can’t produce any friction? Am I kind of close? Not really?

The concept is so weird…I wonder how you guys deal with being stuck in a vaginal vortex.

I finally have the chance to write the words I’ve dreamed of typing for months:

“And we’re back!”

Ah, my Xanga cuties—I have missed you so!

I said “we’re,” but it’s just me (sorry, conspiracy theorists). Saying “And we’re back!” somehow sounds a lot better than “I’m back!” Maybe because when you see latter you immediately think of the annoying, drawn out “I’m baaaaaack!” Ugh…nails on a chalkboard, I tell you.

A brief rundown of what I’ve been doing for the past two months—I mean, besides studying all day. I grew a bar exam beaver—it’s like Conan O’Brien’s unemployment beard, except it’s in my crotch area, and black instead of orange.

And…that’s about it.

Wait, I did go to the gym every now and then to break the monotony of my daily schedule…oh, that reminds me: I need your advice on something. I had an awkward gym situation a few weeks ago and wasn’t sure how to deal with it without making things even more awkward. By the way, how many of you pictured the annoying “Jersey Shore” asshat “The Situation” when you read the word “situation”? He’s completely tainted the word now. And he’s brandishing his nickname like it’s synonymous with sex appeal, when really “The Situation” he’s bringing around is that of a fug-faced douche bag.

As I was saying: I was at the gym a few weeks ago and had a run-in with awkwardness. My equipment of choice is the stationary bike because I can play my PSP or DS while pedaling away for half an hour. On that day, however, the bikes were all taken—which didn’t settle too well with me because I was in the middle of “Assassin’s Creed: Bloodlines,” and only allowed myself to play when I was at the gym. But with all the bikes taken, I wasn’t going to be able to continue Altair’s journey!

Just when I was leaving climbing onto one of the elliptical machines, an old man got up out of the bike he was using. And he noticed me right away—probably because I was giving the bike the crazy eyes and shoving people out of my way—and made a here-you-go gesture.

I went over to the station, looking all forward to killing Templars and finding their coins, and then saw this:

There were giant puddles of something on both sides of the bike. I first assumed that maybe someone had spilled water on the floor, but there wasn’t a trail of water connected to either puddle—something you’d expect to see if someone’s water bottle was knocked over. And the roof wasn’t leaking either. The puddles were just sitting there next to the bike.

Mystery puddles with no obvious source? There was only one explanation left: It was sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.

But the oceans of sweat weren’t what bothered me. I mean, they were pretty bad, but what really, really got to me was this small river of I-don’t-know-what dripping from the seat:

I know we’re all individuals, but I’m pretty sure we share at least one common belief: fluid dripping from a place where butts are usually found is not okay. When a person sees that, he isn’t thinking about the possibility that the liquid is just water. No, he’s thinking, “Dude, that’s crotch water!”

And that’s exactly what I thought. Given that I was in a gym, and that the bike had just been used by someone who was standing in front of me and sweating profusely, there really wasn’t any viable alternative other than to conclude that the little river was nut sweat.

Why would I think otherwise anyway? If this man’s armpits were capable of sweating puddles, then his nuts could be just as, um, juicy? Talented?

So there I was, standing in front of the bike that was surrounded by the Sweatcific and Sweatlantic Oceans, and had sack juice/talent dripping down the seat (perhaps to form the Ball-tic Sea? Mwahaha…ugh…). I was better off using the elliptical.

But crap! The old man was still standing there, telling me I could use the bike now that he was done. Now what? I couldn’t say I didn’t want to use the bike because we did the silent “You want the bike next?”/“Sure!” thing. And I didn’t want to tell him I changed my mind because he would know why, and it might hurt his feelings—something I did not want to do. This guy wasn’t a “To Catch a Predator” old man you’d kick down a flight of stairs. He had this adorable grandpa look…the kind of look you think of whenever you imagine the perfect grandfather.

I didn’t know what to do, so I thought, “Maybe I’ll just deal with it and use the bike.” It was just sweat right? Doesn’t matter that it might have come from his balls. It wasn’t going to kill me or anything.

But then I was like, “What if grandpa was a ho when he was younger and got some sort of STD? Or what if grandpa’s a ho now?” In that case, even though the runoff couldn’t kill me, it could be all diseasey—like a miniature Ganges River, full of particles of the dead (we are talking about an old man here) and other fetid goodies.

I stood there thinking of all the horrible possibilities while Old Man Sack River waited for me to sit down on the bike. I don’t know why he was still there, but he made me feel all sorts of pressure…

Pressure? That gave me an idea. What is the middle ground between sitting on a stranger’s genital sweat and hurting that person’s feelings?

Making an ass of yourself, that’s what. And you know what’s the quickest way to pull off a self-assification? Faking a massive bowel movement.

It works every single time.

There has to be a better way out of this situation! And I know you have the answer because you’re smarter and way more rational than I am. Tell me: What would have been the better course of action?!