I'm changing every day. It never stops. I've been getting sleepier and sleepier. I originally worried that I may be suffering from a syndrome of some sort, and then it hit me…I've just had my one year anniversary with my girlfriend.

Three hundred and sixty five days have taken their toll on me. The vim, vigor, piss and vinegar ran away from me like a stray cat, I would gander it started to occur the first time I donned my girlfriends “Kiss the Cook” apron, and it's been a downhill slide ever since. My priorities have changed: I try to make it home early from my comedy shows now, only with a twinkling two beer buzz as opposed to a bladder bursting stupor, I go to bed at a decent hour as opposed to waking up at one, and most of all, I started chasing my dreams more rather than girls.

Ohhh, isn't that sweet, you say. Well, it is. There is a downside to this. The domestication of me has rendered some discomforting side effects. My testosterone has been sealed and hidden somewhere in the top shelf behind the spices. After spending the majority of my post pubescent life driven by the natural chemicals spawned from my loins, and subsequently putting them on a shelf, I now am fatigued more easily. I don't look at the ladies like that anymore. I'm not zenning out, or any of that hippie crap, I'm just transforming into a domestic beast of my girlfriends own design.

The problem is this…when you take an old car and put a huge motor in it, you have much more power, but it still sits on a frame designed to handle much less. This is not far from my problem. Domestic monsters by women (I should trademark that) are programmed to handle chores with efficiency and with little complaint. My wiring prevents me from such tasks. If there's a leak, I call the landlord. If the sink is dripping, I turn up the TV. I haven't the skills to graduate into full-blown monster man. My chassis can only handle menial tasks like paying the bills and eating. Any more than that and my hard drive runs out of disk space.

My lady has faith, even though I tell her that it's unfounded. I am not capable of much around the house, and I don't think I ever will be. I am far too impatient, unskilled, and sometimes drunk to fix a running toilet. Nor do I want to be. It's not my bag.

But what about this virile testosterone I'm leaving behind? It's hidden behind the spice rack next to the nutmeg and coriander. It's only fair that this natural potent cocktail be passed on to a worthy contender to be utilized to it's greatest potential at the nightclubs around town. It must be handled with caution and care, for it's capable of taking control of your life, and causing you to act in ways you normally wouldn't. Remember the car analogy? Picture a normal running car, and then dump some nitrous oxide in the carburetor. That's what you get. Once you learn to control it, you can be a sly member of society. This is not for the faint of heart, and I encourage you to approach it with caution. It's free for the taking, so give me a call if you're interested. You may have to call a few times, because I'll probably be sleeping.