By wearing this t-shirt, and as one observant writer pointed out, "Jerry, it's like a 100 Degrees, but you're so cool your nipples are hard!" 

Another person feeling close enough to me to comment says, "Superman's outfit didn't have nipples, it was Joel Schumacher's Batman!"

Whatever, geeks!

A week away and another month starts, so I'm gonna be 3 months behind in rent and my utilities are gonna be cut off, I'll be evicted, living in my car, unable to afford gas, starving and burning up because my car door windows are broken and I can't roll them down for air, yet, Nicolas Cage was like a billion dollars in debt, blowing his money on mansions, yachts, and decorating everything with his expensive and horrible taste, but Johnny Depp bails him out of all his trouble so he's free to whore himself out in crappy big budget movies, while all my friends stand in line in San Diego, hoping to meet Olivia Munn, or any other slutty Megan Fox wannabe booth-babes, spending their cash on dopey Scott Pilgrim, or Green Hornet merchandise wondering why I'm not with them sweating in the crowd.

Fuck Comic-Con! What has it ever done for me? 

Come to think of it, what have you done for me? I give and give, opening myself up to you, showing you my real feelings, spilling my guts, slicing open my veins and writing my heart out to you with intimate details so secret I wouldn't even tell myself, but for you I share, because I thought we had something. I felt it. I know what we have is real. You must know everything I write has been a cry for help! Yet, you observe me, my plight, my condition, my situation and you continue to walk on by without a simple offer of help, or offer to lend a hand in return for grace.

Your nipples must be hard, as well.

Why?

Because you are so cold.