I Hate That SEX is 67% "EX". By J Wilder Konschak As I write this, I have 359 days left before my disastrous, persistent, and, enfin, fatal alcohol addiction commences. In less than 12 months, I will be 21 years old, and the intentional burning of my brains shall begin. I feel that this filthy habit will be a welcomed replacement to mingling with, and thinking about, menacing ex-fiancées. And it has got to be a more enjoyable form of self- destruction. Just ask the Omen staff. But, until then, I must survive on this motto: doing nothing is better than doing a psychotic ex. Involving myself with this "woman" would be worse than drinking Drano. Yes, I must remember what my mommy always told me: when you drink Drano, it burns your mouth, throat, and stomach, then you pass out, and bleed to death, so don't drink Drano. I must remember that getting back with this girl would be much worse than drinking Drano- even with the blowjobs. No matter what the Omen staff says. Though, I must admit, I can handle being single until I go to the mall; I'm perfectly well equipped to resist her, until I walk through a K-Mart. This is because, for me, the hardest part of being single is that long walk through the lingerie section of the department store. If I want to make it from the parking lot to the food court, I must inevitably pass the taunting bras and mocking panties, and once I'm there, I have no choice but to look at them. And I then have to think "I must buy that for my goddess of a girlfriend." And then, "I don't have a goddess of a girlfriend. I don't even have doggy of a girlfriend." And then, finally, I have to suffer the ultimate, saddest failure, and I have to think, "Wouldn't that look hot on my ex?" Punch. I say "punch" because I've been trying to classically condition myself to forget about my ex-fiancée. This is my method: whenever I think about her, I punch myself in the face. Some people spend their lonesome hours using their hand for other things; I use it to injure myself. My lovely - bam! crunch! - my attractive - crack! twack!- that filthy whore, my ex, was on the Hampshire campus today, searching for me, I presume. I don't think she was here for our Cog Sci Department. I was coming back from the mall, and I saw her across the quad, a blond who would have been salaciously exciting, if she ever stopped wearing that huge, frumpy denim coat. I saw her, recognized her, and then ran away. Hiding in Saga, I told a friend what I'd seen. "What're you gonna do if she finds you?" "I don't know," I muttered. "I think I'll kill myse-Actually, I'll probably fuck her." "I thought you'd say that," said he. "Really?" said I. "I didn't know I was going to say it until it came out of my mouth." Last time, I didn't know I was going to do it, until I did her. And yet I still have faith in things working out for the best, if I'm just patient. So let's talk about Tolstoy. I was riding home from work the other day, and I had Tolstoy's tale of love and marriage, Family Happiness, stowed on the back of my bike. Watching his old, ugly picture bounce on the rack, I wondered what Tolstoy'd think of me reading his book. I wondered if that crab knew that I was riding around with his work on the back of my bike, in the middle of a drugged-out, fucked up, turn-of-the-new- century college. I wondered if he knew that his book sat on my lap while I watched loved ones sleep. I wondered if old stanky pants knew that he didn't do a damn thing to dissolve my vain dreams of happiness. He was a smart man. If there's an afterlife, I hope that Leo knows that his most despicable deprecations toward hope, love, relationships, and life didn't crack the mind of even an Omen author - didn't even touch a lonely, cranky, afraid of lingerie, and planning to drink himself into a stupor, writer. I hope he knows that. Because, if a corpse could figure that out, maybe my stupid ex will get the goddamn hint and stay the hell away! The genius Count Leo Tolstoy can't convince me to give up hope for something better - you ain't got a chance, chick! At least for another 359 days.