Seven Years?

There are a lot of things you can accomplish in seven years. Finish middle school and high school; earn a college degree AND complete law school; or, in my case, earn just a college degree; or you could be 49 years old in dog years. That’s a long time, seven years, human or dog. That’s 220,752,000 seconds. 3,679,200 minutes. 61,320 hours. 2,555 days. 364 weeks. 84 months. 7 long, and I mean, loooooooooooooong years.

I guarantee most of my close friends already know what I’m going to talk about, and I’m sure they could also put two and two together because Thanksgiving just passed. For the rest of you, let me put it as bluntly as I can: Papa hasn’t knocked the boots in seven years. Not since Thanksgiving Day in the Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand. My bone-iversary just passed. Every year, I do not give thanks. Instead, I mourn the death of my libido.

I know what you’re thinking, “This loser hasn’t slipped a little somethin’ in seven years? What a loser.” Not only are you mean, but you’re repetitive. But you know what? I don’t care what you think, because I don’t regret not getting the clap, or a baby. What do I regret? Not rolling the dice on whether or not I get the clap, or a baby. All these years, I elected not to boink-a boink-a. Opportunities came and went, but I held strong to whatever ethical stance I followed that particular month, whether it was the “nothing is more selfish than sex without love” stance of 2002, or the “I only want to sex up one person for the rest of my days” stance of 2005. Whatever it was exactly, it kept me from going forth and making disciples of all nations for my cult of sexual depravity, i.e. eff a girl in every country. And now, seven years later, I’m a little remorseful.

I could have been racking up the high score on Sex Tetris, except not on a computer, in my bed, where points are kept in number of muscles pulled, as in “I’m winning, because I slipped three discs in my back with that Ukrainian flight attendant last night.” Instead, I was losing to 13 year olds. I’ve seen Kids, I totally know they’re doing it.

As I stated before, my libido died a long time ago, and for a while there, there was just no umption in my gumption. But, as you all know, men age like a fine wine. Sure, I’m more like a box of Franzia, but I was a half-empty sack of Capri Sun, so I’ll take whatever step-up I can. All I know is sometime in the last year or so, I felt a little tinglin’ in my jinglin’. I looked inward, and you know what? There was my long lost pal, Sir Libido the Strong, fighting his way through years of overgrowth with his broadsword. (That’s a lot of innuendo in one sentence. I’ve never been more proud.)

So, if you see me staring at you with dead eyes and drool coming down my chin, or if you look down and see me humping your leg, I would start to run. That is, if you can pry me off first. There’s 220 million seconds of wasted time racking up, and that number is only going to get higher. Let’s end this war against the mommy and daddy dance, otherwise I might have to construct a Vietnam-like wall with every second etched into the marble. That’s a lot of building materials that I certainly cannot afford.

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The little guy looks intimidated.

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