Like most people, I lack basic motor skills when I’ve had too much to drink. This might include anything from walking, opening a door, or in this case, putting on a condom.

After it had been established in my brain that I was going to be having sex, the first step was to reach for the condoms. While I may be drunk, my animal-like mind does not like the prospects of having children or herpes.

Without further ado, I present the pictorial progression of last night’s attempt to have safe sex.

I decide that knocking down everything in my path is a good choice. This is the end result. One condom managed to spill out of the box in its rightful place next to the whiteout and lube. I would also like to note that aside from the random objects scattered about, this shelf had been organized in some manner.

At the side of my bed.

The backside of the condom wrapper. As you can tell, I opened it with precision that would make a caveman blush.

This is what is left on my bed. Apparently, removing my sweatshirt and bio study guide was too much work for me to accomplish. I’ll be damned if I don’t know the steps of mitosis by the time I climax.

And finally, the only excuse for this is that I skipped out on 8th grade health class when they put condoms on produce. I think saran wrap and hope would’ve been more effective. I do like the use of the side table to hold my gum. Classy. Not only did I unroll the condom all the way, I then tried to put my limp spaghetti noodle inside its latex housing.

Needless to say, my sexual life hit an all time low. I was more frustrated than a kid with downs trying to solve multivariable calculus. Thank you, alcohol.

Postscript: I would like to mention that the girl that I attempted to have sex with was stone cold sober. In addition to my awful attempts to have sex, I managed to fall out of bed and hit my head on the ground, only to convince her that “evra-sing’s cool” and that this was in fact, standard operating procedure.