Yesterday I moved this blog to a new hosting provider.

The site had been lagging and it was time for an upgrade. Not that anybody formally complained but I noticed the speed issue and it bothered me. The transition was almost hiccup-free. Somehow a few comments slipped through the cracks. I apologize to those readers.

We’re back to business as usual at ThoughtsFromParis. Now, let’s start this post out proper.

Today was one of those days where I didn’t move around much.

Let’s assess today’s productivity. Hmm… searching for something that I engaged in that furthered my evolution as a human being.

  • Ate Four Entenmann’s Donuts – No, no pride here. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts even closer to where I live but since I was in the grocery, those ended up in my cart. By the way, that chocolate one is nearly inedible. Candy wax lips taste better.
  • Passed Out For Three Hours After Eating Entenmann’s Donuts – I must not be getting enough sleep during the week. I think I need around nine hours a night and I’ve averaging under seven. Researchers say there’s no such thing as “make up” sleep, but a three hour nap suggests that otherwise. Either that or I’m suffering from crippling depression. That can’t be the case though, as I think way too highly of myself.
  • Ate Two Batches of Popcorn – This also occurred in the morning before passing out but after the donuts. In reflecting, I’m seeing that may have been overindulgent in carbohydrates. Why popcorn at 10am sounded like the right call, I don’t know. It’s as if I’m a pregnant woman with these cravings. And I wear protection so I’m pretty sure that’s not it.
  • Responded to Blog Comments – Ah, my first win of the day! I made this commitment on Jan 1 and I don’t think I’ve missed yet. I’m usually a few days behind, but I get to everything. Engaging with readers is satisfying and I dig reading comments. Especially the ones that say how great I am. Those, in particular, are appreciated.
  • Made Lunch for Tomorrow – Another victory. I cooked up chicken with teriyaki and vegetables. This means that I will not be running over to Walgreen’s at noon looking for a special on beef jerky. I ate so much beef jerky last week that the woman behind the counter made a comment on the fourth consecutive day. I’m now the “beef jerky” guy to her. That’s not how I want to leave my mark.

The strangest thing is that I don’t have shame about my overall activity/inactivity. I’m not exactly proud, but it’s not making me feel like poop. Leaving behind shame has been an interesting process. I still didn’t have a great day, per se, but I’m not beating myself up like before.

This reality of not being productive and also not-ashamed is new. Well, it comes after four years of weekly therapy and a shit-ton of personal work I do on the side. But, the heavy lifting is paying off. I can just have a “didn’t do dick day.” Nice alliteration.

Just remembered – I didn’t get around to cleaning the cat box or taking down my Christmas tree. Oh, and forgot to shower.

Hmm – maybe bringing back a little shame wouldn’t be so bad.

entenmann's donuts

I question the marketing genius of putting their worst donut on the side of the truck.

photo credit: erlyrizrjr via photopin cc


When we last left D.J. he had just fallen through a glass table at a makeshift summer party at Adam’s grandparents’ condo. Blood was flowing freely from his fanny (again with the alliteration?) and he was waiting for the dopey ambulance EMTs to find the home. They had pulled into the wrong complex.

I will now switch to first person as there is not, nor ever has been, a narrator.

Laying on the ground I started to lose focus. Blood itself didn’t really bother me although I’d seen little of it in my life. Other than the occasional knee scrape or paper cut, my skin stayed tight and whole. Never had I broken a bone, been in the hospital for an illness, or needed a wet nurse. I was a healthy kid.

But now, my essence was spilling out onto an elderly couple’s porch.

The ambulance finally found the correct building and buzzed to be let up. I’m not sure who had called 911, but I very clearly remember the voice (male, probably Adam) saying, “No – he hadn’t been drinking!” The dispatcher was onto us, as there had been drinking. I had only had six beers or so and possessed a high tolerance. Still, as not knowing if the police were going to be making an appearance, I watched from the balcony as all the beer cans were swiftly thrown into a garbage bag and then moved out of sight, probably underneath Adam’s bed.

By the way, once our cleaning lady Dorothy totally ratted me out by pulling a similar bag of smashed beer cans from under my bed and showed it to my mother. I never forgave her for that.

The apartment was clean by the time the paramedics came through the door. They had a gurney with them and they rushed to my aid.

In the past post I wrote about how I was terrified of women through this time in my life. I had just fallen through a table, there was glass in my butt, and I was ruining an otherwise pleasant day for the ladies present. The little bit of self-esteem I possessed at that moment plummeted, and humiliation had set it.

I was going on the gurney.

Face down.

The EMTs asked me if I had been drinking. Not knowing if the paramedics would be phoning the fuzz, I lied. I should have noted that I still felt fine at this point. This fanny was not apparently shooting pain signals to my central nervous system. Wait, is that how it works? Something about receptors and neurotransmitters. I’m not smart. Maybe it was just the layers of fat that stopped the pain messages from traveling up my spinal column. Whatever was happening internally, I felt great. The beer buzz helped with this, of course.

I was starting to lose a little focus on reality, and my vision was narrowing.  I was clearly beginning to go down. I made a final request to Adam…

“Don’t let the girls see my glass-ass!”

Then I fainted.

He must have hurried all the birds into a back bedroom because when I came to, nobody was around. I was loaded on the stretcher. Fanny up. I still had glass sticking out of my rear, and I’m sure it looked like the world’s worst ice sculpture.

I was placed into the ambulance and taken to the hospital. Once again they asked if I had been drinking. I’m sure I smelled a bit like Keystone Light, and they knew it. I was about to take the fifth but I passed out again.

When I woke up I was being wheeled through the hospital ER waiting room. My parents were there and they looked worried. I, clear as day, said, “This is no big deal! I’m fine!” as I went past. Adam must have called them.

In the room where they put all the glass-ass victims a big nurse came over. A doctor poked his head in, pulled the glass from my wound, and starting poking around back there. He muttered to the nurse who grabbed her sewing kit.

The doctor told me I had severed an artery and may require a blood transfusion. He didn’t seem to think so, but he was going to check back after some sort of test. He put the nurse to work stitching me up. I asked for something to throw up in, because I was feeling sick. They tossed a bed pan under my face, and I barfed. I couldn’t figure out why this had happened as I had been fine moments before. Then, I urinated all over myself. Again, I’m face down. Not the best position.

Then, I pooped.

As she was stitching up my fanny.

I couldn’t help it – my body was doing things I couldn’t control. I was so embarrassed and kept apologizing for making earth on the nurse. She said, “Honey, if this is the worst I see today, this is a good day!” I still wanted to hang my head in shame, but it would have plopped down into the vomit-covered bed pan.

She mentioned that when you sever an artery all sorts of funky signals shoot through the body and not to worry about it. So I didn’t.

I spent the next few weeks on my stomach in my bedroom. My whole crotch area had turned black and blue and it hurt like nothing else I had experienced. Twice a day I required a cleaning of the wound and bandages changed. I made my sister do it the first day, and she just about retched.

Even now, I think, you can see the scar where eleven stitches once lined my backside. I say I think because I don’t spend too much time looking back there. I can feel it, though, and I hope it isn’t as hideous looking as it feels. My friends started calling me “AssMan” an homage to the episode in Seinfeld where Kramer received the wrong license plates meant for a proctologist.

Oh, I just remembered that the doctor told me that there would be no “fooling around” while my wound healed. He was very adamant about this. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t have any dates at that point anyway. But still I took note hoping that I’d meet a girl and turn down her advances during this time. That would have been a step up from my current situation.

I had lost so much blood that the porch needed to be powerwashed. Except it had already stained the concrete and seeped in permanently. My folks had to pay for the porch to be refinished. I just love that under the new layer of concrete my fanny DNA is still present.

I am the AssMan!


I’ll probably show you the scar if you ask nice enough.


I Totally Got Gypped On My Date Tonight

by D.J. Paris on May 14, 2013

I’m writing this from a date in progress. A ThoughtsFromParis first, as it were.

A woman I’m seeing who requested that I don’t use her real name (it’s Helen) asked me over for dinner tonight. The first bloggable moment came in the way she brought up this dinner over the phone.

Would you like to come over for dinner?

Sure! Thanks! What are you making?

Well, here’s the thing. I have some stuff, but you’re a much better chef than me.


How about if we made dinner together and you assisted?

Now, I do love to cook. And, I’m decent at it. But it’s not often when someone invites me over to dinner. It’s even less often when I’m invited over for dinner but have to do the cooking. Truth be told, I was thrilled to even be invited. I have no problem putting together the dishes, and I’ll even clean up afterwards. I just love entertaining. When I told my friend and co-host of oSex Karen that I was having dinner made for me she said:

It’s not a true invite if you have to do the cooking. You’re getting gypped!

Now, when I got to the condo, there was much less work for me than was anticipated. All I had to do was take chicken breasts and put them in the oven. All the prep work was done. I was expecting to don the apron, open up a Bon Appetit and start slinging paprika.

The next hilarious moment came when I went to sit down to eat. Since I’m not a total animal I always take a napkin and lay it on my lap before eating. As soon as I went for cloth (which was ON my placemat as seen below), I was told…


I couldn’t wait to slobber all over it.

Oh, please don’t use that cloth napkin.

But it’s on my placemat!

Um, the thing is… it’s dry clean only.

I’m not worthy of dry cleaning?

As I said this last line she was already up tearing a square off of a Bounty paper towel holder to hand to me. I started laughing that not only was I not getting to use the decorative hand towel, but that I was going from the best case scenario (cloth) to the worst case scenario – the paper towel, half piece.

Even worse she accidentally wiped her hands on the paper towel and started mashing it together as she handed it to me. As I accepted it I asked if she could get me a fresh piece since I didn’t need the one that had her hand gook all over it. She laughed and was embarrassed, not realizing she was handing me the soiled square.

Dinner was great and then we relaxed until dessert. She told me excitedly that she had ice cream waiting in the freezer. I was thrilled at the idea of finishing off the evening with some Breyer’s vanilla bean.

So, about that ice cream. Let’s do it!

But you’re on a diet and need to lose ten pounds to win the bet with your father!

That’s true. So, I probably shouldn’t have ice cream.

No – that’s a good decision.

But you offered ice cream! You promised ice cream!

I’m really looking out for you.

I just got gypped again!

So in the end, I didn’t exactly get a homecooked meal, a real napkin, or dessert. But I do have to say that my host is an amazing person and we laughed about all of this. She made me sit down and write this post from the condo, and has been reading over my shoulder the whole time.

The truth is she’s not bossy, inconsiderate, or selfish. I almost never write about dates, but she insisted that I had to. I told her I was just going to write about my bike ride to work, but we agreed that would have been boring.

Next time I’m bringing my own cloth napkins, because I’ll be damned if I’m not worth a little dry cleaning.

Oh, I need to go buy some cloth napkins, now that I think about it. I don’t own any. I guess I don’t even think I’m worth it!


Moms are Supposed to Annoy Their Kids

April 30, 2013

Mothers are supposed to have at least one expression designed to send you into a frenzy of anger and frustration. It’s their job. Mine is the moment my mom walks through the door of my condo. Without exception, she mentions that she can smell cat pee all throughout the house. To be fair to her […]

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That’s Cool Beans!

March 3, 2013

Turns out my mom was wrong. Sure, there are moments when my condo resembles a dishelved hobo riding the rails, but mostly it’s close to tidy. Note I said “tidy” and not “clean.” I never dust and rarely sweep. If I’m having someone over I run the Swiffer. It’s not really supposed to double as […]

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Will My Love Keep Me Warm While My Furnace is Out? (WORST TITLE EVER)

February 21, 2013

My furnace went kaput last Friday. It turns out you’re supposed to clean the filters every few months or so. You’d think this would have dawned on me after eight years of owning a place. But I’m kind of a moron when it comes to that stuff. I’m good at sitting down on the ground, […]

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Fighting About Something and Then Finding Out You’re Totally Wrong is Fun

December 22, 2012

I fought about something and then found out I was totally wrong yesterday. Getting into it with my parents is not on my must-do list. I’d just rather not. They’re lovely enough people and I just come off like a spoiled brat. Which maybe I am. I mean, they are pretty generous. Last night we […]

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I Stole My Housekeeper’s Keys (So She Wouldn’t Steal From Me)

December 17, 2012

A few days ago I wrote a piece about how my shockingly-English-speaking cleaning lady was a poor negotiator. By the way according to my analytics, basically nobody liked the story. Screw you fools. Writing everyday is hard. I will admit it was a little weak. Ahem… Last night I went around surveying her work. It […]

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How Not To Negotiate (if you’re a housekeeper)

December 16, 2012

One of the other things I’ve written about ad nauseum is my dirty condo. I’m just going to resign myself to the becoming-more-and-more apparent fact that I’m just not going to become skilled at cleaning. I received a cold-call at work the other day from a big commercial cleaning service wanting our business. I had […]

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I Hope This is the Last Post on Cat Pee Ever

December 2, 2012
Thumbnail image for I Hope This is the Last Post on Cat Pee Ever

This time I’m not going to write about my cat peeing on all sorts of stuff that isn’t kitty litter. I’m going to explain the wreckage of past and present. The destruction left in her wake. I know wake is a noun referencing past events but let’s imagine she’s still speeding along in a cigarette […]

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Winner For “Getting Busted” Contest!

November 28, 2012

The first official ThoughtsFromParis contest is over! A winner has been selected for the E-Cigarette kit courtesy of the fine people at Vapor4Life. If you’re new to the site the contest rules stated to recount a time getting busted. The winner would receive a vapor cigarette kit which allows them to light up in their […]

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