One way I self-soothe is by watching lots of TV shows and movies. Thanks to streaming platforms I have access to hundreds of hours of amazing — and comfortingly mediocre — audio visual programming. I use to feel guilty for curling up on my couch and watching hours and hours of Columbo reruns on Netflix. But I don’t anymore. Because you have to take of yourself as best you can.

What I do is often referred to as “binge-watching” and I think that’s an overly judgemental phrase. I read books. I go out to dinners with friends. I frequently attempt jogging. And, sometimes, when I’m feeling especially introverted I stay up late watching whatever I haven’t seen on HBOGO. I talk about “binge-watching” in the inaugural episode of my new podcast “How To Take Care Of Yourself.” You should give it a listen and then let me know what you think of my lisp.

In this episode I’m joined by Lea Palmeiri, senior editor of streaming review site Decider, and we talk about couch snacks, Hulu’s new dystopian sci-fi series The Handmaid’s Tale, and the culturally significant Real Housewives documentary series. I also may or may not spend a lot of time talking about a series called Escape To The Country, a show from the UK, about very nice English couples shopping for modest cottages in the countryside. This past year has been stressful because, you know, the world seems to be falling apart and this show is keeping me sane.

We also talk about breakfast because what’s the point of a podcast if you can’t ask the important questions about life?

So what are you binge-watching? I need to know how you’re taking care of yourself. I mean, I wish I had the answers but I don’t. So I’m asking. Every episode. Listen to it and get back to me. I don’t have plans this Friday night and I’d like to watch something because I’ve seen every episode of Escape To The Country twice.

How To Take Care Of Yourself was originally published in Woollymagazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I ran a whole mile, more or less, yesterday so I am eminently qualified to give tips on running. A mile, more or less! That’s a big deal for me.

I ran from my apartment to the park and then around the park, which to be honest, is a small park. At one point I sort of zombie shuffled for a half-block but I still count that as running because I was wheezing the whole time. I’ve been a semi-regular runner for about a month now. I’m proud of it because I usually can never maintain anything resembling an exercise regime. But now? I’m basically The Flash in short shorts.

My doctor looked at me during my last physical and said “look, you have to do something.” So I am. I am running. I bought new sneakers that make my feet look like race cars. I have an expertly curated playlist of mostly showtunes and heavy metal. I even bought a Fitbit but I think it’s broken because I definitely ran almost a mile yesterday no matter what it says. You may be wondering how I — a pear-shaped mortal — was able to pull off such a feat of athelticism. Here are eight tips that will magically transform you into the kind of beginning runner I have become.

1. Stretch

Usually stretching, for me, is what happens when I have to bend over to pick up runaway blueberries. But you really need to stretch before running. I tried running without stretching and its not a good idea. There was pain. They say pain is the body’s way of releasing weakness but I’m 70% weakness and it’s precious to me. So do what I do: stretch for a solid five minutes before running. Your muscles need to be warned.

2. Run

The most important running tip is to run. If there was a way to run without actually running — or sweating or exerting yourself — I would have found it by now. But there isn’t. It’s quite simple, really, you just put one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, until you notice your body is pushing liquid out through your skin. Don’t panic — this is called “sweat.” Don’t stop running, keep it up. The first time I ran I made it two blocks before I stopped and asked myself “do I want to do this?” I said “yes.” Then I ran another two blocks.

3. Keep Running

I’m sorry but this tip is non-negotiable: you need to keep running. Don’t give up! You can do it. I believe in you.

4. Visualize Your Demons

There are all kinds of important reasons to run. First, it’s a great way to burn calories and improve your overall health. Running also releases all kinds of stress-relieving and depression-fighting brain chemicals. It’s also confidence boosting. But if you need more motivation do what I do and pretend you’re running from your failures and fears. There they are right behind you! Your intimacy issues and petty insecurities and betrayed dreams! If you keep running you’ll be forgiven for all those times you hurt the ones you loved. If you run fast enough you’ll be able to look over your shoulder and see sad, scared, lonely you. Wave “adios” to that loser! Now, keep running, and never stop.

5. Don’t Stop Running

I didn’t say you could stop running. Keep running, butterball. I’m not joking. Run. If you keep running you’ll forever be brave and smart and beautiful. Don’t stop.

6. Okay, Stop Running

It is perfectly fine to run for two minutes and then walk for a minute. You can still say you ran the whole time. I do. It’s not a lie. It’s just a different kind of honesty. It’s important that you don’t push yourself too much. Take deep breaths. Get oxygen into your system. Drink water. Cry a little. Ask yourself what’s the point of life? Seriously? Is it all meaningless toil? Are we all just walking, or running, to the grave? I’d say this is a good time to contemplate existential questions but it’s always a good time to ponder the void. But I suggest slowing thinking the things that are truly important, like your dear friend couchy the couch. Now snap out of it. Your break is over.

7. Start Running Again Unless You Need To Barf

Yup. Get back to running. Faster. Faster! But not so fast that your legs turn to noodles and you barf all over your new race car shoes. No. That’s too much. But, if you can, keep running until your Fitbit almost says you’ve run a mile, then stop and write an article about how proud you are that you ran a mile.

8. Reward Yourself

After I run a mile, more or less, I like to think I’ve burned tens of thousands of calories. So I like to reward myself with a few slices of pizza and a side of ranch dressing. I deserve it. You’ll deserve it too. This is called the circle of life: the more you run, the more pizza you can eat. It’s simple really. There are people who would say running is its own reward but ask yourself who are these people? Marathon runners, probably. And those people are insufferable. All they do is talk about being in peak physical condition and blah blah accomplishing an impressive goal. If you ran a mile, more less, today then reward yourself.

7 Tips That Will Make You A Better Runner was originally published in Woollymagazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I sometimes watch my coworkers make avocado toast in the office kitchen. The company provides a generous bounty of snacks — chips, nuts, energy bars — because late capitalism isn’t known for its perks. The alpha snack, however, is the bowl of perfectly ripe avocados that appear weekly. They are a prize.

While I work the coffee machine my colleagues get to work like hungry shoemaker elves, splitting the oblong treat, toasting the nine-grain bread and, then, smearing the precious green butter. Each has their own special recipe: some drizzle their breakfast with olive oil, some sprinkle a little paprika (I’m guessing from a private spice stash,) and one person likes sesame seeds (maybe everyone has a secret stash of spices and I need to get with the program.)

They eat their avocado toast with a fork and knife, or cut into quarters, or folded, like a slice of pizza. I don’t usually make avocado toast at work because I’m smug. I’m also older than everyone else. Bountiful smugness is the only real gift of old age. I would never be caught dead enjoying free food. I have too much integrity. If I eat avocado toast it’s going to be at brunch at a bougie trough in Brooklyn and I’ll pay twelve dollars for it. Yes. I understand that I am not part of the solution.

A few years ago I was living in Los Angeles. This was when avocado toast was a hot trend bordering on religious ritual. For about a year avocado toast was almost a currency. I could have paid my bungalow’s rent with it. That was truly the golden age of avocado toast — I’d have it with pomegranate seeds or fresh fennel or a poached egg.

This past Christmas I introduced avocado toast to my mamacita. I call her my “mamacita” because growing up I refused to learn Spanish. I was born white — like my dad — and I wanted to speak the language of all my friends, who were also white. So when I showed her “avocado toast” she wasn’t surprised that I was still speaking white people. She then pointed out it was just fancy chips and guacamole. I probably responded “but antioxidants” because I just assume every new food fad is packed with antioxidants, whatever they are. My mom grew up on the Texas border and she’s tough. The sort of person who, even in her seventies, is able to dig a ditch at moment’s notice if she has to do it. She doesn’t suffer fools. But she loves one. Me.

I know things about avocados. For instance, they are fruits but, to be more specific, they are gigantic berries. The incredible hulk of berries, to be technical. Avocados are packed with pantothenic acid, dietary fiber, vitamin K, copper, folate, adamantium, vitamin B6, potassium, vitamin E, and vitamin C. One of those nutrients is a lie. They have a high-fat content — almost 110% of their total calories. Oh, and I almost, forgot, I hated avocados growing up.

I, mean, they’re a miserable fruit, if you think about it. There’s a very brief window when they’re edible, but most of the time they’re either rocks or blobs of brown slime. And, let’s be honest, guacamole is just a margarita garnish. No one actually likes guacamole. I never did. It was one of those foods that would make me suck my face inside of itself, like a star collapsing. My mother would serve sliced avocado on the side during dinner and I would dread the green crescents.

My dad, of course, would salt and pepper his avocados and slurp them up. I even remember him putting those slices on toast. I like to think of my old man as a proto-foodie but what was was a child of the Great Depression, that time long ago when Americans were so broke jokes about eating boots were funny because it was true. His generation loved putting stuff on toast. Beans, stew, gravy. Toast is a filling bed for sloppy foods. If anyone reading this would like to credit my dad as the creator of a classic hipster cuisine please feel free.

So I largely ignored the avocado and then I turned 22. When I was 22 I wanted to move to New York City because one night I drank hallucinogenic mushroom tea and during an episode of “Friends” Ross turned to me and said, through the TV screen, “move to New York City, John.” I moved to Queens, which is like Brooklyn if Brooklyn wasn’t so pleased with being Brooklyn. Like most of New York, Queens is a riot of different cultures and immigrants and everyone is politely stepping on each other’s faces. One thing Ross never told me is that 22 year old me would totally hate 42 year old me who turns his nose up at free food.

To be young in New York is to be broke. For that matter, to be middle-aged in New York is to be broke, but in a more hopeless way. That’s a whole other story. I found myself living in a heavily Mexican neighborhood where knowing Spanish would have helped and, yes, I bitterly appreciate the irony. If I had learned Spanish my neighbors may have been nicer to me and I totally could have hung out with them and done the one thing that unites all New Yorkers, no matter race or religion or economic status, and that’s complain.

Those days and months and years were, as they say, lean. My meager receptionist paycheck would go mostly to rent, and the subway, and whatever was left over went to food. I invented an inexpensive meal I use to call “Tons Of Rice” that I would douse with A1 Steak Sauce. I also started putting whatever can of food I could buy at the Dollar Store on toast. However, man cannot live on cheap carbs alone and so, one day, I noticed avocados for sale at the corner bodega which normally only sold cigarettes, lotto, and mummified beef sticks. Improbably, they were perfectly ripe and inexpensive and in a diplomatic swoon I smiled at the proprietor who I assumed was Latino. “Me gusta avocados,” I said, or something like that. I think he muttered “you gonna buy that, kid?” My memory is foggy. All I really remember is that avocados reminded me of home. I almost called my mom collect but I didn’t want her to worry.

Also, it didn’t hurt that avocados are fruits — gigantic berries — and so succumbing to scurvy would be, momentarily, prevented. That night I made avocado on toasted Wonder Bread. “I wonder if it’s really bread” is a little joke of mine I thought I’d share. It’s a simple recipe: split the avocado and mash it up in the skin with a fork. Toast the bread in your oven’s broiler because you don’t have a toaster — I like it a little burnt. Salt, pepper, a little A1 Steak Sauce is you’re feeling experimental. That’s the best avocado toast recipe I know.

The Best Avocado Toast Recipe Ever was originally published in Woollymagazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I don’t want to freak anyone out but the world’s spiders could eat all of humanity in one year. This is based on a recent scientific theory and it is in no way loosely based on a nightmare I had once had about spiders climbing into my mouth (so they could lay eggs that then hatched during a job interview. Spoiler alert: I didn’t get the job because I died of spiders exploding out of my face.)

But, as I mentioned, this isn’t just a fantasy. Much.

A pair of European biologists, Martin Nyffeler and Klaus Birkhofer, recently calculated that the world’s spiders eat between 700–800 million tons of prey a year. That is a lot of squirming, writhing, buzzing insects. This is part of a spider’s role in the ecosystem: to gobble up pests. *Stares directly into the camera* But what if WE’RE the real pests?

Martin and Klaus then estimated that the combined biomass of every adult human on Earth is 287 million tons. I’m no expert but the spiders could easily gobble up that much, um, biomass. And they’d still be hungry.

It’s humbling to think of humanity as just 287 million tons of spider food.

Now many things would have to happen for this highly unlikely scenario to happen. For one, the spiders would have to organize. Have a meeting, take a vote, crank out some spreadsheets. Again, I’m no expert on spider society but I’m pretty sure they don’t have one. I think spiders are loners like me in Junior High. But who knows: if given the right motivation spiders may jump at an opportunity to save the Earth from homo sapiens. We are, after all, real assholes. Have you watched cable news recently?

Luckily for spiders, they’re everywhere. It’s a real advantage. Spiders have been found in the arctic, the desert, and, for a brief period, in my apartment. Oh, it’s a long story. I had a girlfriend once who had a pet tarantula that she asked me to babysit? Spidersit? I don’t know why she had a pet tarantula. It was the 90s — everyone either had a wallet chain, a lip piercing, or a tarantula. Anyway, I smoked a lot of hash one night and made the mistake of talking to her tarantula for a few hours. That tarantula was a real good l listener but it’s a deeply held personal belief of mine to never trust a spider. Eventually, we just listened Jagged Little Pill on cassette tape over and over and over until I passed out. A few weeks later the tarantula escaped her aquarium and I shrieked. My girlfriend found the tarantula eventually but I’m pretty sure it was planning on crawling into my mouth. And now you understand a little bit more about my fears.

A recent study in North Carolina by entomologist Matthew Bertone concluded that spiders lived in 100% of urban and suburban living spaces. And, to make matters even more creepy, 68% of the bathrooms surveyed had spiders. Yeah. That’s right. There’s a good chance eight eyes watched you shower this morning. So they’ve already infiltrated our society pretty thoroughly. We live in harmony with them… for now. Harmony may be too innocuous a word. Perhaps we maintain a truce that we’re unaware could be broken?

With the right game plan, they could rise up in the dead of night by the hundreds of millions and then the next thing you know, your neighborhood mail carrier is running down the street screaming, covered in spiders. Why didn’t grandma answer the phone? Oh, she’s been eaten by spiders. Like, one day you’re just living your life and the next moment you’re a skeleton and a tiny spider named Arnold is living in your skull’s ocular cavity.

There would be pockets of survivors. But how do you fight spiders with shotguns and chainsaws? You can’t. You’d secure your bunker and then take a shower and — boom — spiders. You’ve been warned. I guess the government could try to nuke the threat but that would be a pointless act of desperation. And then we could be talking about giant mutant spiders and that’s a whole other nightmare I’ve yet to have, but probably will, later tonight.

I’m just spitballing here but I think mass extinction by spider is a simple and — if I may say — elegant solution to the human condition. I’m just saying, you know, it would be terrifying if Earth became a planet of eight-legged man-eaters but, also, a helluva lot less coal would be burned. That would be good for the climate? I don’t want humanity to disappear, but apocalypse by spider is preferable to, say, a long and protracted apocalypse by vicious resource war. I think I’m projecting here. I’m definitely NOT rooting for the spiders. Do not, under any circumstance, write that I am rooting for the spiders. I am not. I love humanity. I love you.

I have to say it’s a bit of a relief to write about spiders rather than drone terrorism or antibiotic-proof bacteria or, you know, politics. It’s what these researchers were counting on. The world needs more media-savvy biologists and physicists and smart people, in general. They obviously knew the best way to get their arachnid research attention would be if they tied it to my personal fear of spiders. And they have. Their horror movie hypothesis has gone viral. And why not? The news is a near constant parade of stories about war, environmental collapse, and human corruption. It’s a real breather to ponder an end of the world scenario that isn’t quite so plausible. A scenario where the little guy — the very little guy — wins.

Anyway, try to sleep with your mouth closed. I do.

Also: Auschwitz was Auschwitz for babies, toddlers, children, men, and women. You shouldn’t twist the actual horrors of history to fit your fantasies.

But it’s ironic you resort to absurd fascist comparisons since your hearts deepest desire is to force women to give birth at gunpoint.

Hi. My name is John DeVore, writer, sandwich enthusiast, and accidental freedom fighter. I recently donated money to Planned Parenthood after my plan to crowdfund a mission to save Western Civilization fell short of its goal.

But let’s briefly talk about politics before we get to pear-shaped plans and Planned Parenthood.

I’m someone who loves to talk about politics because I have anxiety problems. I also care deeply about the most important person in the world: me. Politics is about self-interest. That’s not an inspirational statement but, hey, at least it’s honest.

Politics is not sport, although rooting and booing is fun. Politics is not ideology, even if God is talking to you and only you. Righteousness is a helluva drug. And, most of all, politics is not therapy. It doesn’t exist to make you feel good about yourself. Your political allies are not your friends. They are just people who share your self-interest. No. Politics is one of two ways humans have of interacting with one another. The other way is Mad Max: Fury Road.

I recently tried to act in my own political self-interest. Luckily, your self-interest and mine aligned. This happens more than most people think since most people prefer to cheer for their team or tie some poor witch to a stake.

A few weeks ago I tried to raise $200,000 on GoFundMe for a worthy — some said heroic but I reject that label — cause. I wanted to become a member of President Trump’s luxury resort Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach. It costs $200,000 a year to join.

That way, I could keep an eye on him as he conducts the country’s business out in the open, surrounded by every villain from every 80’s movie.

Yup, that’s right, for a small fortune your average dimwitted fat cat can give the leader of the free world national security advice.

If you’re disgustingly rich you can afford to pal around with the President, his cabinet, and foreign leaders as they golf and eat meatloaf safely behind the walls of his personal pleasure garden, far from the prying eyes of the press. You can afford to make sure your interests are being pursued.

I thought someone should represent the 99% of Americans who don’t have a spare $200,000 to spend on golf.

This was the mission: catapult me into POTUS’ tacky Versailles where I could smoke cigars with Wall Street bankers and, in the event of an international incident, hide the ‘nuclear football’ in my hotel room. Yes, it was a ridiculous plot but the stakes are high!

My mission failed. But, thankfully, I had a backup mission. The funds that I did raise have been donated to Planned Parenthood. I wrote that I would do that so I did. Here’s the proof — the sum noted in the email includes fees GoFundMe deducted.

I also donated $100 of my own precious moolah. You’ll have to email me for proof of that though.

But why did I donate to Planned Parenthood? That’s a good question. Here’s the truth: I chose them at random. I had so many worthy causes to choose from.

There are hundreds of organizations out there defending the rights of millions. They need money. I mean, writing hyper-partisan jokes on social media is noble work. But organizations like the ACLU, the National Council of La Raza, and the Sylvia Rivera Law Project — to name a few — are doing real work, advocating for you, and me, as well as marginalized people whose voices and needs are just as important as those who can fork over $200,000 for the privilege of whispering sweet nothings to POTUS.

Planned Parenthood, however, is a good choice. There are more than a few good reasons I’m happy to donate my campaign’s spoils to them. First off, I support access to affordable vasectomies. There is entirely too much sperm in the world. Planned Parenthood is a place where such surgeries can happen in a clean and safe environment. Trust me, you want your vasectomy to happen in a clean and safe environment.

I also support STD tests. That is because I am a hypochondriac. Once, in college, I convinced myself I had contracted an STD from what I’ll call “hard third base” with someone I was dating. I don’t know what I thought I had contracted — finger weevils? But, anyway, I wish I had known that a person could walk into Planned Parenthood and get tested. I thought STD tests were expensive, like champagne. I might even have learned some important things (like finger weevils aren’t real.) Education is important. Without it, civilizations die of terminal stupid.

Then there are Planned Parenthood’s reproductive healthcare services, including access to birth control, pap smears, prenatal care, and adoption referrals. It’s almost as if there’s a non-profit group out there that wants to help you plan your parenthood. Abortions account for three percent of Planned Parenthood’s total services. This is something you should know.

Abortion is one of those things everyone has an opinion about. Especially men! And I’m no different. My opinion is quite simple though: I oppose Uncle Sam tattooing “Property of the US Government” inside every American womb. This is not because I am a “good guy.” Ha, ha, ha. No. It’s because I, too, have reproductive organs. I would oppose Uncle Sam clamping an electronic monitor on my testicles. Reproductive rights for some are reproductive rights for none. Supporting Planned Parenthood is in my self-interest.

I almost forgot that you can get breast cancer screenings at Planned Parenthood and that health insurance is still expensive for many people. It’s amazing there are citizens in our country who still have to choose between rent and medical care. So isn’t it nice there are institutions out there that prize public health over the salary of some health insurance executive? Yes. Yes it is. It is in my self-interest to support affordable healthcare.

If you donated to my campaign: thank you. Truly, we fought the good fight. If you didn’t, that’s okay. If you were the one who emailed me about how I’m wrong about President Trump and will go to hell: only time will tell about either.