Help From a Retired Dildo

There's a large, pockmarked, somewhat discolored rubber penis sitting across from me on my shelf. It's got glitter on it and pen marks and god knows what else from all the dressing rooms and bar floors it's rolled across.

My girlfriend found it yesterday on my floor next to my suitcase still stuffed with costumes from Friday's show. She said she didn't like it, cringing at its "lifelike veins." I said don't worry, my purpose when I bought it three years ago was purely costume, not personal.

But now, as I'm sitting here across from it on Monday morning it's doing me a different kind of service. It's refusing to let some (most likely) overdramatic thoughts I've been churning around in my head seem so tragic.

It's hard to wax dark and philosophical about another impending birthday with Biff the beat-up penis perched on my shelf, assigned to his location by my grossed-out girlfriend.

I don't know why that's funny, but it is, and thank god.