I don't know about you, but when I screw up, people let me know. It's made me a bit self-conscious. If it's not one of the boys, or my Mama, you know it's the ol' lady.

When you're at work, and you screw up, you usually don't care too terribly much because of the personal detachment. Aside from the fleeting anxiety over the threat of getting fired, fallouts at work are usually easy to forget about or get beyond. If your boss gets on your case about something trivial, fuck him. Your work speaks for itself. Co-worker getting dramatic and throwing a tantrum? Who cares? They're nobody to you.

To know women is to know what they want. This of course is impossible.

However, embarrassing and self-defeating attempts should still be made, if only for our amusement.

So what do women want most? Respect. Ok but what do they want after that? A menstruation inhibitor drink. Ok but what about after that? I don't know. But it might be men.

A year ago, upon returning from my summer trip in Europe, I came across a new concept in feng shui. After an uplifting conversation with a friend who recently moved to Manhattan, I learned that the newest addition to any apartment lacking the constant visitation of cute girls, was the introduction of a baby turtle.

My friend Matt told me that there were several venues in Chinatown selling the miniature reptiles - illegally -- because any turtles under 4 inches cannot be sold, apparently due to the high likelihood of diseases and for reasons of population control. After he bought one and named it "Mikey," he started walking around the block with it in his hand or on his shoulder, using it as an icebreaker and an instant conversation piece. All the girls at work that heard about it or saw pictures wanted to come over and see the baby turtle. His girlfriend thought the pet, as well as her boyfriend, were adorable.

There comes a time in every man's life where he has to go out into the world and into his own. The time comes to leave the nest and make a life for himself. When that time comes for me, I'll be sure to give you the briefing. Until then, I am stuck in an aimless cycle of bouncing around jobs until I finally give up and move to the beach and sell weed.

So for the time being, I have found myself a job somewhat related to what I did in school (no, not drinking, I mean journalism). I have this position writing reports and bulletins for a research firm in downtown Washington, D.C. For anonymity purposes we shall therein hereafter pro forma pro bono (and many other formal-sounding legal terms) call them "BRC," hmmm … "Ball-ass Research Company," if you require meaning in your life.