Excerpt: The Seats of Our Pants

Being a vast proponent of sex and most things related to it, I often find myself wondering if the meaning of life is, quite simply, to surround ourselves with the act that fosters new life. This idea could be beautiful or bleak. It could also be the product of my hypersexualized 1990’s upbringing. I’m not entirely sure, but it seems as valid as anything else, doesn’t it?

I suppose I should rewind. You probably opened this book looking for a story. Some long, winding epic tale about redemption or regret or something else that’s poignant and enticing and the tiniest bit dangerous. Maybe you’ll find that. Fuck, maybe I’ll find that… but more likely than not, you won’t and neither will I. I’m probably not even supposed to be admitting that this is a book… but I’m a terrible liar and it seems kind of silly to hide it. Writing professors always talk about the “fictive dream” and the notion that someone reading shouldn’t really be thinking about the fact that they’re reading a book… but I think that’s fucking dumb. There’s something to be said for the satisfaction of black words on crisp pages. For the tactile sensation of moving along to the next spread of words. For the feeling of accomplishment that comes with being able to say you spent your afternoon reading a book instead of watching yet another Golden Girls marathon on the Hallmark channel. So, by all means, dear reader: feel smug… but don’t expect much.