Flowchart.

Social situations can be confusing and unpleasant; like brushing your teeth with what appears to be toothpaste and tastes like mint, but then actually turns out to be numbing menthol body rub.

In order to help you navigate the stormy seas of social interaction and sense the mood during a date, I have created this flowchart to help you determine when it is the right time to throw your drink.

Rage.

For some, there is something intoxicating about getting behind the wheel of a car. It does strange things to the minds of otherwise rational people; they become invincible mavericks consumed by rage and overcome with the desire to wreak havoc on the roads that try to constrain them.

This driving delirium is the reason I hate going anywhere by car; particularly in Atlanta where the majority of the population seems to have been dosed with that hysteria drug from Gotham City (remember, the one Scarecrow uses in Arkham Asylum to induce fear?).

On Friday, I was coerced into leaving my safe living-cave to venture forth into the mayhem of the outside world; dragged into the burning light of day to be suffocated by the smothering exhaust fumes of Atlanta's infamous 4 o'clock traffic. Peter, my primary arm candy, had invited me to join his family for dinner in North Georgia.

We set off and encountered surprisingly little road rage for the first thirty minutes or so. We even had time to strike up a discussion about the importance of active optimism to control the creeping tendrils of depression that often work their way into the minds of those who think too much.

Perhaps the universe opposed our topic of conversation, as we suddenly found ourselves the unwitting victims of motorist mania. During his discourse on the finer points of maintaining a positive outlook, Peter needed to merge as the end of our lane was approaching. Signaling to get over, he realized that the car next to us was speeding up to deny us entry.

Unperturbed, Peter continued his speech and attempted to merge behind the car. We were partially into the new lane when the car behind our first nemesis decided that this was unacceptable and also sped up to block our entrance. A terrifying game of chicken ensued, as Peter was forced to abandon his discourse on optimism to focus all of his energies towards not being run off of the road.

The driver in the car next to us refused to make eye-contact, but forced his way beside us with only inches to spare between our two vehicles. I could tell Peter was weighing the value of our lives against the satisfaction from slamming our car into the villain beside us.

In the end, pragmatism won out and we successfully merged behind the two deranged drivers who had chosen to risk all of our lives in order to save literally no time at all. In fact, we ended up spending the next twenty minutes driving behind the same two cars, who were surprisingly abiding of the speed limit and crosswalk laws.

Suffice to say, the duration of our drive after that debacle did not involve any more discussion on the nature of positivity, but did feature rather heavily on the many ways Peter hoped both of those people would die painful and drawn-out deaths.

This experience, like so many before it, adds to the mounting evidence I have collected that driving is a social experiment being conducted to determine the effects of prolonged anxiety and frustration on the human psyche. The alternative is that the universe is actively responding to our pretentiously optimistic thoughts with the intention of crushing any lingering idealism.

Thus, the only wise course of action is to maintain a relentlessly negative outlook when in public. With this in mind, perhaps the aforementioned "driving delirium" is actually the embodiment of such an anti-enlightenment?

Naked.

Two years ago, I started tagging along with my artist cousin to life drawing classes. For those of you not in the know, these are classes where people come to draw the human figure. Nude.

The first five classes I attended were all women models, easing me into a false sense of familiarity and security. The female form is elegant and well-organized. My inherent awkwardness seeped through just enough so that I refused to make eye contact with any of the models, but otherwise I was becoming quite accustomed to the class.

My illusion of safety was shattered, however, when I came into class one day to find that our model was to be a very athletic young man. We will refer to him as Parkour, as that was the explanation for his impeccable musculature. In a cruel twist of fate, I had arrived to the class before our model and, feeling confident from my prior success, I had seated myself towards the front of the room. At that point, it was too late to move to a different seat without appearing conspicuous. Lights were dimmed and a spotlight cast onto the stage, where our model stepped into place and disrobed.

Avert your eyes, children and people with a phobia of large, fleshy objects... This man's penis was HUGE. At first, I found myself transfixed in horror at what appeared to be a small arm dangling limply between his legs. My perplexity was interrupted as the timer started and our first round of sketches began.

Fortunately, the initial timing per pose for this particular group is quite fast for the first half hour or so. This gave me an excuse to loosely sketch the figure without focusing on any phallic details. As time wore on, however, we eventually had to start defining particulars and this is where I made my mistake.

A professional artist, like my cousin, would simply look at the person as an object and draw it according to reality. As an amateur filled with angst and disbelief, I felt compelled to make corrections to my drawing. I found myself spending an excess of time struggling to correctly depict an accurate size. If I drew it too large, I would seem lewd and gawky. Unfortunately, my realistic attempt at drawing his anatomy turned out looking like cartoonish porn.

This is where I made the mistake. I decided to overcorrect and go with a smaller size. This eased my anxiety considerably and I muddled through the rest of the class, foolishly thinking I had successfully mitigated disaster.

How was I to know that Parkour would make a post-class round to peruse his two-dimensional likenesses? My heart pounded as I watched him make his way towards me across the front row.

What should I do? I couldn't hide my sketches or he might think I was some pervert who had covertly wormed her way into the class in order to stare at his humongous trouser-snake for an hour. I was backed into a corner and I had no choice but to share my anatomically misleading drawings!

He arrived in front of our table and leaned in. Feeling a cold sweat form on my brow, I gingerly pushed my notebook towards him. After cooly surveying my work for a few moments he looked up at me and half-raised an eyebrow. I laughed awkwardly and mumbled something about being a terrible artist and thanks so much for modeling (don't mention his penis, don't mention his penis).

Then it was over. As suddenly as it had entered my life, the substantial phallus was gone. All the memories I would retain from that session were crudely sketched by my own nervous hand in a notebook, now stuffed under my bed somewhere; hidden like a teenage boy might hide his copies of Playboy, lest someone discover his surprising perversion.

In any case, it's been months since I attended a class and I anticipate that my notebook will continue to collect dust.