Have you ever discovered your finger was bleeding, but couldn’t remember why? That happens to me a lot. Which basically means one of two things: Either I’m completely oblivious to the world around me. Or I suffer from Multiple Personality Disorder. I’m hoping for the latter.

Sure, MPD is a horrible mental disease. But sometimes I like to think that maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of me that likes to go out, wreak havoc and have fun. For instance, that cut I discovered on my finger. Maybe it wasn’t from an accident. Maybe it was from punching someone in the face during a late-night bar fight. And I fucking won! Yeah! Take that, motherfucker!

Hm, if I do lead a double life, I wonder what my other name is. Tyler? Nah, too obvious. It’s gotta be something wicked sounding, like Ivan. Yeah, Ivan. “Oh, shit!” the bar patrons would cry. “It’s Ivan!” And then they would scramble. But there would always be that one guy who was new and wasn’t easily intimidated. “Who the fuck is Ivan?” he’d ask. And I’d be more than happy to give him the answer. But then, to show him there were no hard feelings, I’d give him a lift to the hospital, maybe even send him a get-well card. Ivan may be one tough customer, but he’s also got a heart of gold.

OK, that might explain the cut on my finger. But figure this one out: A couple of mornings ago, I woke up to discover that my left achilles tendon was hurting like a motherfucker. I mean, I could barely move it. I ended up limping around for most of the morning until I broke down and popped four Ibuprofen and half a Vicodin. The Vicodin wasn’t just for the tendon. It was to kill the pain from icing my damn foot. OUCH! Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off? Who came up with that shit, some kind of masochist?

Anyhow, where was I? Oh right, the tendon. I don’t know how this could’ve happened. I never exercise. So it’s not like I pulled it doing power sprints or something. No, there could only be one explanation: Ivan. That motherfucker. He must’ve gotten up shortly after I fell asleep and then went jogging — without bothering to stretch first! Yeah, so now I have to deal with this ache in my ankle. Thanks a lot, Ivan. You selfish prick.

. . .

OK, fine. I admit it. I kind of remember feeling a slight pain in my achilles while i was walking up the stairs the day before — walking, mind you. Not running. Oy, I am so out of shape, it isn’t even funny. Actually, I guess it kinda is.

Well, I thought I had a pretty clever idea for a blog entry this time. It was going to be a list of really disgusting Ben & Jerry’s flavors. I had it pretty much done and was just waiting until Sunday night to post it. But then I got around to watching last night’s episode of Late Show With David Letterman. A gag during their Week In Review segment featured a pint of “Rooster Meat Swirl” ice cream by Ben & Jerry’s. Fuck! Anyhow, I’m going to post this anyway. But I swear I did not steal the idea. Bleh.

“Another Hobby Of Mine”

Here’s another fun fact about me: In addition to collecting and trading historical paper clips, I also like to invent exciting new ice cream flavors. In fact, in the past ten years, I’ve sent over 1,000 different ice-cream flavor concepts to the good folks at Ben & Jerry’s. As you might assume, every single one of those flavors was rejected. But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy them yourself.

Listed below are some of my favorite flavors. If one sounds appealing, feel free to whip it up at home in one of those ice-cream-maker thingamajigs. Just don’t sell them to any big corporations, or I’ll have my lawyer on your ass faster than you can say “mocha almond fudge.” And I might even consider a lawsuit, too.

REJECTED ICE CREAM FLAVORS:

Chips & Salsaâ„¢
Luscious dollops of Paceâ„¢ brand picante sauce are swirled into sweet vanilla ice cream, with Fritosâ„¢ brand corn chips blended right in. It’s like taking a trip to Mexico. Only with ice cream.

Bay Leaf Blissâ„¢
Guaranteed to have at least five whole bay leaves in every pint. The bay leaves add a distinctive flavor, but don’t eat them!

Lunch at Cantersâ„¢
The flavors of L.A.’s favorite Jewish deli come to life in this quiescently frozen dessert. Chunks of rye bread dough are blended into chicken-soup flavored ice cream, then topped with mini matzo balls. Mmmm, that’s Canters!

Mary Had A Little Lambâ„¢
Lamb flavored ice cream surrounds generous portions of succulent lamb meat. Of course, it wouldn’t be complete without a ribbon of mint jelly. Yummy.

Fear Factor Feastâ„¢
We take the most inedible parts of animals — the parts normally set aside for dog food — and mix them in an ice cream flavored with hippopotamus pee. Crack open a pint and pretend like you’re a contestant on the Fear Factor TV show. One in five pints could have a real sheep’s eyeball inside!*

*Animal origin of eyeball cannot be guaranteed.

Mean Joe Greenâ„¢
Named after some football player in a Coke commercial from the ’70s. It’s not vanilla. It’s not strawberry. It doesn’t taste like anything at all. But it’s green! It’s really, really green!

Coney Island Weekendâ„¢
Generous chunks of Nathan’s Famous hot dogs and buns are mixed in hot-dog-water flavored ice cream. Intertwining mustard and ketchup ribbons complete the experience. Top with raw onions before serving.

Kung Pao Wow!â„¢
Leftover Kung Pao Shrimp is mixed into silky green-tea ice cream, with bits of sticky rice tossed in just for fun. Careful, it’s spicy!

Well, it looks like Smivey will be spending another Valentine’s Day alone. Why? It might have something to do with how he refers to himself in the third person — not only is it obnoxious, it’s damn confusing. But mainly, it has to do with that old saying: “It’s hard for anyone to love you, until you can love yourself.” That’s why for the past two and a half months, I’ve been concentrating all my efforts on charming a certain someone: Me.

The Seduction
The hardest part about pursuing myself was trying to get my attention. I decided to start in the morning when I’d still be half asleep and my guard would be down. Occasionally, when I was brushing my teeth, I’d catch my eye in the mirror and give myself a subtle wink. At first, it kind of freaked me out. But after a few days, I started to warm up to the idea and even began to look forward to this awkward flirtation.

The Approach
After about a week of this playful eye contact, it was time to take the next step: conversation. This wouldn’t be an easy task. I’m pretty shy, so the thought of approaching someone or being approached is enough to send me screaming in the other direction. I had to choose just the right words. I didn’t want to seem too desperate. But I also didn’t want to appear too aloof. I thought about this for hours, then decided on my plan. I would make my move the next morning.

I woke up pretty refreshed the next day and was feeling rather confident. I went through my normal routine, until it was time to brush my teeth. I looked up and there I was, smirking at me in the mirror. After winking at myself, I blurted out a friendly “Hey there.” All I got back was a curious look. Why the silent treatment? Was I too forward? Was I misinterpreting the signals? i thought about fleeing, but I knew I had to stay and face the music. My Sonicare toothbrush finished its cycle and I spat my toothpaste into the sink:

“Excuse me?”

“Uh, I just said ‘Hey there.’”

“You expect me to understand what you’re saying with fucking toothpaste in your mouth?”

“Oh. Well, I just thought –”

“You just thought? No, if you thought you might have waited until you were finished brushing your teeth before you started a fucking conversation!”

“Dude. Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to relax, motherfucker!”

I should have gone with my first instinct. I got the hell out of there.

The Healing Process
Well, I don’t need to tell you, things were pretty awkward from that point on. I’d still catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror every morning. But before I could even give a wink, I’d quickly turn away.

I did everything I could to make things right. I sent myself cards. But every time I received one, I’d toss it in the garbage without opening it. I had flowers delivered to my work, but I always refused to sign for them. It seemed hopeless. That’s when i thought of couples’ counseling.

I just opened up the Yellow Pages and called the first name I saw: AAAAAAA Couples Counseling. The woman that answered the phone sounded very nice. I told her that we had been having problems and that this was our last hope. The conversation went something like this:

“How long have you been in this relationship?” she asked.

“Well, we’ve been together all my life, but we’ve always been rather distant.”

“Come on, all your life? I need a more accurate number.”

“No, really. Since the day i was born, I’ve been with him.”

“Oh, him. So you’re in a gay relationship. I see.”

“Gay? What the fuck? I am not gay.”

“But you’re involved with another man.”

“Another man? Who said anything about another man?”

“OK, calm down. What exactly are you calling us about?”

“I need help with my relationship.”

“With a woman?”

I hung up. I couldn’t take it anymore. What the hell was wrong with these people? It seemed like there was only one person who could help me learn to love myself, and that was, of course, myself. Hey, I’d gone this far, I wasn’t about to quit now. I decided I needed to try a softer approach.

I started by making dinner for myself every night. I’d even clean up afterwards. If I wanted a soda, I’d get it for myself. I even gave up control of the TV remote. And you know what? Things slowly started to get better. Occasionally, while I was brushing my teeth, I’d catch that familiar face smirking at me, and I’d be smirking back.

After a while, we even started talking. Turns out, we have a lot in common. We like the same music. We watch the same TV shows. He writes for a living. I write for a living. We even have the same taste in fashion. Which is too bad, ’cause I was hoping he could help me out with that.

A New Beginning
So now it’s Valentine’s Day, and I want it to be really special for us. I’ve got the whole evening planned out: I’ll start with a candlelight macaroni-and-cheese dinner (the fancy Stouffer’s kind), accompanied by a very nice Chardonnay (Cakebread Cellars, 2003). After sharing a chocolate lava cake for dessert, we’ll move on to the living room where Sleepless in Seattle will be cued up and waiting in the DVD player (Don’t tell him I told you this, but that movie always makes him cry). After that . . . well, we’ll just have to see what happens. I mean, I don’t want to sound too presumptuous, but if I play my cards right, well, I just might get lucky.

Hey, don’t you hate it when you ask someone when their birthday is and they won’t tell you? “Guess,” they say. Oh, that should be easy. After all, there are only, what, 365 days in the year? Hm, let me take a stab at it. Is it June 11? No? How ’bout March 8? Well, two down, 363 to go.

Yeah, I do it too. What’s the big deal? It’s your fucking birthday. Just spit out the damn date and get it over with. What’s ironic is, most of us actually get upset when our birthday comes and goes and nobody acknowledges it. You might call it the paradox of the ages. (Ha, did you get that? Of the ages? Bleh.)

So, yeah, most of us like to receive a few good wishes on our special day. But unless your office posts one of those b-day calendars every month, there’s no way for anyone to know when your birthday actually is. That’s why I’ve come up with a few subtle hints to ensure your birthday won’t go unnoticed. I call them “A Few Subtle Hints To Ensure Your Birthday Won’t Go Unnoticed.” And here they are:

About a week before your birthday, start talking about how old you feel, possibly mention that you’ll be feeling even older next week. (OK, that’s not such a subtle one.)

A few days before your birthday, start talking about how your family wants to take you to dinner and how you really don’t want them to make such a big deal of it. “Of what?” they’ll say. (Yeah, you’ve got ‘em where you want ‘em.)

A day before you birthday, mention to your friend or coworker how you were thinking about taking the day off tomorrow. After all, it’s your day. (Now you’re just getting desperate.)

The day of your birthday, if you don’t see any banners or balloons in your cubicle, get on your computer and send yourself one of those obnoxious electronic greeting cards — You know, the ones with that awful MIDI music playing in the background. When you receive it, open it up and leave it on your screen. Be sure to turn up your speakers. Then loudly react to it. Say something like, “Oh my! I’m gonna kill her! Ha ha ha! Would you look at that!” If people don’t come running, turn up the music. “Ha ha ha ha! How do you turn this damn this off?” (Welcome to Pity Country.)

If none of the above tactics work, you’re either hated by all or you’re working among the deaf and blind. Really, there’s not much else you can do, aside from maybe writing a blog entry about birthdays and ending it by mentioning the day of your birth (February 8). Sure, it’s not very subtle. But you’re a self-centered bastard and everybody knows it. Bleh.