By Jon Weidman

This column is all about common sense: “logic.” It’s about taking a deep, mid-week breath and pursuing answers to the truly important questions of modern existence. For example: Can a poor 25-year-old get laid?

Since last week’s entry, I’ve officially taken the plunge into quarter-centuryhood—a reality that’s sure to involve some downside, but, on the upside, has led to my self-appointment as your Common Sense Spirit Guide. It’s also inspired me to focus on a new, uncommon sense: “maturity.”

That’s right. I’m 25, so I’m mature now. That’s how it works.

As such, I polled my closest friends about the number one question they’d want a “mature” person to answer. The suggested queries were as diverse as the group itself. Luckily, maturity is a gift that can be parceled out and distributed to those in need. And thankfully, I’ve done just that:

How do you know when to move in with and/or propose to your girlfriend?

Whoa whoa whoa. Fucking whoa. You’re talking to a guy who freaks out at the idea of spending two nights in a row with a girl, and you want me to advise you on when to move in together? Share a home? Eat out of the same cereal box? Shit in the same toilet? Are you out of your fucking mind?

That’s what I would have said when I was 24.

Now that I’m 25, I’ve accepted that girls poop, and that sometimes it makes complete fiscal sense to share rent and living expenses with a human being whom you did not meet through Craigslist (or maybe you did). The question of when to take this wonderfully romantic plunge is a good one.

First thing to consider: Are you comfortable with the idea of marrying this person? Because once you cohabit, you’re on a walking escalator towards the Next Big Step. You don’t get to slow things down, scale back the relationship, take a mulligan. I’d like to keep dating you, but please move out. That doesn’t happen. If you’re going to move in together, you’d better damn well be looking ahead and feel comfortable with what you see.

The other thing to consider is less lofty, more logistical: Is moving in with this person going to improve—or at least not destroy—your life? Are you compatible in all the seemingly innocuous areas that can make or break the typical nonromantic roommate relationship? Are her flaws quirky and tolerable, or grating and obscene? Does she nag at exactly the wrong times? Do you like the same music? Does she know not to ask what kind of music you like? Is the bottom of her bathtub covered with whatever that shit is that only covers the bottoms of girls’ bathtubs?

By all means, when the time is right, move in together. Just don’t be naïve about bathroom grout.

Is Schoolboy Q actually talented, or do his songs just sound good?

If Schoolboy Q makes music, and the music consistently sounds good, doesn’t that make him a talented musician?

A big part of “maturity” is learning to accept things at face value—to avoid overanalyzing, overcomplicating, putting words in mouths, and thinking too hard about shit that’s not worth thinking too hard about. Music is subjective and made up of many moving parts. But any musician with sustained success is by definition talented in some way, even if their talent is crafting a sound that appeals to the lowest common denominator—something pop haters want to believe is easy.

So yes, because his “songs” sound good, and not just “song,” Schoolboy Q is talented.

How do people so easily forget what they hated about their bosses when they themselves become a boss?

This is, sadly, the easiest question to answer so far. Because during those moments when your boss is behaving at some sadistic subhuman level and your hatred is sizzling like overmicrowaved cheese, the sad truth is that he hasn’t forgotten anything about his own traumatic subordinate moments. He just doesn’t give a fuck. He is very, scarily, self-aware.

But I ask you… have you ever managed an intern? Because this abhorrent self-awareness is something you might have festering inside of you as well.

When your boss really mercilessly unloads on you—whether via passive aggressive email or spittle-in-face or whatever—it means two things:

1. He’s been there. He’s been mercilessly unloaded upon, made to feel unimportant or unconsidered or incompetent, probably cried all over his laptop at three in the morning just like you. Unlike you, he proved himself (at the very least, in his own mind) tough enough to get through it, thrive, and grow into a Justifiable Asshole. This inspires zero empathy, and in fact causes him to evaluate you and your work in a totally unsympathetic vacuum, because:

2. You are not a human being. Not to the Justifiable Asshole. You are a sum total of results. And you are either in the positive and contributing to his maintenance and intensification of JA privileges or you are in the negative and threatening to put him in a position where he might be accountable for his own attitude.

You can’t win. Until you’re him.

Should you spend more time thinking about the future or the past?

Neither, both are terrifying. Fold past lessons and future consequences into the present tense, and only think about right now.

When will getting hard get hard?

Jesus what a question. Major reason why you shouldn’t think about the past or future.* There’s nothing more faith-rattling than not being able to get it up and there’s nothing scarier than thinking about a time when that will occur frequently.

Just appreciate what your body can do right now. There’ll be drugs for later…

*Except when it comes to this column, in which case you should already be looking forward to next Wednesday, when I will grace you with “Humpday Logic: Mature Answers, Part II.”

Featured image courtesy of wowowall

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