-Remember your senior year of high school when in countless college interviews and applications you were asked the question, “What do you like to do in your free time?”  And in each instance, in order to salvage any chance of you getting accepted, you were forced to reply with something like, “I’m active in student government, I excel at varsity football, and I volunteer six times a week,” when the actual answer was “I didn’t even vote in student government elections, I excel at Madden ’97 on Sega Genesis, and I masturbate six times a week.”  And if you actually did get in anywhere, your college days were probably more of the same.  But now that you’re twentysomething, leisure time is all of a sudden at a premium.  After all, you spend most of the daylight hours staring at the gray/burgundy walls of your cramped cubicle filled with Dilbert cartoons and photos from your last sorority date party.  But when you leave work, that’s when things really start getting interesting.  Because for my generation, the hours from nine to five are unimportant, it’s what we do afterward – from five to nine – that really counts.

-No matter where you live, every hard-working twentysomething in the country has one priority as soon as they get home from work: get undressed as quickly as possible.  I used to go from three-piece suit to boxers and dress socks in under six seconds flat.

-Some of my friends belong to corporate softball leagues and play with their co-workers several times a week.  Sometimes I wish I was part of something like that, because I’m a really competitive person and there’s nothing really for me to compete for anymore.  The last time I played organized athletics was my Greek League soccer team in college.  My fraternity made it all the way to the finals but when the championship game was scheduled for a Thursday night at 9pm, we forfeited and went out drinking instead.

-The other night I realized just how much my roommate Brian and I are clueless bachelors.  We had a couple of the guys over to have some drinks when someone spilled a beer on the carpet.  As the Miller Lite flowed out of the bottle onto our IKEA rug, Brian and I stood paralyzed as we simultaneously came to the realization that we did not have one single paper product in the apartment.  No paper towels, no toilet paper, no tissues, nothing.  Without anything to absorb the spill, there was nothing to do except blow vigorously until it soaked into the floor.