How to Break Up with Your Boyfriend
All good things come to an end. But it’d be weird to think that good things have a monopoly on ending; shitty things end too, only with those it’s usually down to you to call them off.
If your boyfriend has become a shitty thing in your life, then it’s time to tourniquet that creep. Here’s how to do it in seven easy steps (each of them inspired by the good people at WikiHow).
STEP 1. MAKE SURE YOU WANT TO BREAK UP WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND
A feeling of utter disgust in his presence; avoiding his kisses; rolling your eyes at his jokes; creating arguments out of thin air about how fucking much you hate soup just so he leaves you alone. If two or more of these things sound like you right now, then it’s time you made a break. It’s one thing to split up with someone, it’s another to carpet bomb all their happy memories of young love with the image of you screaming at them in the street because they had the gall to make you minestrone for “dinner.”
If you’re still not sure, think long and hard: What are his most annoying habits? Everyone has their own irritation threshold. Maybe you’d kick a sweet guy to the curb just because he occasionally picks his nose; maybe for you it takes more, like him “sleepwalking” into your roommates’ bed after a heavy midweek FIFA session.
There are a billion reasons to break up with someone. The main thing to get straight in your head is whether or not that reason really matters to you. Be selfish; the world is a lonely place and it’s about to turn cold and grey again. Before you commit to being alone this winter, you should be 100 percent certain that you hate your boyfriend’s guts.
Dungarees, jacket and T-shirt from Beyond Retro, choker by Freedom at Topshop
STEP 2. MAKE YOUR BOYFRIEND THINK BREAKING UP WAS HIS IDEA
Now that you’ve made your decision, it’s time to make him think it was really his all along. Maybe he “hasn’t been happy for ages anyway,” maybe you’re “about to undergo genital warts removal surgery,” maybe he’s simply “too good” for you.
Turn those arguments into a brief speech, write it down and take it with you wherever you go so that you can memorise it while you’re on the bus or busy “clearing your head” with vodka in your favorite out-of-town friend’s bedroom.
How Guys Should Greet Each Other in 2014
I am a young man, and with daily regularity, I move through a metropolitan area. In this area, there are tons of people that I don’t know. A smaller number of these people I actually do know personally, but in varying degrees.
Greeting women isn’t all that complex: I kiss my female friends on the cheek, I usually greet my girlfriend with a kiss on the lips and women who insist on a hug, I usually greet with a bow.
Greeting men, on the other hand, is more complicated. Men from different social classes greet each other in different ways. Since a greeting is a form of contact that implies a first meeting (be it ever, or just on that particular day), discussing the means of greeting your counterpart properly beforehand is basically impossible. Which is why shit like the gif above happens every day.
These clumsy ways of greeting other males from different backgrounds catch me off guard every once in a while. So, to avoid further embarrassment, I have summed up some of the most popular greetings, complete with gifs and guidelines on how to pull them off successfully—as well as the mortifying pitfalls of fucking them up.
HOW TO DO IT RIGHT:
It’s completely natural to forget somebody’s name, so don’t worry about that. But do remember that every time you avoid eye contact during a handshake, somewhere on the planet a panda nursery explodes.
The moment: Self-explanatory. First introductions and formal occasions.
Do shake: Fathers-in-law, dentists and undertakers.
Don’t shake: Exes. That classmate you used to scavenge 7-Eleven with after school in search of rolling papers and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.
Here Are More Reasons Why Girls Should Only Have Anal Sex
After my two-year-old butt sex article went viral recently for some weird, perverted reason, I decided to look it over again. Upon review, I was absolutely horrified. Not because of what I had written, but what I’d forgotten to mention. There are so many better, more obvious reasons why girls should literally only have anal sex and nothing else. I’m sorry for being so neglectful. It was truly an irresponsible disposal on my account, focusing solely on sensory delight and passivity—in reality, there are far more relevant reasons why every female ought to be prohibited from all sexual acts excluding anal intercourse.
They are as follows:
Never mind the purely selfish reasons why you wouldn’t want a human larva ruining your life—let’s look at this from a socio-environmental standpoint. The human population is expected to reach 8 billion by the year 2025. We have no way to feed all of these people, and what would we do with the sewage if we could? Even now, with 7 billion people on Earth, more than 200 million tons of human waste goes untreated every year.
Think about that before you freak out over a little poop on your boyfriend’s peener. It’s a small price to pay for not living a literally shitty existence. Overpopulation is a colossal nightmare that we, as a species, can no longer physically withstand. That is exactly why anal sex is so important.
You can’t grow a baby in your ass, but you can have an orgasm if you try a little.
If girls were to engage only in anal intercourse, there would be fewer humans on Earth, and therefore less resource depletion, and perhaps a better quality of life for the rest of civilization. Only through these swollen, pulsating lips may we still find our planet hospitable. Forget those stupid solar roadways—anal sex can single-handedly lead us toward a future of sustainability and hope.
Hey, Young Person—in Case You Plan on Dying, Here’s How to Write a Will
Being in the 15–24 year old demographic is pretty freakin’ sweet. Nobody expects you to be responsible or employed, and you’re still living at home, playing Angry Birds: Star Warson the phone your parents bought you. This frees up a lot of time for unbridled drug use, alcohol poisoning, reckless driving, climbing structures that would best be left unclimbed, moshing, punching people in the head, and other stupid shit that is liable to get you killed. As a generation we’ve got the highest number of accidental deaths, by far. Mostly thanks to car accidents. Thanks.
The fact is, you’re going to die. Probably sooner rather than later. And when that happens, who do you think will get all of your wacky, vintage junk? That’s right, your lame parents. And what are they going to do with it the moment they’re done grieving? That’s right, it’s going straight in the fucking trash where it belongs, now that you’re dead.
For your pre-mortal benefit, we called up Florida estate attorney Grady H. Williams Jr., LLM, of FloridaElder.com (whose hold music was Bobby Fuller’s “I Fought the Law”) for some info about getting a will and testament set up so you’ll have one less thing to worry about while texting Aaron the story of you getting sucked while off going 90 in the Civic.
VICE: Mr. Williams, what happens to my stuff if I don’t have a will and I drive into the ocean on my scooter because I’m distracted by a Google Glass update?
Grady H. Williams Jr.: Here’s the deal: If you don’t have a will that is legally enforceable upon your death, then your state or jurisdiction has a default will for you called an intestate succession. That’s legal talk for how the state legislature thinks your property, your stuff, your legal rights should be passed upon your death, based on your marital status. If you’ve got someone like my son, for example—who as far as I know is single with no kids—if he deceases tomorrow, then his mother and I are his heirs. Whereas if he had a one-year-old child we didn’t know about, that child would become his heir.
So it’s probably important to set up a will if you don’t want your mama, baby mama, or baby baby to inherit your collection of female-bodybuilder VHS porn, or whatever.
Depending on what you’re trying to accomplish versus what your default position is, yes, it may be very important to you. On the other hand, if you don’t have anything, or if you’re perfectly happy with your parents or children or wife getting everything, that may be OK.
The VICE Guide to Berlin 2014
The German capital is one of the planet’s great party cities, where your every dream and darkest desire has been turned into a three-story nightclub with a merciless door policy. Sadly, everybody in the world knows this, so the only thing worse than the stupid fucking lines outside the clubs are the infuriating tourists within them. Here’s how to avoid pissing off the locals and convince everyone that you’re ein Berliner.
Jump to sections by using the index below:
– WHERE TO PARTY
– WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH DRUGS?
– POLITICS, PROTESTS AND JUST HOW RACIST IS EVERYONE HERE?
Legacy of the Squatters | May Day, Refugee Strikes and Neo-Nazis | Berlin’s Immigrants
– WHERE TO EAT
– WHAT DO LOCALS EAT?
– WHERE TO DRINK
– WHERE TO STAY
– LGBT BERLIN
– WHERE TO HANG OUT WHEN YOU’RE SOBER
– HOW TO AVOID GETTING RIPPED OFF AND BEATEN UP
– HOW NOT TO BE A SHITTY TOURIST
– PEOPLE AND PLACES TO AVOID
– TIPPING AND HANDY PHRASES
– A YOUTUBE PLAYLIST OF QUESTIONABLE LOCAL MUSIC
– VICE CITY MAP
Avoidsex on the beach: “Sand gets everywhere” is the cliched advice. Arguably more persuasive is the advice that, these days, so do people’s cameras.
—A Girl’s Guide to Not Being a Dick This Summer
Gym Mats are a Kitchen Necessity for Prison Meals
“You have to lay on it,” She said as she sucked methadone out of the sleeve of her pink hoodie and placed a few sandwiches in between two gym mats. Somehow, I had found myself on the bench of a jail cell learning how to spice up a frozen cheese and mayo sandwich. I had opted for the PB&J, a rookie mistake. I don’t know why I did it—I don’t even like peanut butter—and it wasn’t PB&J; it was peanut butter and honey. It was a gooey brown substance on frozen bread that resembled wheat but didn’t seem like it should be considered wheat. Was this shit gluten free?
I was going on hour twenty in prison, trying to stuff the frozen sandwich down my throat before I could taste it when she walked in. Her hair was seemingly wet with grease, her neck covered in hickies, wearing a five-sizes-too-small pink belly shirt and sneakers without laces. Her butt-crack and stomach were hanging out of her diamond-studded True Religion jeans. She came in like a storm. She was given four sandwiches from the prison guard before she entered the cell. They had a long embrace before she sat down near me. I guess she was a regular. She threw her sandwiches onto the floor and ran into the bathroom: an open toilet with a piece of wood in front of it to allow for the smallest amount of privacy possible. As we sat there, I listened to her poop and complain about accidentally dropping a cigarette in there. I stopped trying to eat my meal.
The VICE Guide to Raving
Everyone’s a raver now. “Guitar music is dead” is the kind of thing your dad says—that’s how dead it is. Now, it’s all beats and bells and whistles. The future you glimpsed in 90s movies, when everyone’s into techno and has slime-green hair, is upon us.
But while so many of us go raving, the vast majority get it wrong. Be it the drugs, the joy, the communal toilets, or the pressure not to look like a dick, we often end up looking like dicks. We eyeball the DJ, we pump our fists, we kiss Europeans, and we piss our paychecks away on booze and drugs only to throw it all up later that night.
So treat this as Raving for Dummies: a kind of self-help manual for people who can deal with week-long comedowns. Maybe it seems fascistic to tell people how to behave at an event that’s supposed to be about hedonistic release, but watch this video and you’ll understand that perhaps the new graduating class of rave enthusiants could use a bit of guidance.
This is imperative. Looking good is one of the fundamental cornerstones of youth culture; however, that’s not really the case when opting for board shorts and rape-culture-slogan T-shirts. Remember, this all-important sense of aesthetic belonging is what all great cultural movements were built upon.
Except now it isn’t. Some people still make a valiant effort, but really, how long can you spend angling your Night Slugs fitted cap? You aren’t Michael Alig or Sting in Quadrophenia; you’re just one of those guys who gets his fade shaped up once a week. The days of people doing their hair with eggs and glue, ironing their Mohair jackets, or pouring blue paint over their heads are consigned to the past.
Modern club fashion is, by and large, cozily utilitarian—easy to wear, machine-washable, and unlikely to get you attacked at Sunday recovery brunch session. Sure, it’d be great if someone did push the boat out a bit, but in what direction? People standing near repetitive beats have a shameful sartorial history of bleached dreadlocks and furry, flourescent legwarmers; if fashion had a Hague, everyone at Electric Daisy Carnival would stand trial for war crimes. So maybe it’s best to stick with the streetwear.
Photo by Marco Tulio Valencia
Sorry to break it to you, but they’re all awful and they’re all bastards. By now, every dealer realized that cutting corners isn’t going to put a dent in their customer base. Especially not when that same customer base strictly buys drugs when they’re drunk and happy to shell out $100 for some mix of boric acid, levamisole, and a cursory dose of whatever it is that they actually want to buy.