Well, Dicks.

Why is it that for me, calling a stranger takes more energy and courage from me than jumping off a cliff. I am sitting in front of my phone, staring at a number of a woman to call in L.A. going over 10,000 different ways to handle the conversation. I'm not the pushiest of boys. I'm more of the "I'll let the waiter bring me the wrong drink order and then never tell them and convince myself that a Shirley Temple is fine even though I just needed a free glass of water after wandering around the desert all day," kind of boy. I'm going to do it.

I am.

Oh God, my back is sweating.

Here I go.

Fuck, get all burps out first.

And going...

Uh-huh...Uh-huh...Yeah, I've deduced that I have Tourette's when placed in uncomfortable situations. Maybe a selective form of West Coast Tourette's where "awesome, totally, and dude" seem to be the most professional words I can purge from my collegiate vocabulary. At least I left "hella," and all other "go-to-words" I use when I can't think of anything to say, on the back burner. I'm sure someone hearing "Yeah Hi I'm Riley...I got your number from...uh...fuckinnggggg...shit..shit shit shit shit. fuckity fuckwaller..Richard! Oh yeah I got your number from Richard!" well...you get the point. I'm halfway there.