I’m back from the pussy war. This is the war that men fight for 20 years, starting at around age 15. Maybe sooner. You spend 20 years thinking about nothing but pussy, how to get pussy, I need new pussy, where is there going to be pussy. You get out there in the trenches and you battle for pussy, you learn about the enemy, you try to take them down.

Now I’m thirty-five and a half and some hormonal switch has been thrown. Maybe it’s just age, maybe it’s my job crushing it out of me—who knows. But I no longer give a shit about pussy. I’m back from the pussy war.

I did well. Lots of confirmed kills. Not, you know—I didn’t take down the Osama of pussy. I didn’t fuck a lot of nineteen year old supermodels, but I did my part. And I didn’t get hurt. Didn’t get the wound that would take me out of the game—no STD that ever stuck, never impregnated a crazy chick, etc. If they gave out medals for the pussy war I would be decorated.

But I didn’t WIN the pussy war, either, because the objective was to go out and meet and get down with tons of girls, and one of them would be my future wife. I could retire from the pussy war honorably, having attained victory. But none of them were. I just went out there and killed a lot of pussy and it was ultimately for nothing. Pussy Afghanistan is relapsing into anarchy.

So what now? Like a regular war, the pussy war is dangerous, and depressing, and can hurt you, but it’s also exciting. And there’s nothing that can stack up to that now. One must seek out meaning and joy in other areas of life. The taste of food. A hummingbird drinking from a flower. Things that old people like. You are supposed to, at this phase in your life, begin eschewing cheap excitement for the contentment of hearth and home, and children. But I have no children—I lost the war, and now, you know, I’m getting so fucking old that the prospect of meeting someone and having them seems impossible. Like peace in the Middle East.