HOW TO ADULT:

1. Get an estimate to have the ugly, bubbly rust on your car repaired
2. Contain your flinching instinct when you get the original ballpark number
3. Head from there to get your oil changed
4. Remember to bring your coupon
5. Refrain from awkwardly flirting with the nerdy straight guy with the ugly shoes in the waiting room
6. Refrain from super-embarrassingly giggling and flipping your hair when you talk to the super-cute guy behind the counter
7. Head from there to the gym for the first time in over two months
8. Make up for all that lost time and all those atrophied muscles in one workout*
9. Sign an international supermodel contract*
10. Read the fine print

* delusions may vary

A letter to one future husband

Dear Boy-Next-Door-Handsome-But-Also-Holy-Shit-Alarmingly-Handsome Dude At The Gym Who Looks Like A Young Keanu Reeves But More Meet-The-Parents-Respectable With One Of Those Sharp-Edged Haircuts And A Degree In Maybe Applied Biochemistry Or Entrepreneurial Public Policy Or Conversational Latin Or Something Equally Impressive That You Got On A Non-Threateningly-Hot Supermodel Scholarship At A Small But Not Elitist College Where You Also No Doubt Selflessly Fostered Ugly Puppies And Tirelessly Tutored Dead Children: Even though I was studiously not noticing you so as not to appear twice-your-age creepy, you made my night when you not only noticed me but also ASKED ME TO SPOT YOU.

Also: When I said “that’s quite an impressive feat, dude” about you benching 90-lb. dumbbells, that was just me showing you how witheringly awkward I am capable of being around non-threateningly-hot supermodels.

Also: Not that I noticed, but let’s talk about how we can fix that problem with your missing wedding ring.

Bitch Kit Trip Tych

Three things:

1. I got measured and X-rayed and gross-stuff-teeth-molded this afternoon for a dental device that’s supposed to alleviate my sleep apnea and finally LET ME GET A DAMN NIGHT’S SLEEP. I hate to brag—oh, let’s not kid ourselves ... I TOTALLY love to brag—but one of the measurements the doctor took today was qualified as Class 1. I’m CLASS ONE, PEOPLE.

2. Then I went to physical therapy for my damn hip. The PT videotaped my running gait and then slowed it down to analyze it, and it turns out my running stride defaults to my legs crossing over in front of each other like I’m dominating a Paris runway like an uberfierce supermodel. (That last bit of imagery may or may not have been mine and not the PT’s.) In any case, I apparently now need to focus on running with a And gait that keeps my feet under my shoulders. WHICH FEELS LIKE I’M PLAYING HOPSCOTCH ON THE BED OF A MOVING HAY TRUCK. This is going to take some effort.

3. I’m starting to get the feeling that trump is a lying, delusional, kick-in-the-ballsworthy piece of donkey shit.

SUP?

I'm having new headshots taken a week from today and I'm growing my scruff back so we can try some manly shots and then I'll quickly shave and we can try some more shots with me covered in bloody razor nicks. Then I'll have to face the profound life decision of which international modeling contract to sign.

Also: I'm perfecting my international model pout.

Sexy level: WOKE

1. How on earth did I manage to cut my forehead taking a shower this morning?
2. Does anyone have a comb I could borrow?
3. Or a weed whacker?
4. I am not a human mustache. STOP. OBJECTIFYING. ME.
5. Should I follow my dreams to become a teen model or be in a boy band?
6. Teen model. I'm probably too cookie-cutter dreamy to be in a boy band and I'd hate to get stuck singing backup with my androgynously non-threatening boy-band clones.
7. If Tom Selleck calls asking who stole his sex appeal, tell him I'm not here.
8. Ditto for Burt Reynolds.
9. By the way, "Cop and a Half" ruined both of our careers. I will never forgive him for that.
10. Seriously: soap + water. What part of that equation caused me to cut my forehead?

Headwound World

I'm back at work after my whirlwind vacation at Headwound World. I'm wearing my new coat from Mom, my new shirt from me and my old backup glasses, which are embarrassingly eight years out of date and have a bad habit of sliding right off my nose and toppling onto whatever I'm doing. Fortunately, we have yet to encounter this problem in the bathroom.

One caveat: if you are an international supermodel applying to make out with me, please note that my upper right lip -- which I almost completely bit through at Headwound World -- is still rather swollen and quite painful and is preventing me from doing a thorough job of brushing the front of my upper right teeth. Please complete your Jake Make-Out Application Packet as usual but -- if you are approved for the program -- you'll now have to allow up to five minutes beforehand for me to find a mint. We assure you this situation is temporary and we regret any inconvenience this may cause you. Thank you for your consideration.

The celebrity curse: Day One

My first full day of being a celebrity is winding down ... and let me tell you, it's been EXHAUSTING. The press tours! The autograph hounds! The paparazzi!

Actually, the magazine hit Chicago-area mailboxes on Saturday -- so I've really been a celebrity for three full days. I just didn't know it. So I've decided to measure the demands of my celebrityhood from the moment someone thrust the magazine in my face at Monday morning's staff meeting to show me the grotesque photo and misleading profile that have my name on them.

Here's how it's shaken down so far:

WORK
People I encountered: I think we have about 200 employees
People who've made comments: About all of them -- but that's only because of the office gossip network

THE GYM
People I encountered: Not too many -- maybe 20
People checking out my famous ass in the shower: None

THE TRAIN HOME
People I encountered: I was able to get a seat, so maybe about 50
People who fought to sit by me and cop a feel: None

SUPERCUTS
People I encountered: 10
People demanding haircuts inspired by my famous mane: None

THE LAKEFRONT TRAIL
People I encountered: Tons, but I was too busy focusing on getting in four miles before the sun went down to count
People hiding in the bushes and snapping photos of me to sell to the Sun-Times: None

SIDETRACK
People I encountered: A whole bunch -- it was show tune night, you know
People staring hungrily at me as they sang "One (Singular Sensation)": None

MY BEDROOM
People I encountered: Just me
Supermodels showing up at my door in nothing but towels, demanding that I kiss them: None

THE 147 MORNING BUS
People I encountered: Standing room only
People craning their necks to see exactly what a glamorous celebrity listens to on his iPod: None

CALIFORNIA PIZZA KITCHEN
People I encountered: The place was about half full
People walking by our booth and stealing surreptitious glances as they basked in my celebrity glow: None

MY INBOX
People able to reach me via the email address the magazine set up for me: Infinite
People who've crafted seductive e-poems in celebration of my shining famousness: None

As you can see, I've developed a true empathy for my fellow celebrities today. Keeping up with the constant demands for my attention -- not to mention keeping myself photo-shoot pretty at all times -- can really take its toll. I don't know how Julia Roberts and Gilbert Gottfried do it.

I'll be back tomorrow with more tales from the front. In the mean time, duck if you see me. The crowds can be vicious.