5 Things You Learn From a Lifetime of Screwing Up

Do 'em.

Don't get me wrong: If you don't do drugs, I am not advocating that you start. I'm just saying that, if you are already setting out on a lucrative career of Laughing at Infomercials at Three in the Morning, please at least consider minoring in the promising field of Hallucinogenic Hilarity. Because if you're experimenting with narcotics now, odds are you're going to move on to something harder at some point -- if only to try it. And if it's a toss-up between stuff like coke and heroin or a bag of mushrooms, you grab that bag and run like you're a tiny Italian man in need of extra lives.

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"A-ha! I can'a see through time'a!"

Here's a good rule of thumb: Do about half as much as your friends tell you to.

They will tell you to "eat the whole thing" of whatever they give you, regardless of the size of said "thing" or the strength of its contents. That's because stoners operate on a binary system of measurement: Something is either cashed or there's "a whole thing of it." If you're worried about your impending levels of inebriation, just take a little at first and squirrel some away for later. Also, if you can at all help it: Do not do hallucinogens in the city.

Right angles are the wrong angles. I know you don't think that geometry can bum you out, but just the simple act of being around man-made structures can ruin a good trip. Out in the woods, you might operate under the delusion that you've become a Gummi Bear, and you will definitely meet some kind of spirit wolf; in the city, some dude might lick your elbow on the subway, and you will definitely see somebody get hit by a car. It's a whole different, and generally much worse, experience.

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"Whoa, trippy! This guy says he needs money to pay for insulin ... this is the worst high ever."

Another good rule of thumb: Make absolutely sure you're not driving anywhere on hallucinogens. Don't just assume you'll know better. You cannot trust your high self; that bastard has no idea what he's doing. You need to stay one step ahead of him. So take your keys out now and set them in the paws of an old dirty teddy bear with one eye missing. I know that doesn't make any sense to Sober You, but trust me: Stoned You will not cross the bear.

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"THE BEAR CAN SEE YOUR INTENTIONS LIKE STARS IN THE SKY. THE BEAR DOES NOT APPROVE."

Or at least they would say that, if they had a bitchin' Camaro.

Pappa John's via Autoblog
"I used to worry about stuff like insurance and gas mileage -- now I only worry about drowning in pussy! No seriously, I'm so scared. Somebody help me."

This is the only time in your life when routine car troubles are still a reasonable excuse. Once you're a for-realsies adult, God forbid that ever happens, they expect you to plan far enough ahead to compensate for any recurring vehicular mishaps. You're also probably young enough that you still have carless friends whom you can merrily squeeze for double the amount of gas money that ferrying them around costs you. Get high with Paco and Bill and take 'em to Taco Bell, then ask them both to pay for gas: Each is too ripped to realize the other has already paid. Boom! You just made $10 for a $2 trip.

You know what that's called? That's called profit. This rusty Camaro is technically a business! You could probably write this shit off on your taxes, if you made enough to pay them, or cared enough to do them (which you absolutely don't).

Everybody will tell you not to, and technically, they're right: Don't trust your heart to people with emotional problems, because they don't have the ability to properly care for it. Don't enter into any commitment, implied or otherwise, with a mentally unbalanced person, because you don't know what they'll do if they ever feel slighted by you.

These are all very true and entirely reasonable pieces of advice. They're just omitting one incredibly important detail: Psychopaths are amazing in bed.

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"Sure, I'll probably punch your mother one day, but I'll do that thing you like in bed that everybody else thinks is gross!"

Oh yes, they will absolutely make your domestic life hell. You'll long for the days when you didn't wake up with the word "BETRAYER" smeared in poop on the hood of your Camaro -- but everybody needs to have sex with a psychopath at least once, if only to set a point of reference for exactly how much shit you're willing to deal with for the promise of exotic intercourse. Oh, and ladies, this applies to you as well: "Put your dick in crazy" is just a saying, probably because "Let crazy put its dick in you" sounds a lot worse.

Here's a good rule of thumb: If somebody's not yelling at you by the time you're done bonin' - your partner, your parents, the neighbors, the National Guard - then you have not yet begun to bone.

If you're not willing to get a job, at least get a fake ID. Work at Burger King for like 16 hours until you can afford one, then quit: You are now the beer-bringer, the holiest occupation in the entire Kingdom of Underage Drinking. Your tithe is a meager 10 percent of all purchases. Now you never have to pay for drinks again.

If it's not a job, or a fake ID, then develop a newfound respect for your older brother. Or suddenly start finding that 21-year-old douchebag from philosophy class really funny -- whatever you do, just don't shoulder-tap. This is important, not because I'm trying to get you to drink (again, I'm not advocating this stuff; I'm just saying that if something is worth fucking up, it's worth fucking up correctly), but because any complete stranger who wants to buy a kid beer is not a stranger a kid should be around. Don't go pick up your bottles from that sketchy dude's trunk, don't go with him to the ATM to get cash, don't hop into his car to hit up another store because "the teller saw you guys outside and didn't want to sell to me" -- just tell Philosophy Terry that his "Sartre? More like Fartre!" joke was fucking hilarious, and keep all of your holes intact.

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And that's why I don't do advice columns.

Buy Robert's stunning, transcendental, orgasmic science fiction novel, Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity, right here. Or buy Robert's other (pretty OK) book, Everything Is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead. Follow him on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.