I'm willing to be flexible.  If I need to be more discrete when I hound your housemates about your whereabouts, I can do that.  But, it would be helpful if you told Justine that she's not fooling anybody when she says she doesn't know where you are, when its obvious that you're hiding in the bathroom.

Communication takes two. And stalking is no different.  I remember when we first began our stalking relationship.  Everything was so fresh, new, and exciting! But I must admit that since you were fired from your job at Banana Republic because of my repeated phone calls and break-ins, things have lost their luster.

I'm trying to be understanding. But it seems that your family definitely does not accept me. I tried not to be offended when it happened, but the "Leave us alone and get a LIFE!"
note your mom left in the garbage for me to find was a little insensitive.

I know we'll get through this rough patch. We've been through worse (your cat's disappearance, etc.) and I know that we're adult enough to make this thing work.

Ryan McGivern

The French call orgasms 'little deaths' which means I'm committing a mass murder each time I spill my seed.

But the accompanying shame and guilt have been overridden by the prospect of making some quick cash off my DNA ranch dressing.

My most recent visit to the sperm donation clinic was met with the necessary
physical.
"Pee in this cup."
"That's it? Just pee?"
"Just pee in this one."
"Okay."
...
"Now we'll have to draw some blood."
"The 'fun way'?"
"What does that mean?"
"Uhhh, I dunno."

While I was being leeched of my precious lifeblood to be tested for HIV and madcow, I nearly passed out. This was not a little embarrassing and I hoped it didn't hurt my image.
"I feel like I'm gonna pass out."
"Put your head between your knees. You'll be fine."
"I'm potent."
"Yes, Ryan. I know."
"Seriously. I'm a man.... And I'm tough."
"The blood has left your head, Ryan. Put it between your knees."
"Braagh thraath uriiian prrrrrrr."
"Yes, Ryan. I know."

I was made to lie down in one of the collection rooms.
"Just rest here for a minute. I'll get you a juice."
Almost dying from blood loss is kinda erotic.
So is quickly looking through pornographic magazines on the sly
when you're supposed to be 'resting'.

Ryan McGivern

Topeka is a land lost in time. Like the TV show, "Land Of The Lost". There aren't dinosaurs there (I checked Wikipedia) but I have heard on a radio programme that it does however look like the same 10 by 10 foot set filmed from different angles. I interviewed the checkout lane guy at Ralph's and he said that Topeka has houses in it. I would like to live in a house, so that sounds pretty good to me.

Topeka is basically Minnesota but with more lymes disease.

Its been said the Topeka is a little bit of heaven, which is strange to me because heaven is purportedly infinite and any fraction of infinity is infinite. But, you can't believe everything you hear about Topeka. I found that out the hard way when I started online dating a girl from Topeka who turned out to be my neighbor Jared, who lives near me.
So, bottom line: there are two somewhat conflicting maxims here-"Topeka Iowa is the New Jerusalem, a Utopian Paradise where reality and dream meet." and, "Buyer beware."

You know the scene in Goonies where Sloth rips open his shirt revealing a
Superman shirt underneath? That's how I feel right now because
I have viable sperm.

I went to Encino Reproductive Services Inc. today for another donation
and a report on my sperm count.

As I gave today's collection to the very kind and discreet nurse/sperm wrangler,
she held it up to the lights and gave the same look someone might if they were
to sample a surprisingly good clam chowder at Red Lobster.
"Great!" She said. "Ryan, we have the results from the first donation. And it came back very good."

This was the best feedback I 've got since my mother told me I did a good job
"making a ka-ka all by my myself like a big boy".

"Your volume was well over normal and usually with high volume, the actual sperm counts will come back lower. But yours stayed quite high so it was a great sample and we froze it."
I was later told that freezing the sperm is like putting Snickers bars in the freezer.
I was beaming. I did a couple of victory laps around the lobby, nearly knocking over the coffee table.

"I did it! In your FACE! In yo face!" I punched a hole in the dry wall.

"I feel such power. Yesssss. Yes. I am God here! In the place of a Dark Lord you would have a Queen! Not dark but beautiful and terrible as the Morn! Treacherous as the Seas! Stronger than the foundations of the Earth! All shall love me and despair!"
My head revolved 180 degrees and then I puked green pea soup in the nurse's
face.

Well ladies, if you've doubted my ability to give you an abundant Irish brood-
think again.
Ryan McGivern's got the sweet, sweet magic in spades, baby.

It's too bad women are only fertile once a month.

Ryan McGivern

I've always liked masturbating into a cup and showing it to people,
so you can imagine my excitement when I found out I could get
paid to do so!

I had Google searched
"cum thirsty karl rove"
and on the 8th page of results was a page for the Encino Reproductive Services Inc. describing how to get involved with the burgening sperm market.

I am now on the groundfloor of the ejaculate industry and I hope
that my fortune lies in wait like a ripe passive ovum. 

I went over to Encino the next week for my first sample to be taken.
The collection rooms are like a small doctor's room with a sink and
some Sani-Naps to clean your penis, a chair, a bin of condoms to take for the
road (keeping your sperm healthy is key in the sperm business), and a bed.

A bed! I couldn't believe it. Are they expecting men to lay down in the missionary position? Is it to take a nap afterwards? I dunno. This seemed
incredible to me. What guy masturbates lying down?
Masturbation should be done quickly and covertly standing up, and preferably in a corner!
I think I'll ask them about this phenomenon next time I go in.

Of course, there was a rack of pornography made available on the wall.
There is a stack of straight porn and a stack of gay porn.
I think that the two stacks are too close together.
In my frenzy, I kept accidentally flipping through
"Rough Rider" and "Latin Inches".

The nurse/sperm wrangler also had given me a "spill sheet" which was a
folded up napkin that was really a highly absorbant picnic blanket.
"How much semen are you expecting from me if this is the SPILL sheet?"
I thought.
I looked at my cup which I assumed held 8 ounces and again felt
overwhelmed.

When she left me alone to 'collect', I felt another pang of anxiety:
"How long should this take me?" I thought.
I imagined that if I came out of the room 1 minute later (a possibility), she'd silently judge me.

I decided to go into it with the same spirit that I approach sex.
Here's the standard inner dialogue that ran through my head as
it usually does...
"Try really hard to last longer than 2 minutes! But, don't be too long about it, now. Don't want to hold things up and have people getting bored and frustrated.
Just don't be too quick. Don't think too hard about it though! Be smooth about it, man. Don't enjoy it too much though, or it'll be over embarrassingly quick. Just act natural! Pretend that this is a normal thing you do and don't be so weird about it! God! What is your problem? Try to look at a clock before hand so that you can pace yourself. God only knows that what feels like a long time to you is really 45 seconds!
You freak! You're doing it wrong! You sick weirdo! Slow down! You think that's a good technique? Hmmpf. Whatever. Keanu Reeves' acting is more
inventive and exciting than this. You horrible wreck. Slow down! Think about
baseball or something. Oh God, you're about to orgasm! You pitiful moron!
Don't to do it! Stop, slow down, switch positions, something! This is it! You're gonna blow it! You worthless, infantile piss-ant!"

So, two minutes later I was all finished up and sleepy.

I got to thinking about the pornography that they had chosen and left for me.
It was strange to think about the process by which someone shopped for
what mags to leave in the room:
"Let's see, Barely Legal. That's a crowd pleaser. And Playboy for the
classicists....Oh yes, Hustler of course, that's a nice starter."
I felt like a dupe.
I felt horribly predictable and pandered to. It was like watching a
dog food commercial that makes you feel sentimental, or whistling a catchy
radio ad for soap.

So the next step is to donate once more to confirm that I have an
"above average" amount of active viable sperm in my ejaculate.
Above average?
Oh no! I've never been above average in anything except
the Body Mass Index. Damn. It will take a miracle of God himself to
pass this test.
I've been told that you can't do anything to effect your sperm count which
doesn't make sense to me. It seems that by eating steak, watching more
hetero-normative internet porn, or lifting weights would help me
amp up my levels a bit, but no.

I am really excited about this new venture of sperm donation.  
I wonder what they do with the sperm.

Ryan McGivern

 

I've received over 2 emails the past week about my well-being after the 4.5 whopper-quake that shook the valley last Wednesday at 1am.  With the flood of emails that came in about the seismic event I realized I had been witness to a part of history.  Like my mother before me remembers when President Kennedy was shot and my grandfather who remembers the last time he saw a woman barefoot AND pregnant, I too now have notable memoir to recount to my grand kids.  And this is how it will go:

It was 12:30 am Wednesday morning and Ben and I were having our normal sleepy-time argument about who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste the night prior. (FYI, it's always Ben who does this, but sometimes I admit false-guilt so I can pin the morning toaster bread-crumb mess on him).  Anyway, the night of the tremor, we decided that neither of was at fault and that perhaps it was Derek who left the cap unscrewed.  Sometimes he just likes to feel a part of our little tiffs, see.

Well after cleaning our teeth we mildly debated shaving our backs, but we both admitted we were too tired and a little too sweaty.  "Never shave a wet back", or at least that's what Rio-Grande-Randy used to tell me back in El-Paso-Pelo-Cosmetology school.  Besides, I hadn't charged my razor and there's no way I'm letting ben near my lower-back with a straight-blade again.

 So I tucked Ben into his "taco" (his pet name for his futon), set the oscillating fan to medium power, and tapped the ceiling three times for good luck (something I learned from an episode of Sanford & Son).  And that's when my life changed forever...  that's when I felt the world shudder.

At first I thought Ben had bumped his head on the card table above his futon (as he often does after he's taken 3-4 codeine and loses his orientation).  But then I realized that was impossible because he was actually on his feet dancing in front of some you-tube video about a farting Bulgarian pig.  As soon as I felt the terrible shake I locked eyes with Ben who was also astonished..

He yelled out "Holy crap RyeGuy– did you see how fast I was dancing!"

I retorted "Watty, you weren't dancing at all.  You were standing still and the room was moving around you!"

Ben screamed, "I Danced, God Damnit, I danced hard!!"

But we both realized the truth, we both tried to deny it, and then we both just cried.  We knew the inevitable had happened.  We knew that  the earth had moved.  Mother nature was a terrible bitch sometimes. We solemnly put on our swim trunks and went out to the patio to smoke some Camel-Ultra-Lights.  That night we relived  the horrendous incident over and over.  We talked of past, present and future.  We talked about the rebuilding process.  About how we would get up early the next day and have to re-straighten all my art-work.  Fortunately most of my canvases are circular, so it won't be as devastating.  We talked about how we would go about resetting all the clocks in the apartment, probably starting in the living room – but that was just a guess – it was too early to tell.

That night we both had trouble sleeping.  We both anticipated an aftershock, or worse, a call from Derek needing a ride home.  We were so warm and comfortable.

When we awoke the next morning we shared a moment of clarity and both managed a smile.  A smile of relief and hope.  The hope of moving forward.  Moving to the bathroom to brush our teeth we saw something that made us both stop in out tracks.  The toothpaste tube on the counter… with the cap lying on the floor.  Ahhh Mother Nature – your joke was a cruel one.  Your earthquake fingers removing the cap from our cylinder of Crest.

Needless to day, since the Quake of '07 no one points fingers when we find the "headless toothpaste" – we both know that a force larger than us all sits in the bathroom with us.