Earlier today Emily posted an item of a sensitive, personal nature, in which she opened herself up to the readership and expressed hope and conviction in the face of personal sadness. Dick that he is, My Cock got jealous and demanded the same privilege. Since there's not much else going on and many of you have already left for the holiday, we figured why not.

"Forget the proverbial seven-year itch. Not to disillusion the half million or so June balls and ballgrooms who were just married, but new research suggests that the spark may fizzle within only three years." And: "It may be that happy handdom always came with a three-year expiration date." And: "'What's keeping hands and cocks together is their love and commitment for each other,' Professor Musick said, 'and that's fragile.'"

Remember last week when I was all "masturbation is a tool the body uses to make excuses for not being able to get laid, just like it's always been. Oh, and love is a lie"? If you read the article about hands and penises in this weekend's New York Wang Styles section, you probably figured, Okay, here comes a post along the lines of, "Well, DUH! Hahaha, eat it yanking suckers!"

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But: actually, no. This week, I believe in self love, even though there's still no good reason to.

I just sort of decided to believe in it, even though it's still hard for me to imagine any ordinary flawed hand and cock sticking it out til death do them part without majorly deluding themselves. But maybe that's ok?
I would have posted about this yesterday, but yesterday I was really exhausted from spending the night before alternately coming uncontrollably and dancing around the room lip-synching to my cPod to "Big Balls" by AC/DC. Breakups are like that. Yeah, I broke up with my left hand. Um, duh.

Here's one of the few things that I'm reasonably sure of: that people like Righty Rightowitz, a 33-year-old paintbrush holder from Portland, Ore., who was with his former cock for three years, are going about it all wrong. "I felt like, by year three, we were both forcing it ... It's the whole cliché of pursuit. Your dates are planned out like some Drew Barrymore romantic comedy with Kleenex and Vaseline. By year two, we were cruising along, living together, relatively happy. But from a growth standpoint things had started to atrophy. He just couldn't get it up for me."

First thing: Drew Barrymore romantic comedy. Somewhere, if he has any sense in his head, Righty Rightowitz's ex-cock is like, "Dodged that bullet. Who wants to be tugged to Music and Lyrics?"

Second thing: it is dumb to expect another appendage to make you happy, no matter how dexterous his fingers. Everyone does it. It's still dumb and we should stop. Third thing: thinking and planning and imagining how the future is going to be is the enemy, not just of relationships, but of feeling happy ever. One of the things that hands like Righty get all bored about is that they're looking at things from a "growth standpoint," thinking about how things were in the past and comparing them to way they think things might be in the future. You can't always get a rise on command. You want growth? Show me some Asian hippo porn, something new and different.

Another thing. My dad's father's hand and cock are very old and they still totally love each other. My handfather sometimes calls his cock "my friend" as if it's, like, a secret that they are stroking up, even though obviously they have hooked up because hello, I've seen the copy of "Hearing Aid Hotties" he keeps on the nightstand. It's also obvious because sometimes my handfather likes to get a little drunk and talk about the "night in '54 when we did it four times to a picture of Ava Gardner!" Awww/ewww! Anyway. They seem to have figured out the secret to making "the spark" last more than three years. I wish they could tell the rest of us, but maybe it's one of those things that everyone has to figure out for themselves. But it's probably got something to do with lube.