I don’t own a comb. In fact all that’s in my bathroom is a bar of soap and a $0.79 bottle of shampoo; you know, the cheap stuff that could probably dye your hair orange if you weren’t careful. I keep my hair short enough where I never have to use any hair products. You have to consider the ratio on time spent grooming your hair to getting laid. After five minutes it’s diminishing marginal utility, probably the only term I remember from college level Economics. The reason I sport a 1/8” long buzz cut is that I love to roll out of bed and look like a million bucks (well, maybe a thousand bucks). Anyone with a Mohawk is trying too hard. Once your mohawk gets longer than 10”, it becomes impractical. Every girl wants to touch it, you have to duck under door jams, and your hair gel expense report rivals my drinking tab.
If there was a song that played when you walked into the room with your mohawk, it should be some Indian tribal shit in an effort to remind you that 
back in the 1700’s, Native Americans didn’t have hair gel, they used cured fat from dead animals to lather in their hair. I mean why else do you think they lived in teepees? They needed to vent all that rotting smell upward towards the atmosphere.
I’ve been bitten by a dog twice. The first time isn’t really story-worthy, because my friend’s dog just plain bit me. That’s seriously the entirety of the story, there’s no potential for embellishing.
The second time I got bitten by a dog I watched a homeless guy get hit by a Nissan Sentra in front of the grocery store. I dragged him over to the curb and his mongrel quickly latched onto my forearm. After kicking it senseless in the head (solely for good measures) the firemen came and lawyers leaped out from the bushes unleashing a flurry of business cards. But they didn’t introduce themselves to me: apparently I wasn’t a victim. Looking back on that day, a lawsuit could only get me possession of his grocery cart full of bottles and cans for a grand total of $2.35. The firemen provided some alcohol swabs for my puncture wounds and a bottle of Aquafina (which they bottle in a smelly chemical plant in Latham, NY. I know this because I lived 5 minutes away from it).
Even though I’ve been bitten twice, there’s just one dog I’m afraid of. The only truly vicious, heartless, brutal dog was in that Zelda GameBoy game. It was always chained to a fence and would lash out at you if you came within two button pushes of a carpel tunnel syndrome. 
That reminds me, what’s with all the DJ’s mixing fucking video game music into their tracks? Yea hearing Super Mario is going to get me some ass; I get flashbacks of blowing dust out from the back of a grey Nintendo cartridge in 9th grade thinking about that hot chick in Honors Math class. God I was a fucking loser in high school, I don’t think I got laid once. Then I went to college, grew some facial hair and “looked like that guy from Incubus.” What? Get the fuck out of here you acoustic-piece-of-groupie-shit. I resorted to carrying stray guitar picks and managed to sleep with a handful of sluts, but it wasn’t from going within 50 feet of a video game console, I can guarantee you that. The most intense video game mashup I heard recently is the theme song to Zelda: Link’s Awakening (OG GameBoy edition). It gave me painful memories of walking through the beginner level village with my dinky sword hacking away at the bushes and hoping to find some of those rupees to buy a bow and arrow from the general store. Of course I never had enough patience to accumulate a sufficient amount of rupees, but there was a secret glitch where if you tried walking out the door ~75 times, you could steal the bow and arrow, but forever be banned from the general store, get electrocuted the next time you walk in, or get maimed by the rabid dog.
The main character had an insane haircut. It resembled a blowout with a little green elf hat perched on top. How he never had to take a break during 
the middle of a battle sequence to maintain that perfectly groomed coif still escapes me.
If Zelda lived in the real world, he’d spend all his rupees on hair gel, and become a kleptomaniac stealing shit from the drug store, ultimately leading into a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol; realistically he’d probably just drink the hair gel. How much alcohol content does that shit have? 1.5%? I just realized that by reliving my teenage glory years, I’ve been playing this fucking game for over 3 hours… I can’t feel my thumbs.
36-23-36. At first glance that seems like a random 3-digit combo that might win big in that quick play 3 number game. Actually they’re the measurements of a recent girl I slept with, or should I say “fucked” in Manhattan. Yea, that sounds cooler, might earn 5 bonus street cred/hipster points by writing fuck. The only reason these digits are relevant is because Pamela Anderson’s body measurements in her prime were 36-24-36, so basically this girl had a 1” skinnier waist which made her ass look an inch bigger than Pam’s. Her face wasn’t that great, but once I realized the mathematical similarities there was no turning back. It was as close as I was ever going to get to having sex with Pamela Anderson. I tried to get her to wear a red bathing suit, but she wasn’t having it. Pam’s ass was pretty good, but the TV show was always about her bouncing tits. Baywatch rarely featured her running down the beach away from the camera, just towards it. I heard she recently auctioned off that red buoy she carried around on set. Not that I’d buy it, but shouldn’t it be donated to the National Lifeguarding Museum?
LIZ on her apartment floor photographed by Ben DeCamp
Last summer in San Diego, twin #1 gave me her phone number along with twin #2’s within several minutes of each other. Neither will go on a date with me now; I think it’s because after they both realized the extent to which I “shoot models, check out my portfolio sometime,” they realized what they were in for.
obvious reasons…they just scream poor gas mileage. My father is an orthopedic surgeon, it’s obvious he makes a decent living, but he taught me everything I know about being frugal. He drove a piece of shit Nissan Sentra for years that I wet my pants in it when I was 5 and fucked up the rear seat upholstery. He never got the seats fixed. Why? Well, he knew I had to sit in that seat for the next 6 years and reflect on the mistake I made. My childhood friends would ask me what the huge stain was and I’d make up something like he once used his car as an ambulance and took someone to the hospital. It would only take a momentary glance in the rear view mirror to remind me I was talking out of my ass. That day I wet my pants though, I think my father and I both learned an important lesson that resonates to this day: that giving a coca-cola to a young child with an unpredictable bladder before a road trip is a bad idea for any family vehicle.
FISHING WITH WEEN photographed by Ben DeCamp
photographed by Mom
Actually I decided I’m only wearing body mesh suits now. They deceive the viewer to what is really underneath. Skin blemishes, bruises, and cuts are all covered up. I’m not this pale in real life, but the black micro mesh gives me a darker skin appearance, kinda like going tanning on a budget. It’s an optical illusion; very similar to shopping for bulk fruit and buying a dozen oranges bagged with the orange mesh only to discover that 11 of them are rotten.
In fact, I love Me so much, that I will do anything to make myself look sexier/hotter/hipster-er-er. I will even fulfill my lifelong model aspirations in an alleyway while there are homeless women trying to collect cans to pay for baby food/hotel room/meth/sharpie markers for their cardboard signs. 
Been wondering where this generation of self-entitlement is headed… Let’s be honest, I was only worrying about Me. Now you can broadcast your every thought to the world; and even when you think you’re completely and utterly alone, don’t off yourself just yet. There’s surely some lonely man living in a rural Montana shack who understands you. 
He’s probably on various social networking sites and knows you’re kinda famous; he holds you up on a pedestal (or at least beats off to these photos while they are scotch-taped above his computer desk.) His name is probably Leopold, Horace, or the Unabomber. It sounds like this one man who emailed me and “Fully supports my feet photography and wants to fund my efforts for his private collection.” I don’t love my boyfriend/dog/parents/religious figure anymore. I don’t even love LA, NY, or that touristy t-shirt I bought. I don’t love you; I love Me.
