Every once in a while, someone sends me a question that doesn’t require miles and miles of discussion. The issues are pretty simple, and they usually roll in between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m., so at first I assumed that they it was nothing more than drunken correspondence from people who had taken my advice. But one night I myself was sauced and needed counsel, so I went to my mentor, screamed my question into the air, shook him, and….”Reply hazy, try again.” Damn you, Magic 8 Ball. Dejected and answerless, I cried. Okay, so maybe copious amounts of tequila had something to do with those tears, but I was equally distressed about my inability to get a dose of valid advice when I needed it. I could practically hear the similarly desperate wails of the lovelorn rising up from the city, and I vowed to never allow anyone else to feel the way I did. So, M.C. Quickie was born; and I’m open like Club Space – allll niight looong.
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My supposedly-platonic guy friend just popped up at my house with a bottle of wine and some weed. I don’t like him like that, but I’m not exactly doing anything right now. What should I do?
♥ ♥ ♥ Smoke and drink, bitch. Just don’t let your guard down – or else, you might wake up with a friendly dick in your mouth.
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