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After graduating from Emory University in 1990, Christopher McCandless could have gone on to live a long, rewarding, cushiony existence teaching history to some troubled inner-city youth. He could have had a real impact on this world: inspiring kids to pick up textbooks and put down illegally purchased guns and rocks they were slinging on the street corner. He could have even been carried off a stage on the shoulders of his adoring students with a state championship History Bee trophy in hand after coaching the group of misfit, underdog, public school urbanites to a shocking win over the affluent, snobby, private school antagonists. He could have been a positive influence and true role model for an impoverished community if he just went with the natural progression of things and followed society’s playbook.
Instead, he went against the grain, made things unnecessarily hard on himself — giving up all of his worldly possessions — and went into an unknown Alaskan frontier, alone, with essentially the experience of a naive, wide-eyed cub scout who just carved his first pinewood derby car that didn’t even place at the troop meet. “Shockingly,” homeboy didn’t last very long, lacking important knowledge like “berries you shouldn’t under any circumstances put in your mouth,” and slowly died like an asshole.
The moral of the story being social norms and logic serve a purpose. There’s just no justification to dedicate your life to the theme of a shitty Robert Frost poem we all had to read in high school. You know where that path less traveled takes you, Bobby? Rotting on the floor of an abandoned bus you were using for shelter in complete isolation.
Stop trying to reinvent the wheel. The wheel has been around since like day 3 of humanity. Why? Because it works. No one’s like “Hey, I know these tires have seamlessly gotten me to where I want to go every single time — other than maybe once or twice — but fuck it, let’s take them off and throw some traffic cones on this bad boy.” But that’s exactly what you’re doing whenever you willingly decide to go spearfishing for chocolate starfish.
I’ll never understand the appeal of anal sex. It’s like choosing to dive head first up a construction rubble pile full of glass and debris when there’s a hose soaked slip-n-slide on a well kept lawn directly next door. What kind of animal sees the most disgusting part of the human body and thinks “I want to stick my dick in that?” The rationale fundamentally makes zero sense.
Yet, you’re not being unique or sexually adventurous when you want to take the priest inside the rectory. Any leftward slopping penis has, at one point, tried to convince their girl to let them slide it into Willy Wonka’s pipeline like their pieces name is Augustus Gloop — my former college self included.
What follows is thirty minutes of preparation, lubrication, and uncertainty, ten minutes of you trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, three minutes of slow, short thrusting movements as she winces in pain holding back tears, fifteen minutes of awkward silence laying next to one another after giving up completely, and a declining, unrepairable relationship moving forward. Not exactly as tantalizing an act in reality as it was in theory.
So save yourself the disappointment, keep it simple, stick with the basics and what you know: vagina. It’s a crowd-pleasing, award-winning classic that has stood the test of time for a reason. #TeamVag #StopButtStuff.