I’m a firm believer in the notion that making out doesn’t count — it’s kind of like saying nice to meet you… but with tongue. Not everyone agrees with me. Some of my friends are like, ohmigod, you hooked up with that weird guy who has been lurking around the party and has no rhythm! Then I’m like, yeah, but he had cool pants and I didn’t want to be rude. I mean, my parents raised me to be polite. What’s more polite than some casual lip–biting? Because of this, I’ve totally mastered the art of the dance floor make out — or DFMO — but at this point I think I’m less of an artist and more of an addict. I’ve experienced my fair share of good kissers, bad kissers, kissers who think they’re God’s gift to humanity (most of the time, they’re not), emotional kissers, detached kissers. Really, it doesn’t get old. Make outs are like saliva–filled snowflakes, no two are the same. Also, they can occasionally get you wet. Most of my friends make excuses for their DFMOs. They say, but he bought me a drink! Or, he’s from Long Island! I’m over making excuses. I’m indiscriminate. Most of the time, I don’t even want your name — although if it’s something totally unique then by all means. Sometimes my hobby gets me in trouble — what I might call “being friendly” other people might call “cheating” or “inappropriate behavior.” The way I see it, plenty of people shake hands. I’m just… shaking hands with my lips. My friends always ask me, “How do you not feel so awkward the next day?” I just tell them that sometimes you have to sacrifice the ability to feel awkward for the experience. I’ve even made up this great game for my walks down Locust­ — meenie meenie minie moe, with which of you did I DFMO? But I guess it can get awkward for other people. Sometimes your DFMOs have feelings. Sometimes you make out with someone sober and it’s actually a thing. I prefer to always keep it simple — you say hey, I say hey, maybe we dance a little bit, maybe you quote Hunter S. Thompson like a pretentious douche bag­ — then we make out. It’s fun while it lasts, but it never lasts too long. Maybe someday I'll get over my make–out obsession. Til' then, see you on the dance floor.

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