Not sure why I'm boring you with this, as I am about to be describing a faily uneventful evening in my life, just doing the same shit I'm always up to.

Me and my buddies (that I'm always hanging around with) are watching that kickass Youtube video where they play "The Final Countdown" using three electric cellos and the full orchestra, and I raise a cigarette to my lips. A sip of beer later, I exhale "You know, I'm just sick as hell of the passive aggressive bullshit."

I hear an appreciative grunt in my right ear. That would be Mr.Styles, my bacon vodka unicorn and loyal steed. You know who I'm talking about; I'm always blogging about us capering through the meadows and charging across the frosty snow-kissed mountaintops, me totally waving a battle-axe around and shit. I never shut up about that bacon vodka unicorn.

However, my other buddy wasn't quite so supportive. He insists I should have stuck with my "no-contact" policy. But you guys already know how Tom Vinegar, the timber-wolfasaur gets. He's downright brisk when the moon's in a certain phase.

"Dammit," I say, "I'm just about to give up on dating altogether and hook up with Amy Feral..."

Mr.Styles decides to interject. "Don't you do this every odd-numbered year around this time anyway? Also most even-numbered years too? You know she's just gonna get locked up in German prison, get locked up in regular prison, get stuck as part of Flogging Molly's road crew, fall head over heels and go on a romantic/hashish-fueled hostel tour with some Mid-European teenage boy, or something, right?"

Tom Vinegar retorts, "And did you have to just announce that shit on Facebook right after your phone call with her? Jesus, you're still an internet retard."

"Fuck off, Tom" says Mr.Styles. At least somebody has my back. "We both know that in Ralf's head, he pretty much exists within the mythology of a never ending loop of early-80s John Cusack movies."

Wait, was that a compliment or not? How much can I trust my loyal steed?