OMGLOLX

Seven

2004-11-26T10:43:00.000-08:00

"How can anyone feel numb," I ask the turtle. "If numbness is lack of capability to feel?"

The little green animal makes a snorting sound before humping the food bowl in its cage. Between chewing it says, "Todd my friend, meet Oxymoron. Oxymoron, here's my dim-witted human assistant. He's really just you without the oxygen."

I tell it that it isn't funny and it commends my powers of observation. That's when I deprive it of it's food bowl, after tugging at it while flippers try to pour as much food pellets out of the bowl. Between the swearing and name-calling I e-mail the skeleton. Was it you who flashed me the thumbs-up, was it you at the park?

"Why don't you just ask him if he's murdered someone recently huh?"

"Shut up and eat." I say.

The turtle says, "Yeah what? The soil?"

I cover it with the food bowl.

Between the muffled vulgar spits I instant-message Calista, reassuring her it's okay. It could have been us, she says. Maybe we shouldn't go back to the park, maybe they might come back for us. "Maybe they were trying to protect me." I don't tell her.

This is violence for you. Straight-up, vanilla and right in your face. Forget the shit you see on TV, forget the canned blade-in-watermelon sound effects, the fake blood, real stabbing doesn't even come close. Firstly, it will happen too fast for you to react. There is no "oh shit" moment where you see the blade glinting in the light for a second before it plunges into flesh.

It happens. Then you deal with it.

Then there's blood; no it never always sprays. Blood hardly sprays, unless you know where to cut. Besides, there isn't a lot of major arteries in the head. There's the temporal artery, which forks like a tree around your head, the inner ophthalmic atery linking your ear to your eye, going down we have the facial artery from your checks to your nose area and the lingual artery near your chin. Not the mention the various veins and countless blood vessels all around.

From the way the blade went through, it probably hit a lot of blood carrying tubes. Oh and another thing, eye sockets do not bleed. They are sockets for holding your eyeballs. They are not plugs holding gushing blood from inside your head.

Noses and mouths, on the other hand, do expel blood. Frequently. Even when you don't have knifes going through your skull. The ateries carry fresh red blood. The veins hold dark, thicker liquid. You kinda get a slightest mix when both of them are leaking out the same orifice.

You have no idea how many doctors are closet perverts. Professionalism is a muffled groan of pleasure inside a bathroom stall.

The turtle lies by the upright bowl, food pellets scattered all over the place. It looks smug. "From what I recall, superheroes don't kill every single criminal." It says.

I tell it that I never laid a hand on the deceased and sneezed. Again. The turtle shifts its beady eyes toward the closed window. "There's trapped dust all stuck inside you don't want to release," it says and yawns. Crawling back under its rock, it continues, "People die from this things."

Sneaking suspicion there that it's not talking about the window and my room already but I ignore it. There are more pressing matters at hand.

An alert sounds from my chatroom program.

Yeah, I just remember I was supposed to meet a certain lesbian.

Six

2004-11-09T22:09:00.000-08:00

The autumn park is serene and the sun has just peeked out of the horizon.The lake is a sheet of navy blue. In front of me sit a painting of tranquility, every single stroke delicately made by Nature's hand. This is the moment between dusk and dawn. The moment when alarm clocks are ringing. When people get up for another copy of yesterday.

Yesterday, Calista and me were on the exact bench we are sitting on right now. She was digging through the bag of our products, counting the cans and scribbling notes directly onto the clipboard. Paper's like a good friend. Never there when you need them.

I just watch her.

I watch her intense concentration on her stock-checking. I watch her brows furrow as she miscounts. I watch her bend down, her loose blouse drops precariously until --- she puts a hand to hold it back up. "This is a beautiful sight," I tell her.

"I'm sure it is, with you being so free and all," she says, tossing a defective can off into the grass, not even watching where it landed. "Why don't you do the stock-checking for once and I can stare at the lake and give stupid comments about how beautiful it is?"

"I was talking about you."

Pause. Broken record playing.

"Whatever." She says., still sitting and bent down to do her work.

Oh, black. Bra. Cute, I think and right at that moment, she looks up, horrified expression on her face. Great, busted.

But she is staring away from me. I turn to see two figures in a distance, one clearly bigger and more muscular the other smaller and more shapely. The bigger one is holding the other from behind, one hand over her waist and the other covering her mouth. Smaller Figure's arms is swatting wildy at her attacker.

Whatever I am looking at, it cannot be good. "Todd! Do something!" Calista says.

Oh, right. "Superhero," I hear the turtle say in my head, rolling its eyes.

O-kay. Cue my theme song.

I step up and stride towards the struggling mess that is probably a rape attempt in progress. Or maybe they were just playing, having fun. Early in a park when nobody's really awake yet, still thumbing snooze buttons and grunting while rolling around in bed.

The turtle in my head says something rude and I say "Oh yeah fuck you."

You know moments when you unintentionally say something out loud when you didn't mean to? I don't. Not until right now anyway. I have Bigger Figure's attention.

I am close enough to see a large, unshaved bear of a person holding a petite not-so-good-looking girl in place. The bigfoot in human disguise looks at me, arms still locked around his victim whose body is limp already. She slides down from his grasps and the hairy creature that might look human if he actually shaved drops the chlorofoam cloth. His other hand reaches behind and slowly pulls out a long metallic piece that looks suspiciously like a blade.

It probably is.

"Fuck," I say and I hear Calista gasp somewhere behind me.

So, this is how it's going to end. A bloody tragedy right beside a picturesque, calm lake. Welcome to Victim'sVille, population: mangled Todd and two cum-soaked stabbed victims. This is all you've lived for, 22 years just for this single moment when a large hobo stabs you before work. Good job.

Doctor Rapist with a blade and I do the mandatory staredown between the villain and the hero. That's when I should say something smart and execute some killer moves and him and take my two damsels in distress and ride off into the sunlight. In a perfect perfect world. Someone's about to stab me and all I can think off right now is girls and the fact that I totally forgot to feed the turtle this morning.

He takes one step forward. And never had a chance with the two people that suddenly leaped onto his back. "You fucking pervert!" One shouts, and drives a fist into the back of bear-man's skull.

The combined weight of the two ambushers drops Doctor Rapist to the ground in a perfect faceplant and a dull crack to go along. That nose is probably going to need some work. The blade slides, spins and clatters a few feet away. Ambusher One continues his fist pummeling. Ambusher Two moves for the blade.

Calista screams.

And somewhere in between that scream, a 10-inch long stilleto is driven into a man's skull.

So, this is how it's ends for the Doctor. A bloody tragedy right beside a picturesque, calm lake. Welcome to Victim'sVille, population: hairy man with long blade through his skull and exiting from his chin. This is all he lived for, his entire life just waiting for that single moment where two attackers you can't even see kills you before you stick your dick into some underaged pussy. Good job.

I stare. The two attackers pause for a moment, deer in headlights, looking at me. One of them flashes me a thumbs up and both take off.

"Goddammit Todd they KNOW YOU?!"

I don't know, Calista, I don't know them at all. And I tell her that.

This is the moment between dusk and dawn. The moment when alarm clocks are ringing. When people get up for another copy of yesterday. When young girls who go out to jog get chlorofoamed and has their would-be sperm-donor creamed by two random crazy guys. What a fucked up morning, something at the back of my head says.

We stand beside a work of art by Nature. We stand beside a painting of tranquility. We stand beside a bloody mess on the ground and I have Calista crying on my shoulder. Strangely, all that I can think of is the guy who flashed me a thumbs up reminds me of a skeleton.

Five

2004-10-31T03:33:00.000-08:00

My nose is itching and the inevitable happens.

"The window," the turtle sings. "It's just five feet away from you goddamit."

I swear, I should but I ignore it and strain my already heavy eyes on the screen. When you are tired there's really no way of refusing your body. Well, almost no way. Unless you're trying to save the world.

The digital clock read out says "3.33am" and I say "Fuck."

If you have never seen a common turtle roll it's eyes before don't say anything. Just shut up. Don't say it's not possible, because it just happened.

Coffee would be really good now, I say to myself. The day job only gets me enough for the rent. For everything else I rely on selling my personal collection of comics. Dad's comics really. The heater's been out for a week now and I am just waiting for the landlady to find me frozen to death beside a small turtle screaming for food.

Really now, I would like nothing more than to curl up in my bed, I swear. My shift is over anyway and it's 3 more names on the list of perverts. I cannot though. Not when I am having a very different catch today.

This time when it happens I don't even realise it. It's only when the turtle starts swearing again and I realise my boxers are sticky with snot that I figured it out. "What do you think your 'crime-fighting' is going to change? Years later when you're dead and gone are people going to sing songs about you? Are people going to draw comics after you? No Todd..." And I block it out.

"so you mean u actually spend time doing this? like helping people in sex chat rooms?" The lesbian says.

I type yes.

This is after I tried to save her and then tell her that I am actually really a guy. "Yeah right," The tiny shelled green creature in the plastic cage says. "You sure about that man? Trying to save her?"

This is after we talked to each other for almost 5 hours straight. 5 hours of dry humor and intelligent conversation.

This is also after she typed out to me what she did in detail with her girlfriends. This is after I lost control. The Dark Knight kills. Superman goes rogue. Ring the bell. Sound the alarms. Red alert red alert. With a quick handbrush the stained wad of tissue paper tumbles to some uncharted corner of the room. No doubt it will turn up days later when I hunt for my keys.

Look I am human too.

I'm just out to find the better part of me. It's not easy to be me.

She tells me I am an interesting person. That I am probably really cute in person. The turtle laughs like a maniac and scuttles under its rock. I tell her that I have never had a conversation so long with someone before and I am not lying. Why is that all the cool girls turn to homosexuality?

She tells me we should meet up. I remind her of someone she knows.

Hold my breath. Yeah, just like that - tightly. I swear my blood stops pumping for a second. My eyes are fixed on the text. This is story about a boy and girl who met on the Internet. This is a cheap replacement for going out to look for girls. Not that I am looking or anything of that sort. From the darkness beneath the rock in the plastic cage, the turtle says, "Oh yeah dude, she could be bi. That's what you are really hoping for."

I tell it to shut up and refuse her.

"You have talent dude, though I hate telling you this," the turtle is saying. "The word I am looking for is charismatic. Just to put you back down to earth, I was referring to the way you talk. Your looks leave much to be desired."

"You make me all warm and fuzzy inside." I tell it.

"oh come on," the lesbian is going. "it'll be fun."

I say I don't even know her name.

"makes it more fun doesn't it?" She says.

"Anything to change my life right?" I ask the turtle.

Snoring.

Even Superman went rogue. It's not easy to be me and I relent. She tells me we will meet at Denny's in the evening. It is fine with me.

Superheroes have to have a love interest. This is how the story gets exciting really. What easier way for the hero to demonstrate his gung-ho manliness than to have him dive through a glass roof to save the damsel in distress? And this is another panel. Another thought bubble. This is issue 5 of the Life of Todd Parkis and in this panel we see him contemplating about meeting this mysterious woman he knows nothing about.

What adventures will await him?

How will she look like?

Will it turn out with a happy ending?

Stay tuned to the next issue!

Four

2004-10-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

Many people tell me they would like to fuck my sister. The one they know as Jennifer. As Sharon. As Kathy. The one they know who is dead from a sudden accident that never happened.

What they do not know is that she only exists as my disguise. What they do know is that I am her brother, and they are very grateful to Jennifer. To Sharon. To Kathy.

Their lives have been changed, they tell me. All these people, your neighbours, your car salesmen, your teachers, have had their direction in life turned 180 degrees.

I quickly close my laptop when the group of three teenagers brush by me. It's something about people noticing you in a sex chatroom in a public cafe and the awkwardness that ensues. It's also something about protecting my secret identity.

The person I am waiting for is taking his own sweet time. And my turtle is bored. "I'm goddamn bored," it says.

People are asking me for photographs of my sister. They are asking me because they want to see the face of the person who gave them hope and life.

I tell them that she has never taken a photo before in her entire short life. They buy it. Because my word is gospel.

Then I sell them my comics. And they buy them. Because my word is gospel.

"You know, Todd," the turtle says. "Have you ever considered the fact that you might be gay?"

Public cafes are so cold now because they want you to order another cup of warm coffee. I already had three. I look at the turtle in disgust. "If I was," I say. "I would get into beastiality and screw your tiny hole until you bleed."

I quickly take a long sip from my coffee and burn my tongue. It's something about people noticing you talk about deviant sexual acts and the awkwardness that ensues. It's also something about me talking to a turtle.

"hi i gt 2 numbers frm a 9 and a 10 today!" Someone says.

I tell him, good for you.

A self-fulfilling prophecy is when you repeat something enough times to yourself, it actually happens. This is what I made all my perverts do. Re-run after re-run after re-run until they actually believe they are their own gods. Ironically now, they all believe in Jennifer. In Sharon. In Kathy. In me.

"Christ dude that's nasty." The turtle says. "You are one sick individual you know that?"

These days I tend to question my sanity a lot more often. It is one thing to talk to your pet, it is another if it replies to your threats of beastiality. I need confirmation. I need to know that the turtle is really not just a voice in my head. That is why I need to show a random pervert my turtle.

"Do you REALLY see him?" I ask the thin male across the table after telling him that there's a turtle inside.

He has a head that looks like someone just stretched skin over a skull and his 80s Metallica T-shirt hangs from a pair of clothes-hanger shoulders. After hundreds of lines of mental repitition and I still cannot convince myself that this guy is someone I saved.

This sickly, pale skeleton says, "Yeah I do. He's right there. In the cage."

"Are you telling me yes just because I told you there's a turtle in the cage?"

"No," the cancer patient says and points a long slim appendage that could pass for a finger in the direction of my turtle. "It's right there, I see it."

"I swear," I tell him. "Don't fib."

He crosses his heart and hopes to die. And then breaks into a monologue of thanks and gratitude on how I saved his love life and he is going after an old flame. I tell him to change his image and please, exercise. I tell him not to look like he's about to die. I tell him that he can have my VitaJuice if he likes.

Another sip of coffee too fast burns my tongue again. The animated pile of bones asks for my sister's picture and he says if he was still the "old pervert self he would surely fuck the hell out of Sharon Parkis."

Sharon would be very happy to hear that I tell him.

The skeleton says, "I would have never thought you looked like that. Is it really true that you have a new girl every day?"

I point to the cage. "Look, there is a turtle in there. I am going to ask you one more time. Do you see it?"

"Yes."

Then I sell him some of my comics. And he buys them. Because my word is gospel.

Three

2004-10-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

It is at that moment when Calista bends down in front of me to fish the can of VitaJuice out of the paper bag that I see she is not wearing any underwear. And it is at that moment that I pop a huge boner in my tight slacks.

All right in front of the elderly woman whom we are trying to sell the health drink to.

I try not to look at Calista's firm behind, which is about 2 feet away from my groin. She is still busy finding a sample can in the bag. I say to the yellow wrinkled bag of skin that is our customer, "Will you hold on a moment please. We are having technical difficulties."

I smile and notice the old sack of skin and bones is wearing a translucent nightgown. My tightness becomes flaccid and decides to take a permanent vacation there and then.

The prune stands like a statue, lips puckered out like a child. Her eyes dart from me to Calista and back again and her hands grip tightly onto the sides of her door. She is not buying any of our shit, I tell myself. I tell this to myself with every customer.

Here we are, me and Calista, another day of travel and lies. Smile, because that is the key to successful door-to-door salesmanship. They forgot to mention the lack of opportunities to do that with the door slamming in your face more times than you can count.

"There it is!" Calista says, triumphantly holding up the can. She plucks out the tab and the liquid inside bubbles and hisses as carbon dioxide screams freedom.

This is a society where ingesting liquids replaces lost youth.

Our customer, who looks like she just crawled out of a coffin, eyes the can of VitaJuice suspiciously. She looks at it the way a child looks at broccoli. "Is this carbonated?" She asks. "My doctor says I can't take carbonated drinks. It gives me poo-poos."

Calista giggles, then quickly puts several fingertips on her lips when the cadaver is not laughing.

Smile, because that is the key to successful door-to-door salesmanship. Because a smile can make the customer feel closer to you and score you a deal and cure cancer in the mean time.

"Why of course not madam!" I say. "VitaJuice is made from all natural fruit extracts and herbs and does not contain any preservatives what so ever. It keeps your skin succulent and young and guarantees a radiant new look!"

After the first two, every other subsequent customer becomes re-run after re-run after re-run. Every line becomes a narrative from a script written in the manual into your head. A self-fulfilling prophecy is when you repeat something enough times to yourself, it actually happens. After hundreds of re-runs and I still cannot tell myself that I am selling this to benefit the customer.

Calista gives me a look. Her large brown eyes flash with anger. Calista, I try to say with my mind. Don't screw this one up again. Please, just shut up.

Then I say, "You know, this would make a great gift for your grandchildren."

After the customer's door closes and we're 2 cartons down and a little richer, Calista asks me why I lied. Her long red hair sweeps about as she tries to explain to me how cheating old people is unethical. I ignore her and move all our stuff to the back of her truck.

Here we are, Calista and me, another day of travel and lies. Of smiling and door-to-door salesmanship.

Calista starts the engine and we tear down the street to another.

This is my job. This is me fibbing for my employers so that they earn more money. This is me replacing them and getting paid shit for it. A society of cheap replacements. And Calista is right down here, right at the bottom of this shitty jobhole with me.

"Did I ever tell you that you look like Mary-Jane Watson?" I tell her, and I am not lying.

"Why is it that I have to listen to your Batman talks when I'm driving?"

I say, "Spiderman. And because you don't let me drive."

I steal another glance at her while she's not looking. Nice rack, I swear. Accentuated only by the tight halter-neck. Then I think of the people I'm saving. The lonely, desperate men. And I think, Todd, you're better than that. You're their Dark Knight. You brought them out of their misery.

A self-fulfilling prophecy is when you repeat something enough times to yourself, it actually happens. After hundreds of perverts saved and I still cannot tell myself to stop imagining Calista spread eagle over my bed.

I am their Dark Knight, I think. Their hero.

"Dude," the turtle would say. "We both know better. Even Superman went rogue."

Two

2004-10-24T22:22:00.000-07:00

Today is a fictitious day in the fictitious life of a fictitious person. Another page. Another panel. This is another speech bubble in the grand scheme of things. And I am another superhero saving more lives again.

The glowing LCD screen is the only source of light in the dust saturated room. The turtle squints its tiny little eyes to read the text on screen. Don't I ever get tired of doing this, it asks, sounding very bored. It crawls back and forth on the soil and with a sigh drops into the water. I ignore it. I swear, crime-fighting is never boring.

This is another panel. Another speech bubble. "Who will save the world if I don't?" I say.

Bubbling. Tiny flippers pushing itself around.

All these people in the room I am in, all these are innocents waiting to be saved. They are potential villains. They are the unwilling forces of evil. I am their Dark Knight, their saviour. It is a wonderful feeling. This is another panel. And what we are seeing on it right now is a chatroom, full of people and noise.

Imagine a college party, with all the pounding music and laughing and whatnot. Now take that noise and put it through a megaphone. Then amplify it. This is another chatroom. Another ship in the sea of the Internet.

I do not have to say anything. The private messages are already rolling in.

"hey baby asl?," One says.

The other says, "25/m/fl u?"

I say "Hi 18/f/cali let's chat." to all of them.

This is my crime-fighting suit: the Internet. A cheap replacement.

"Dude," the turtle, out of the water, says. "This is a society of cheap replacements. This is a society where people use electrical signals over face-to-face communication, where people would fly a plane in a simulation over an aviation course. This is a society where people fight crime over the Internet."

I ignore it.

Someone says, "wanna cyber?"

I ask him, why does he want to do that. It is my opening line. Thing is, on a typical chatroom the number of males will outweigh the number of females even by one or two. On a chatroom devoted to sex, the number of males will far exceed the number of females. We are talking desperate, lonely guys here. We are talking cybersex. We are talking typing phrases like "I am sliding my smooth silky hands all over your hard hot dick" for each other to get off.

This is a society where sex is replaced by text on screen on a Sunday night.

The someone says, "cuz imma horny 4 u babe. wat u wearing nw?"

I tell him not so fast buster. We should talk first. I ask him about his life. His job. It is how I fight crime. Thing is, on a typical chatroom males would do anything to please females. They will listen to them, with vague promises of sex and/or a relationship. This is how I save people.

All these men, they are lonely. They are desperate. They are utterly pathetic. And they are your neighbours, your car salesmen, your teachers. They are the people you see everyday. The guy who bags your grocies, the guy across your cubicle. I save them by convincing them that there are other ways to look for women by building up their confidence. By changing their attitudes.

I tell that someone, "What if I could tell you how to find women properly?"

The world is safer every night when I do my rounds on the different sex chatrooms. These are potential sex criminals. The unwilling forces of evil. And I am their Dark Knight. It is a feeling only Spiderman or Batman can understand.

A tapping on plastic steals my attention. I see the turtle rapping its snout on the cage walls. It says. "Dude. You know, you can actually change your life. This hobby of yours, you know how to--"

Dust. Nose feeling tickled. Squeeze eyes shut. Mucus and saliva shoot by the cage faster than a car. Wipe fingers on nostrils then apply generously onto boxers.

"Todd," the turtle continues. "You should open that window. Really."

I swear. I should. But I tell it to shut up. I tell it that this is more than just a hobby to me. This is equivalent to prowling the city streets at dusk. This is my own way of helping the society. My own way of keeping your sister, your wife, your girlfriend, god forbid your mom safe. This is also a cheap replacement for putting on spandex and squatting on city tops.

2 hours later I have already changed 5 people. More scribbles are now added to an already thoroughly scribbled piece of paper to update the list of people I've saved. These people who know me as Jennifer. As Sharon. As Kathy.

A hobby is an activity or interest pursued outside one's regular occupation and engaged in primarily for pleasure. It is also:

Time killing.

And anesthetical. Or rather, was. Until right up to this moment when I switch off the computer and go to bed.

This is a society where people would rather rely on hobbies to make them happy than to solve problems right in front of their eyes and BE happy already.

"You are a cheap replacement of a person," The turtle says before closing its eyes to sleep.

One

2004-10-24T08:42:00.000-07:00

It is a bright Sunday morning and my first conversation of the day is with my pet turtle. These days I tend to question my sanity a lot more often. It is one thing to confide to your pet, it is another if it replies. "Dude," It says, squinting at the sunlight in its beady little eyes. "You should go out and get a girl."

A vague, ambiguous grunt does not put it off. It sounds like my late father as it continues. You are twenty-two. You have never got a girlfriend. You have never got laid, much less got a kiss. You deserve a better working place than your current one. You are living in the most cramped apartment in the world. You are a pathetic overweight slob. You might as well hang yourself.

"I might take up that offer sometime," I say.

I see the dust particles floating in the light rays through my windows and they tickle my nose. A quick jerk of the head, mucus and saliva shoots out at 150 kilometres per hour. This is how fast snot flies. This is how fast your head moves while sneezing. Had my eyes been open they would have been ejected out of their sockets. And if snot were solid I could have killed someone.

Wiping my nostrils with my fingers and then scrubbing them against my boxers, the turtle is still going on. You're a loser. You're the first rank feeder on the social food chain. You have as much life as a piece of paper.

Turtles generally have pretty long lifespans. The African Spurred Tortoise can live for at least 30 years. The Russian Tortoise can live up to 40 plus years. The common turtle, which is the one yelling in the small plastic cage smelly with yesterday's food pellets, can live up to a 100 years under the right conditions. I am not sure if I want it alive that long.

And the turtle is still going on. You're a low-life. You have brains man, but you're using them on comic books. You're such a goddamn loser. This really means it wants breakfast.

I pick up the small bottle beside the tank and shake off the dust. Common turtles are generally active in the morning and night and sleep throughout most of the day. They also generally do not talk and call you names before getting their breakfast. I shower a lump of food pellets over its tiny head.

"Bitch!" It announces and begins chewing.

The room is small, the air saturated. My nose is wrinkling from another dust onslaught and I feel the tickling sensation between my eyes. Squeeze eyes shut. Mucus and saliva flies out at approximately 12.75% the speed of sound. Fingers brush over nostrils before buttering boxers.

"Christ dude, you might like to open the windows some time!"

I swear. I should.

Picking off a comic book from the shelf, I say, "It's rude to talk with your mouth full."

I say, "Bitch."

The glossy pages feel like silk in my hands. This is the paperback reprint of the first six episodes of the Amazing Spider-Man series. It is also:

Full color.

Copyright 1977.

And mint. Or rather, was mint until yesterday night. "You really think this guy will pay more for an already unwrapped book?" I ask the turtle.

Chewing.

"I swear this guy is nuts. Who'd want a broken toy? Who'd want a used condom? Who'd want an unwrapped not-mint copy?" I say while flipping the pages.

The chewing stops and it swallows. The turtle crawls slowly on the damp soil towards another pellet. "You're just saying that because you're an unwrapped virgin."

Common turtles can live up to a 100 years under the right conditions. It has 60 more years to go. I am glad I don't.