End-of-the-WorldSO HERE WE ARE. The Last Year of Earthly Things. No really. This could be it. The big one. The final countdown. The last grains of sand in the hourglass. In 2012, I decided to live my life as if each year were the last, because who knows? In many ways, this project changed my life. I flew back home to see my family. I started grad school. I recorded my first EP, and a full-length album is coming soon. The Last Year of Earthly Things kicked me into action. However, I have been very sporadic with this blog, and I’m making some changes.

From now on, The Last Year of Earthly Things will be a personal blog about my mission to live each year as if it were the last. Random funny things – observations, rants, and thoughts at 2am – will move to a new blog, Last Hurrah. In short: The Last Year of Earthly Things: stuff about me and my projects. Last Hurrah: new and old funny stuff.

Welcome to the new Last Year of Earthly Things, 2015. My goals:

* release an album

* write a novel (or at least the first draft)

* improve my French and Spanish

* get into the best shape of my life

* get a Master degree

Easy. Let’s go.




Original lyrics: here



That other girl is pleasing in appearance, with wide hips and an arousing bottom

But I can service your sexual needs more often and give you greater pleasure

(You have been awaiting sexual fulfilment, which is at hand)

You should have intimate relations with me, as I will be good to you sexually



Loud noises/ejaculations in the room (I know you want sexual relations with me)

Loud noises/ejaculations all over you (You can have sexual relations with me)

Wait for me to stimulate you to orgasm

Loud noises/ejaculations as you develop feelings for me (I know you want sexual relations with me)

Let us fornicate in the back seat of my car (You can have sexual relations with me)

Wait for me to stimulate you to orgasm



She permitted you light physical contact, but I will have full sexual intercourse with you

You don’t need to talk, just show me your genitalia, the product of inheritance

(You have a sizeable penis!)

You should have intimate relations with me, as I am sexually available





It is a fruit infused moscato beverage which I co-own

It is I, with great energy, making sounds of surprise and/or excitement

We have achieved financial success, and drive a blue car

My vagina is very good

It is secreting fluid onto an engorged penis

Comparable to a steam engine, or a superhero committing theft using a gun.

I am socially dominant

I, Jessi K and Ariana Grande sing this song

If people try to undermine me, I have strategies at my disposal that will make them wish they had not

I sit atop a man’s penis as if it were a motorcycle

Then depart in his expensive car

If a man has a sizeable penis we will communicate via telephone and have sex

I intend to perform oral sex and/or sing



Jessie J: sexual

ONE OF MY RESOLUTIONS for the last year of earthly things is to get into the best shape ever, in accordance with the motto of my blog: Act as if each year is the last. If we’re all going to die, I want to die pretty.

So about a month ago I changed my eating habits and gym routine. Here are the Before photos:

Wait. So . . . I forgot to take Before photos. Here are photos taken a few days ago:

IMG_0693 IMG_0694

You might think I chose my posture to highlight the eventual contrast between the Before and After photos, but this is just how I stand, man.

Using the latest body imaging software, I factored in my age, diet, gym routine and so on to create this computer generated prediction of my gains in three months time:


I have to say, the image produced by this software is surprisingly realistic. You can’t tell that it’s computer generated at all. I was expecting some photoshopped monstrosity – but instead, it looks exactly like a normal person who just happens to have enormous muscles. I.e. me (in a few months time). Actually, I also had the software generate an image of my predicted gains in one year’s time:


That’s right. I’m going to become Vin Diesel. Two years:

hercules GIF


muscles super saiyan


muscles beyonce

Wish me luck.



Guestblogger Huggy Bear writes about the fear and dread associated with finally getting a real job.

Offices are baffling. I’ve spent most of my twenties laughing at people who choose to work in them. A fairly large cohort of my graduating class in high school have decamped to London and other cities and chosen to spend upwards of 50, or even 60, hours a week in offices. They wake up early, put on archaic clothing (ties are ridiculous — what are they actually for?), and commute for half the morning to reach their office. When they get there — clutching overpriced, under-strength coffee they bought on the way because they didn’t have enough time to make some at home as their commute was so long — they open a computer and start emailing people who are in the same building, often a few feet away.

Kind regards. Warm regards. Warmest regards. To whom it may concern. Best. Best wishes. Yours truly. Yours sincerely. Sincerely. Dear Sir. Best Regards. Regards.

dead inside


Nobody says “best regards” in real life. Nobody even writes it with a pen on paper. It’s a phrase that exists only in office emails. Emails written to the person two desks away. Emails written to the person who is so close you could throw a paper airplane to them. Imagine you met someone in person to discuss a project and, just as you were parting, one of you said “best regards”. Just think for a moment about how weird that would be.

Time for another disclaimer: I’m basing this on anecdotal evidence given to me over time by those office workers brave enough to go rogue and speak out. When I was about 10 or 11, we used to contemplate the wonder of girls. I hear they have wings that only appear when boys aren’t around. Someone told me they shower every day.  Maybe my view of offices, as an adult approaching 30 years of age, is like our discussion of females 20 years ago.

boobs2 GIF

There are certain milestones in a person’s life when they become more adult. I’m not talking here about your 21st birthday, graduation, losing your virginity, or when you buy a house. No, I mean the big things that masquerade as little things. The first time you buy a saucepan or a piece of furniture. When you’re at a friend’s place and silently judge the poor quality wine glasses they use. Opening a bank account. Suddenly taking a genuine interest in the news. Instinctively shaking hands with people you don’t know (kids who do this are weird and have clearly been brought up a bit too well). 

One of these milestones is getting a “proper” job, usually in an office. This made a tonne of sense in the post-WW2 world. Businesses were growing, mail was slow, and telecommunications prohibitively expensive. It made perfect sense to congregate in one physical location. Now it often does not, but we’re socially hard-wired into thinking it does because we’ve been at it for decades. We’ve decided that the same things that made us happy and successful in the fifties are the same things that will make us happy and successful in 2014. We’re slow on the uptake.

Some people move from childhood to full-blown early-to-bed must-open-a-pension-plan adults in a very short period of time, perhaps just a couple of years. Others drag it out over a decade or longer, afraid of the ceaselessness of ticking clocks, physically developing in one direction while psychologically staying put, or even going backwards. Until this month, I was one of those people. 

And then I got an office job.


I didn’t mean it. A recruiter who had heard about my freelance work contacted me and played go-between between the company and me. Days later, about half an hour into my first proper interview ever, the company made an offer. I hesitated, bought some time, and asked my parents (aka wisdom reservoirs / guardians of all that is sage) what they thought of the offer. My Dad’s actual words were “you should bite his hand off.” Bye bye freelancing. Bye bye fun weekend job in a pub with friends.

Thanks a lot Mr Matchmaker Recruitment person who I never even met. Thanks for shattering my dreams. Thanks for smashing my holier-than-thou view of the 21st century as a time when people should work remotely and whenever they wish (OK, I still think this is true). And so the next steps are inevitable. I will start saying things like “let’s touch base”, “going forward”, and that so-and-so is “really going places”. I’ll get excited for casual Friday. I will begin using those awful email sign-offs.


Then the ripple effect will come in. The highest point of my day — the zenith, if you will — will be when I get to leave the office and go to the gym at 7 p.m. The fucking gym! I will begin to evaluate potential partners not in measures of lust or wild romance, but in feelings of security and pragmatism. ‘Does this turn me on?’ will be usurped by ‘Does this make practical sense?’


Best Regards,

Huggy Bear

Guest blogger Sophie on the perils of waitressing:


People always tell you to write what you know, or to get inspired by what you know when you want to create something. But what if what you know is nothing but drunk assholes and old classmates who are doing so much better than you in life that it makes you want to throw up?

I work as a studentslashwaitress. I like to say that all in one word, and when I tell people what I do I actually say “slash”.  I do that because I think it’s funny and it annoys a lot of people.  Waiting tables is one of the best jobs to have when you can’t get an actual job because it pays really well, and you have to put up with a lot of shit but not as much as telemarketers do so it’s fine.

Since I’ve been working in the food service industry, I’ve noticed there are two categories of people that make my job both the worst and the most hilarious. The first category of people are old upper-middle-class people. I just have to emphasize that I am not the perfect customer either, I too order egg white omelets with no cheese and brown toast with no butter and God forbid the waitress forgets to replace my hashbrowns with fruit, I will ruin her. Anyway, I used to work in a neighborhood that catered mostly to old upper middle-class people and let me tell you something, they are terrible. I served breakfast at this bagel restaurant, which obviously aimed to please old people because it was a bagel restaurant, and one time, a woman flagged me down to tell me, verbatim, that her eggs were “too yellow” and that her bagel was “too heavy”.

sophie GIF

An educated, old as shit upper-middle-class person would be aware of stuff like say, living conditions in Soviet Russia, the Holocaust, the whole continent of Africa as a sad thing, but they can’t eat eggs, which were yellow because that’s what color eggs are, by the way, in a restaurant without complaining. You would think that having lived through two World Wars, one Cold War, the Depression, and Reaganomics, among other things would help them put the tragedy of a heavy bagel into perspective, but I guess not. Mind boggling. Another great gem is the sad-eyed “I hope you’re in school” conversation many of them like to start up with me. I am, but I could easily not be and also fuck you.

fuck you

And then there are the men.


When I made the switch from serving three hundred year old people their breakfast to serving pints of beer to people who weren’t using their last breath to complain to me about the temperature of their iced tea, I was excited.  I figured these new customers would be more normal and tolerable. But then all the men started asking me for my number.  Let me stress something about working in a bar. People basically pay me two dollars to walk three feet with a few pints of beer on a tray. If you think that walking three feet with a few pints of beer is a service actually worth two dollars, you are wrong. It’s not even up for debate, it’s not hard and it’s not worth two dollars. I appreciate it, and it’s how I make my living, but the service I provide and the reward I get is not proportional in the least.


People pay to look at us. Waitresses look cute and chat with customers and flirt with them and make them feel special. In essence, we are really short-term escorts. We pretend to like people for a few minutes and they pay us. Now let me ask you this: would you ask an escort for her number while you were out with her, knowing full well she was only out with you because she was an escort? NO, right? So why are you people asking waitresses for their number? We are personality prostitutes, plain and simple. Male bartenders are a different story altogether. They’ll give girls their number and have sex with them on a dumpster in front of eight cheering hobos for free because they’re gross and that’s what they like to do for fun.

For more Sophie, click here.

SO THE OTHER DAY I TOOK A LOOK at the search terms that bring people to my blog. “Probably,” I thought, “a diverse range of topics attract my readers – philosophy, history, literature . . .”


Wait a second … What? Sexy Jasmine? Disney sex? THAT WAS ONE POST.



So I looked at the search terms from the day before:


OK. Well, maybe this is a recent phenomenon. Maybe there’s an explosion of interest in eroticised cartoon characters. Disney porn. It’s like . . . softcore Hentai. I get it.


. . . I said I GET IT

But I mean . . . I write about a lot of things. Evolution. Apocalypticism. Boogers. Surely these also make the cut. So I expanded the statistics to the last seven days.


… What the Hell? I’M A RESOURCE FOR DISNEY PORN. I pulled up the statistics for all time:



I …

Don’t look at me.

Thank God there’s “sweaty balls” in there. And “boogers.” Sweaty balls and boogers are saving me from being a straight up Disney porn website. Throwing in some variety. A bit of class. So that when I go to that job interview, and the man behind the desk asks me: “So it says here on your CV that you have a blog which is a popular source of Disney porn,” I can say, “ACTUALLY, it ALSO features sweaty balls and boogers.”

You know what? Fuck it. I am what I am:



Wait . . . WTF?



P.S. I love you Jasmine.




SO A . . . FRIEND OF MINE . . . STUMBLED ACROSS a book about squirting. The title of this majestic work: How To Make Your Girl Squirt Like a Fountain. What kind of fountain though? Like . . . a drinking fountain? Or like, the Jet d’Eau in Geneva?


Anyway, it turns out the writing was outsourced to a non-native English speaker, who leant rather heavily on a dictionary. I present to you: how to make a woman squirt, in five easy steps.


The first thing you want to do is find the G-Detect:

G detect

Which is actually fairly easy:


So somewhere between the pubic hill:

I believe the one on the left

I believe the one on the left

And the Maritimes:


You may need to rent a car.


Once the G-Detect is located, ease your lady into the mood with some unkempt messy talk:



messy talk

“I’m going to ignore the dirty dishes, leave my socks on the floor and rub my laundry in your face. Aw yeah.”


It’s go time! Carefully infiltrate the vagina. Maybe don a disguise? Like . . . of another vagina? I don’t know. Do what you need to do:


Operation Desert Vajayjay

Operation Desert Vajayjay

Had to throw some seamen in there (sorry)


A lot of men don’t realise how much bowing turns women on. Bowing communicates class and confidence. Especially if done at the same time as this:



“I’d just like to take this opportunity, as you reach climax, of taking a little bow to acknowledge my performance.”


Weather forecast: cloudy with a chance of soaring fluid shooting high into the Sun.



winter is coming

Thar she blows!


squirt GIF

So now you know.