Travel!

By Ariel Leal

An excavation from our recently discovered joke bone yard: “Nonsense’s Guide to Travel!” A pamphlet available physically and digitally.

The sound of a whistle is heard, piercing through the uproarious cheer of the audience.

“Travel!” yells a man in an expensive tracksuit. The colors don’t matter to me; they never have. Every day is the same for me, my face smashing against the glazed floor with the smell of sweat being pushed deeper into my damp, porous nose. Though if there’s anything I can take solace in, it’s the sensation I get when I’m up in the air, flying, towards the net. If I could do that for the rest of my life then maybe, just maybe, I would feel fulfilled.

I think I’ve spent enough of my life on these hardwood floors and sure, the thrill of soaring above everyone else is really something quite magical, but it just isn’t enough; it’s just so short-lived. I can’t help but feel like I’m really missing out on an important part of my life here and yeah, lengthy, meaty, girthy fingers brushing against my curves feel nice, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing that. Not like this.

After a brief pause, I am launched back into play, and I make my way from one end of the court to another, actions over which I have very little control. Then again, I have very little control over my life at this point. I’m my happiest when I’ve got my head in the clouds like this. I’m just freefalling until the dream is crushed once I am patted on the back by more greasy hands leaving imprints on my already moist jersey.

I wonder how planes do it. I mean, they’re much heavier than I am, so how do they get to fly? I can get some sick air, yes, but flying is definitely something I want to try. I want to touch the sky. It can’t be too difficult to purchase tickets and I don’t even care where I have to go – I just want to fly like some avian creature and stay where my heart belongs.

“Travel? Am I working with amateurs here? Kidding, son, it was just a little humor. Seriously, though, no travelling; you’re better than that.”

“Just a smidge of humor to start your day off, son. heh heh…”

Travel. Why don’t I? What’s stopping me from taking off right here and right now? The Tracksuit Man holds no power over me. None that I don’t give him. What is preventing me from achieving that permanent lift-off I’ve always dreamt of? The more I ponder, the more I realize that nothing is stopping me. I can be all the way up. You want travel, old guy? I’ll give you travel.

Mustering every last bit of strength I have left, I begin to levitate,

Levitate

Levitate.

I fly past those testosterone-laden beasts and into the sky. My journey is now and I am reborn.

I don’t really fly into the sky because I’m not a moron and I understand that ceilings exist but I fly high enough (what, did you expect me to measure how high? Fuck you.) and dip down to escape through the door and into the big, beautiful world that awaits me. Travelling was always taboo for my kind, especially after what had happened to my cousin back in the year 2000. I ignore all that, though, and decide to chase my dreams. I never got to go backpacking in Europe so here was my chance. If someone could just bounce me super hard, I know I could make it across the Atlantic Ocean and into Derbyshire (United Kingdom) in no time!

I roll my way onto the highway first so I can get to the mall and find myself a good backpack. Fuck, I don’t even know what I’d put in the backpack, but if I don’t have a backpack then I don’t backpack Europe and I don’t get to live my dream. I can already tell within an hour of being in the great outdoors that the air in the world is so much fresher and cleaner than that salty semen stench that parades around the oxygen being carried into my lungs. I get to the mall and roll everywhere, not finding any kind of backpack that I could even pretend would work on me. That’s when I remember, silly Edmund, you don’t even have arms! I then mockingly slap myself on the forehead for being such a dunce, except I don’t really do that because I don’t have any fucking arms.

Suddenly, some goober picks me up and starts smashing my handsome face onto the hard, flat surface below me. Years of agony flood back into my head as I remember all the horrible things that have been done to me that I will not specify. Some blonde broad tells the kid to put me back, and so he carries me over to the nearest sporting goods store and stashes me away into a crate full of my brethren.

This doesn’t feel right though…nobody is talking. I realize now that I am amidst a sea of corpses that were once people I had ignored at family barbeques. There’s Uncle Spalding and my cousin Spalding Jr. and even…no…it can’t be…my eight-hundred-and-ninety-seventh cousin twelve hundred times removed.

I will not let their deaths go unanswered for. I push past the corpses of my loved ones and shoot through the sky with nothing more propelling me than my own eternal rage.

Of course, there is still a ceiling, a glass ceiling, and I shatter it with my rotund might. I jettison towards Europe – at least, where Europe probably is. I can’t really hold a compass.

Splitting clouds as I make my marvelous journey, I feel alive once more. But then all of a sudden, a large pelican fucks my tiny hole, effectively deflating me and forcing me to plummet to my blue, liquid grave down below. The salt is just awful for my skin and the sun isn’t much help either. I have entire colonies of bacteria living in my entrails. My body is now a home to hundreds of different species and it is hell. Eventually, I wash up on what feels like a sandy surface.

No. No no no no no. This is exactly what happened to my cousin.

The silhouette of a man grows larger as he approaches my rigid body. I am paralyzed in fear and weep salty ocean tears upon realizing this man looks hauntingly similar to Tom Hanks. Just as I have feared, the man smears blood on my face and I know now that I will be his slave for the rest of my life.

I should have listened to the stories. I just should have listened. I should have never traveled.

6 Spots In My House Where My Daughter’s Ghost Can’t Find Me

By James Sweeney

An excerpt from our hottest text strudel, “Nonsense’s Guide to the Supernatural”

There are certain aspects of life you never really engage with until you have to…until you’re forced to. I know that now. A lot of people say they want to understand death. They say they want to learn to embrace it, and explore the beauty in it. They’re full of shit. You don’t want to understand. You don’t want to understand what it’s like to live every day under a black cloud of memories that hurt too much to remember, and yet far more to bury deep inside yourself, the shame of trying to forget how happy you used to be. You don’t want to watch your little girl wither away for two goddamn years, to watch her shrink into nothing right before your eyes. Try moving on from that. Try picking up the pieces after that. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do; and it doesn’t get any easier when your baby girl’s spirit chooses to root itself in your home rather than crossover to an eternal afterlife. At this point, I’m just thankful I have a few spots I can escape to when the ghost of my beautiful dead daughter becomes too much to deal with.

1. The Basement

We never let Cassie into the basement when she was alive because of the rat infestation, but once the crowdfunding came together for her funeral costs we were finally able to fix up that chintzy paneling and afford a decent exterminator. Now, I’ve got the recliner and my Playstation down there and, while it isn’t much yet, I’m thinking it could become a certified Man Cave in due time. Dr. Towns says that an important part of grieving is giving yourself space to work through things at an appropriate pace. It’s important not to rush the process, he says, which is why I’m holding off on snagging a pool table until I can find a regulation sized one in red felt. Patience is key, he says.

2. The Garage

Cassie had been scared of the garage ever since that bat got trapped in there a few years back, so I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about her apparition running around in there and reminding me of what my life once was. Dr. Towns mentioned that a lot of men deal with grieving by taking up projects, so I figured now was as good a time as any to work on the old Mustang again. She’s an absolute beauty, a cherry red ’69 with the original drum brakes, a dual exhaust, and a V6 cylinder engine that still purrs like the kitten we promised to get Cassandra for her 9th birthday. I would give anything to have been able to bring that cat home and see the look in Cassie’s eyes, but I guess I’ll just have to settle for being the envy of all my buddies once the Cherry Bomb is back in roadworthy condition.

3. Underneath the Patio

Cassie would never darego under here back when things were good and life mattered. She was pretty sure there were monsters living under the house, and I wasn’t exactly rushing to tell her otherwise. She had such an imagination, my tiny adventurer, and the last thing I wanted was her crawling around down there and getting hurt. Pretty ironic, all things considered. Dr. Towns says it’s important to maintain goals and remember that I still have things in life to work towards. Writing down notes of things I hope to accomplish is a big way to look ahead, he says. I woke up under the patio last week with a sticky note in my shirt pocket that said “Find a cure to cancer. Do whatever it takes.” I have a degree in social work from University of Phoenix Online.

4. The Spare Bedroom

We usually kept this room locked up when Cassie was still with us, and she generally knew better than to come in. Jess keeps all her sewing and knitting stuff in here, and Cassie was just always getting into some kind of trouble whenever she snuck in. Just too many pins and needles for such a mischievous kid, ya know? But there was this one time – God, I wish I’d taken a picture of this – when Cassie snuck in while Jess was taking a shower, and wrapped an entire ball of yarn around herself. An entire ball! She had to be about five, maybe six, and she was so caught up in the yarn that she could barely move! Eventually I find her, and she’s wriggling around on the carpet just covered in yarn, and she looks up me with her little gap tooth smile and goes, “Daddy! Daddy! Look! I’m a Casserpillar!” I mean how clever is that?! She was so smart, my little Casserpillar. I come in here sometimes, and I lay right down on the spot of the floor where I found her wriggling and laughing and smiling. At first, I worried that spending time in here would be intrusive towards Jess’s own grieving, but ironically, it would seem that I spend a lot more time in here than she does now. For the most part Jess just sleeps these days. Dr. Towns says this is a common side-effect of depression, and while I wish I could spend more time with Jess, I also I understand why she would want to spend days at a time in the dark of our bedroom. When you walk into the living room every morning to find the TV turned to Cartoon Network and the ghost of your only daughter practicing ballet, every moment from then on out just kind of feels like a waking nightmare.

5. The Minivan

Since the liminal plane containing my daughter’s soul seems to only really reach the 3900 sq. feet that make up our home, backyard, and driveway, I’ve recently begun parking the minivan in the street. I spent most nights out in the van during that first month without Cassie, though back then I was actually driving around town, sometimes until dawn. At this point, I don’t even bother bringing the keys with me, just a bottle and a book. While it’s true that I’d do just about anything to forget for a minute what has become of my once-charmed existence, there’s a lot of misunderstanding about my time out by the curb. Honestly – and this is something Dr. Towns sort of refuses to acknowledge, which has been a real point of frustration for me – the drinking isn’t meant to numb the pain. There’s no numbing this pain. There’s no muting this roaring deficit in my being. It really just comes down to this: If you’ve ever read Koontz, you know that his masterful storytelling goes hand-in-hand with a little sauce. Them’s just facts. Like I’ve told Dr. Towns over and over, Jack Daniels and Dean Koontz were my go-to duo long before my world came crashing down. I just happen to need them now more than ever.

6. The Attic

None of us ever really went into the attic much when Cassie was alive, what with all the loose insulation and fiberglass up here. That stuff doesn’t really matter so much now. I go up here sometimes to just think, to process. Lately, I’ve actually started bringing my laptop – just to get a little writing done, keep the ol’ ticker in shape. Dr. Towns says it’s healthy to exercise the parts of the brain that we often come to neglect over time. I was about halfway finished with a screenplay based of off Dean Koontz’s 1983 bestseller Phantoms around the time we found out Jess was pregnant. I had been working for Jess’s dad at the time, helping him sell car parts out of the family shop, but every night after my shift, like clockwork, I would just sit down and immediately get so absorbed in that screenplay. Even during the first couple months of the pregnancy, I’d be writing for hours every night – I had such a strong vision for how everything would turn out, and I even had this idea in my head that Ray Liota could play the enigmatic Sherriff Bryce Hammond. Jess would be right there next to me, knitting little caps and booties. It’s amazing how time flies, isn’t it? Ten years seems like a lifetime ago now. Though, I guess in the case of my only daughter Cassandra, it kind of was.
It’s stuffy up here, and I’ve developed some pretty bad skin irritation, but I’d rather scratch myself bloody than watch the ghost of my daughter retrace the steps of a life that was stolen from her. It’s like…it’s like watching some little girl playing the role of my sweet pea. She looks just like her, and sounds just like her. She calls out to me sometimes, and she’s so happy. She’s not in pain, either; it’s as if the last two-and-a-half years never happened. It’s like an alternate universe. Sometimes, I’ll get up in the middle of the night and in my half-sleep, I’ll find her standing in the hallway. I’ll reach down to touch her head, thinking maybe she had a bad dream. But, my hand passes right through her. It’s like losing her all over again, and every time, just like that, I remember that it’s my bad dream. It’s my never-ending bad dream.

The 7 Best Places To Fuck On Campus

by Our Sex Expert

From our recent release, “Nonsense’s Guide to Travel”

Aw yeah buddy. You know what time it is. It’s Fuck time. Time to get on the old stallion and give it a nice whip and see where it takes you. We all know what sex is here at Nonsense Humor, and we know the best places to get it down with your significant other when you’re in a hurry. You know, when you don’t feel like walking literally not that far to an actual bed because you love cold dirty floors on your sweaty ass. Anyway, here’s the list.

• 1. Plato’s Lap

Nothing is sexier than putting mustard on that sausage while sitting on a granite statue of one of the most prominent philosophers in Ancient History. His Symposium is one of the most important books on love ever written, and now you’re making some important and impromptu love on his cold hard lap.

• 2. Adam’s Playhouse Basement Bathroom

If you’re gonna have some wash closet fun time, might as well make sure that toilet water is clean. You don’t want your leg slipping into some old water that mosquitos have now laid eggs in. Unless you do want that… Trust me Adam’s Playhouse’s basement bathroom is the cleanest on campus. Don’t go on a Thursday at 9:23pm, though. That is when and where our publication meets this coming semester. (Or do go then, we’ll just watch).

• 3. While Waiting for Your Burger at Bits and Bytes

Yeah we’ve all been there. You’re waiting for your “Burning Love Chicken Sandwich” and just the thought of a burning love turns you on. You ask several people if they would like to pass the time with a quick go at the each other’s “Netherlands Complex.” Once you find your suitor, just go for it. This will actually make them cook your chicken faster.

• 4. The New Pride Pantry

Why else would Hofstra need a pantry. 90% of Hofstra students have more than $21,345 dollars in their bank accounts and the other 10% smoke cigarettes. This room was built for the sole purpose of making the sweet fuck in private. Book your time slot with SGA. They are tabling every single day of next semester.

• 5. The Aquatic Center

Pfft! No one swims anymore. Swimming is for the fishes, pal. This place is just chlorinated fuck juice at this point.

• 6. The “Willy” and “Kate” Costumes

There’s no way our adequate school mascots are not both two people having sex covered in sweaty fabric. What student would do that willingly or even for money. The two couples inside probably needed a quit place to get funky with their junky, and the costumes were the only places to do so. Just find the costumes wherever these four sex doers leave them around campus and slip yourself inside with someone who wants to do you.

•   7. The Bone Room.

We all know exactly where this is. You know that part of campus, and then you go left down the hall and open that door. You know where. Right? Please. Where is the bone room? I’m supposed to be the sex expert and I don’t know where Hofstra’s bone room is. Help me out.

So You’ve Acquired An Alien Child…

By Ashley Vernola

An excerpt from “Nonsense’s Guide to the Supernatural”

Section 6: Caring For Your New Alien Baby

 

1. Hold them.

After all, even though it is a part of an alien species, it still is indeed a baby, and babies need love and care and a good amount of TLC. Hold that baby, swaddle it! Not with cotton blankets, cotton will cause your baby to combust and die. Only metallic nylon will do for this alien species! Make sure to remind it that you need it more than it’ll ever need you.

2. Give it a name!

The best part of acquiring your little bundle of slimy grey mass is that you get to name the little goon! Make sure to keep it something close to its roots, but it can be as modern or classic as you wish it to be! Try Googling “Top 20 Alien Names of the Year”. That’ll be sure to give you some ideas! Be aware that it might take a little while for your little alien to begin responding to this name. They were given names in their native tongue before that and changing their name out of the blue might confuse them. Don’t be afraid if your baby grows distant from you as it acclimates to its new life on this planet.

3. Make sure it gets its shots, and test for allergies.

Once again, like any baby, alien babies, too, must protect themselves with the wonders of human medicine! Make sure to take your little snook’ums to the doctor often to make sure they are healthy and happy! Make sure your doctor isn’t a spoilsport tattletale who will inform your nation’s government about the cuddly wuddly invasive species you have given purchase on our planet [see section 7, how to silence a liability]. Your special gift from outer space will probably require rarer, and more expensive shots and treatments, as they are not yet adjusted to the illnesses or allergens available on this planet, but that won’t matter, as you’ll do anything for your little bundle of gook!

4. Put on TV.

Remember, nothing too violent! Aliens are easily impressionable, but boy, do they love TV! While you may think having it watch something about aliens is a great idea, it is not. Please avoid shows about the alien species at all costs. Please. Avoid the History Channel.

5. Do NOT stick it in the microwave.

Raising a child lacking bodily structures analogous to our own—except a mouth that screams, screams, screams!—CAN be trying. Additionally, some of you in areas with large whale populations may find that your baby takes on the hue and texture of local decadence: whale blubber. However, do NOT put your alien baby in the microwave. DON’T. This will not make this or the pounding in your head OR the redness in your eyes OR the relationship with your earth children (or spouse) better! It will only make EVERYTHING worse. Unlike human children, aliens babies are not suited for microwaves, and you should be warned that their large, bulbous heads will explode when exposed to excessive heat. If we hear of another case of this happening, we will call Alien Protective Services on you, and you will never be able to own another alien child again. You have been warned.

6. Love it like it were your own blood-child.

Your small bundle of slippery amorphous joy has been separated from its home planet and family and cannot go back. Thus, it is important that you take on this little one like it is your own, or else it will not be able to acclimate to life on Earth as well as it should, and your family might be in for a slew of trouble.

7. Remember not to tell the NSA, CIA, FBI, or any other government agency.

All these agencies want to do is take your small alien baby away. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Don’t you dare utter a word. (Insta selfies are fine.)

8. Ignore your wife’s side-eye when you pay more attention to your new alien baby than your own blood-humanoid children.

We know. It’s hard. Your wife will glare at you from across the room as your little one tugs on your pant leg and you shoo him away because you’re dealing with your new, special baby in your arms. She will grow resentful of this, and take your son away, reminding him that he’s “Mommy’s Favorite”. She will tell you to “grow up”, and that you are worthless as a parent, but it’s okay. Little Danny never needed you quite as much as Xeep_3863 needs you. You’re all it has here on Earth. And, when your wife eventually gets tired of you neglecting your own children for this baby you never even asked for, it will be all you have as well. Look out for each other. It’s a scary world out there.

And last but not least:

9. Have fun!

It’s only one to three in a lifetime that these opportunities present themselves. Being the new parent to one of these incredible, unidentifiable creatures is something many will never experience or even come close to understanding. It will be a learning experience for you, as well, so cherish it.

Now, go on and take care of your newly acquired alien child. You are in for a ride!

Horoscopes by Anthony Bourdain

By Anthony Bourdain

An excerpt from Nonsense’s Guide to Travel!

Pisces

You’ve been listening to too much of that new-age folk bullshit music, Pisces. Pull yourself together and jam out to some serious rock-and-roll. Guns and Roses. The Ramones. Iggy Pop. Put on your record player and just tune out. Maybe, if you feel so compelled, indulge in a bump of heroin. Then describe it to me. Please. Just this once, kid. For me.

Aries

Aries, you have too much fire in you. Invest in a warm glass of sake. Find yourself in that sushi joint I told you about in Shibuya. Tell the chef that Tony sent you. He, and only he, will know what to do. Don’t cringe when he serves you the sea urchin: that blessed, slithering, raw uni. You’ve had worse in your mouth, I’m sure.

Taurus

Get your dick out of that French duck press, Taurus, because it’s time to stop fooling around. You’re stubborn, but you’re losing your grip. No one wants to hear you bitch about your sexless marriage. Man up. A nice glass of a well-aged scotch and maybe some rare filet will ease your troubles.

Gemini

I once fucked a pair of twins on my first trip to Australia. They were tan, well-oiled, and gorgeous. I still buy them a beer or two whenever I’m in Sydney. It’ll be a good week, Gemini, if you play your cards right. Keep it up, you sexy, multi-faceted devil. You too, deserve a beer.

Cancer

Stop your crying, Cancer, and get yourself a stiff one (heh) at your closest dive bar: the one with the oldest strippers you can find. Your problem is that you’re a vegan. Order a thick cheeseburger and have a good jerk in the bathroom stall. The big one. Don’t flush.

Leo

Leo, you warm-hearted lion, you. You mean well, but honestly, your efforts just aren’t cutting it. Take a nice day all to yourself on the beach and keep a freshly-muddled caipirinha in your hand at all times. No beach? Too bad. Draw a bath. …what? I enjoy the small things in life. What of it, cocksucker?

Virgo

It has been a stressful week, Virgo. Keep your cool. Take a long stroll to the walk-in fridge and have a good primal scream, like the one your father had. In there you will find a nice package of pancetta. You know what to do from here, big boy. Grease up and slither behind the bar to grab a shot of whiskey from that barmaid you’ve been trying friskily to fingerfuck. Maybe snort a line off her ass.

Libra

A hard worker, you are, Libra. Your business aspirations, however, will fail this week. Consider a side hustle in something less than legal, perhaps. Indulge in those sensory pleasures you have long denied yourself…chase the dragon, kid. Chase it real good.

Scorpio

How many more of them are there? Three? After this? Fine, but the next round is on you guys. Who’s next? Scorpio? You’re known for your devilish charm, Scorpio, but you really gotta start taking it easy. Sometimes, you need a little – how should I say – aromatherapy. A spliff in Amsterdam, perhaps?

Sagittarius

Weary traveler Sagittarius, it’s time for you to leave again. Be spontaneous. I would suggest Malaysia or the Philippines. Last time I was in Malaysia, I got a hand-tapped tattoo of an ouroboros. Follow suit. Ask for extra beef in your bowl of noodles, and when your hosts offer you their locally brewed hooch, don’t be a pussy.

Capricorn

You’re a ruthless bastard, Goat Man. Mmm…goat. Ever tried goat kidney? Delicious with a cold glass of…what was I saying? I’m fucking starving. They haven’t fed me yet today, and I’m getting a little fucking grumpy.

Aquarius

This week, Aquarius, expect to…wait a second, Guy Fieri is an Aquarius? Fuck horoscopes. Fuck you all. Fuck. You. All. Fuck. You. All.

The 12 Supernatural Creatures You’ll Date (Before One Kills You)

By Jesse Saunders

An excerpt from Nonsense’s Guide To The Supernatural!

We’ve all been there: young, full of human organs and soul that make you irresistible to your standard supernatural creature.

Vampire:

The old standard. Your mom loves him, your dad hates him, and the call of your blood may be too strong for him to resist! Not really the greatest date for girls who love the beach, camping, or being able to grow old with your beloved, rather than withering away as he remains perfect, a mockery of what you once were… but damn, does he love you! He’s the perfect guy for when you really need to just write poetry and figure yourself out for a bit. Sure, your relationship can only end with a volatile breakup or your death, but either way you get to be the center of attention! Yay!

Elf:

Sometimes you end up falling for the perfect guy. Smart, intelligent, rich, hundreds of years old, an aristocrat with daddy issues. He’s not really dangerous; in fact out of all the creatures you’ll date, he sets the safety bar pretty damn high. Truly your elf boyfriend is absolutely perfect in every way, but perfection is so borrrring. Remember that time you thought about getting a tattoo and he scoffed at the idea of you marking your porcelain skin? Yes, he carries the riches of a lost civilization and is willing to give it all up for you, but we both know this relationship is a one way ticket to Lamesville. Skip.

Ghost:

You’re 21; he’s dead, but when attraction strikes ya gotta at least give it a chance. Maybe dating a guy who died before women could vote wasn’t your best choice, but he’s so chivalrous! The whole “not leaving the land on which he died” thing, as well as the “not believing in modern medicine” thing might be the nail in the coffin for this relationship, but you still have warm thoughts every time you reconnect through a Ouija board. Plus when that one loser kills you, you’ll already have someone to hook up with in the afterlife.

Demon:

Nope nope nope. Every one of your friends told you to stay away but you couldn’t keep away from…. Wait, he calls himself Dante the Unspoken? Do you have to call him that every time you say his name, or is just Dante okay? I know he has to work on his soul sucking but does that mean we have to attend every single one of his exorcisms in Brooklyn? This is exactly the type of relationship your friends will bring up, much to your embarrassment, for years. Maybe commit social suicide for a guy that isn’t draining you every time you go out.

Mermaid:

That’s a fucking manatee, idiot!

Witch:

I’m sorry… warlock… wizard? By far your friends’ personal favorite, he always seems to come prepared and know exactly how to fix a problem the second it occurs. He seems to magically know exactly what you need and always dresses to the nines. Sure, he kind of steals the limelight, but everyone loves him! The fact that, after your breakup, he was cursed to be a beast until meeting his actual one true love was a bit harsh, but you did break up over Twitter DM soooo.

Jersey Devil:

Not the cutest guy you’ve ever dated, but there is something about him. He’s got an air of mystery about him and looks a lot better than the awful pictures on his Tinder. None of your friends believe you when you tell them how great he is, but you’ve seen it and that’s all that matters. Giving him a chance and discovering what really makes him tick might be worth it, but you’ll also have to live in New Jersey if you get married.

Regular Human:

Kyle is… cool. I mean not cool cool but the guys seem to like him? I mean, I’m honestly not getting it. You just broke up with a vampire, how are you dating Kyle? Is this a rebound thing? Oh, maybe he’s a warlock too? No? Oh no that’s cool, seems like a chill guy. I’m very happy for you.  

Angel:

You made out with him once and now he’s promised to protect you for all of eternity! Which is great and all, but could he not be so judge-y when he comes out drinking with us? Sometimes you just want to wear sweats, but that seems impossible when your angel boyfriend wears three-piece suits at 8 AM on a Sunday. Breaking up seems like the only option, but you’d probably be banished to hell and have to deal with your demon ex, which is equally shitty.

Werewolf:

Absolutely perfect, if you can ignore him becoming a terrifying hell beast under the glow of the moon once a month. You’re not usually into the overly masculine type but there is something so alluring about trying something new. Considering the guys you’ve dated, though, he seems like everything you could ever need. Low chance of him murdering you, mostly normal, but still interesting enough that you have something to brood over. He might be worth the plunge… maybe just remember to check for fleas after his transformations.

Frankenstein:

He doesn’t talk much, but that’s honestly okay. Sometimes the strong silent type is just what a girl needs after a funeral march’s worth of talkative guys. The cold unfeeling dead human flesh is a bit of a turn off, but you dated Kyle soooo you obviously aren’t bothered by unfeeling humans.

Death, like the actual factual manifestation of death:

Geez, a bit dark, don’t you think? Like Christ, I get it, people die every day. No need for your boyfriend to shit on you crying over the dog dying in that movie. Honestly, maybe you should call up the Jersey Devil, because you are falling into quite the hole. If it makes you feel better, it’s not like this one will be the one that will kill you. That’s just too damn obvious.

Sure, your lifespan has been significantly limited by the creatures you’ve decided to date, but it’s important to remember we still love you, and if you die one of your friends will totally have to name their kid after you!

 

Normally this is where we would wrap this list up, but if you made it through the entire list and honestly—wow!—or really even found any portion of this list applicable, you are almost certainly dead. Happy hunting!