Expectations

Fellas. We have all had days like this:

You wake up with a hangover. You drank alone last night to kill some pain because a major deal didn’t go through... or because nothing was good on the fuckin’ TV. You spent some money you found in your brother’s jacket on a case of Milwaukee’s Best so you could go to sleep in a drunken haze. But waking up with a headache is a BITCH. You drink some coffee, pop some pills and turn on the tube. What time is it? Noon already? Jesus… thank God I don’t have a job to go to…

You skip past MTV Cribs. That show sucks SO much ass and makes you feel like SUCH a piece of shit. How do non-talented idiots get such nice stuff? Why do they waste so much fucking money trying to be cool? Look, just because you got an Escalade or a Bentley doesn’t make you The Man. Stop sampling other people’s music. Get original or your career is over. I might be a failure but at least… well, I can’t really finish that thought. This dude on TV is living in a mansion, getting a massage from a former Playboy Bunny. I’m sprawled atop a hand-me-down couch in a shitty apartment, smelling like an onion’s cunt.

You watch some SportsCenter. Peace for one hour.

You skip past MTV TRL. Our poor wasted youth will NEVER have the proper musical background to start a revolution much like Kurt Cobain did. Kids today… they wouldn’t know rock & roll if Slash grabbed a guitar and broke it over their heads. And let me say this: Anyone who likes techno music is hereby barred from reading my blog. Shame on you, you wanna-be Euro trash.

You settle on ESPN and head to the computer to write.

You get that call from your loan office. You owe some money. You say it is on the way. You feign surprise that they haven’t already received the check you haven’t yet mailed. You promise to call your bank immediately.

Headache slowly goes away so you can think. You start to feel a little better. In another hour, you just might be healthy enough to watch some porn and squirt out some spooge.

Then – without warning – the girl you’re banging calls your cell. She wants to know what ultra-dandy plans you’ve made for the weekend. Thinking quickly on your feet, you start to bullshit:

“Baby, we’re going to, um, that bar down the street from my apartment… then we’ll drink some, um, Boone’s Strawberry Wine and beer… um, maybe we’ll rent that Bruce Willis movie….”

“What!” she screams – instantly reviving your hangover. ”You SAID we were gonna do something SPECIAL!! You SAID we were going to figure out something BETTER than hanging out at your shitty little apartment with the toilet that doesn’t flush all the way!! My sister in Omaha – the one who married the SUCCESSFUL, HANDSOME lawyer – is ALWAYS doing better things than we are! But I guess HE really LOVES her!!”

“Oh, don’t be that way,” you sigh. “Hell, it was a rough week. I am working my ass off, but the shit isn’t paying off yet. I am doing the best I can to make things good for us, baby.”

Silence.

“So you are in a bad mood now?” you ask your precious bitch.

“I’ll call you back later.”

Ladies: You GOTTA give your man some space. Especially if he is a hustling, over-ambitious bastard like Mr. Nova. Shit ain’t always easy. Hell, shit is never easy. But fucking and connecting on some type of emotional level always leads to expectations. And you got to get RID of these expectations if you want to be with me. Just let things be. When I can give you the moon, I will. When I can rent a jet and travel the world in first class, you’ll be right by my side. But if all I can afford is a box of condoms and a bottle of Mad Dog, LET IT BE.

Don’t:

…expect me to call you right away.

…expect me to come through on everything.

…expect me to feel sympathy for any of your friend’s problems. They probably just tell you how much of an asshole I am anyway.

…expect me to be sober.

…expect me to give a shit about your sister in Omaha – or react positively to the not-so-subtle digs about her “successful lawyer husband.” I’ve MET her husband, and anyone with a pair of eyes can tell that he’s a repressed homosexual who’ll soon come out of the closet. And I can’t fuckin’ wait!

…expect me give you a diamond ring within the first two years of our courtship.

…expect me to take you out to dinner every fuckin’ night.

…expect me to write you a love song. Writing songs is not easy. There are too many bad songs – just like there are too many bad kids. (By the way, a quick memo to all you bitches with your legs spread wide: Just because you can have kids doesn’t mean you should. And to extend the metaphor, just because you can play guitar and sing doesn’t mean you have the cognitive capacity to create a masterpiece.) Maybe you ain’t worth a love song, bitch.

…expect me to CARE about everything.

But you can expect one thing from Mr. Nova: As long as my cock still functions, I will fuck you better than anyone in the world.

So give me some space. Cook me a nice dinner. Give me a backrub. Let me rub one out into your sweet mouth.

Ahhhhh… Much better.

Now you know a little more about how Nova-style works. Don’t expect anything and you will be Okay, ladies. I will surprise you along the way.

And you will love me… oh yes… you will.