Donor Portrait Cliff

Cliff’s support matters because he makes a kick ass web show called Project Rant. I hope I live up to his example with this show. AND we share a lot of the same cast, so if you like Project Rant you are gonna love FTFN’T.

Thanks Cliff!

Donor Portrait - Kristen

We’ve been blessed with a ton of donations during our messy pre-production process. These core supporters gave us more than just cash. They gave us hope. Kristen hand delivered her donation with the nicest of notes. A real class act. These portraits are our way of saying thank you to our donors. We’ve got some catching up to do, but we intend to do a FTFN’T style portrait for every person who donates to the show. Thank you Kristen. You rock our faces off.

The Breakup Clock
(Knowing when to say when to every relationship.)
by Collier Jensen
The best selling author of “One Date Too Many”

Table of Contents:
Preface: My life as a Manlationship Guru
Chapter One: Define your terms
Chapter Two: Hard in. Hard out.
Chapter Three: Wind the clock
Chapter Four: Relationship Half-time
Chapter Five: The Jensen way
Chapter Six: Knife at a gun fight
Chapter Seven: Release, retreat, regroup
Chapter Eight: Aftershock!

To Karen. Sorry.

Preface
My life as a Manlationship Guru

    Three years ago I was a broke 29 year old barista working at a coffee shop in south Austin. My degree in sociology had long dried up and become dusty under broken glass in a corner of my stupid office in the corner of my stupid apartment I shared with stupid Dave.

    No, you don’t understand “Stupid” Dave was his name. I met “Stupid Dave” at the coffee shop and he offered half of his apartment. I was interested in his place because it had the one feature I found most appealing in an apartment. It was cheap. I had been couch surfing at an old friend’s place and needed a spot of my own to work on my book. It sucked to share a one bedroom with another man but “Stupid” Dave’s place had provided me enough stability that I finished “One Date Too Many” within six months of moving in. During that time there were three different occasions that I had to stop Dave from eating paint.

    It was a Tuesday when the call came in. Some website that specialized in humorless exploitation of teenage self-picks and videos where people crash skateboards called at 11 AM. They had a copy of the book and wondered what the URL was. I stammered about not having a website and they hung-up on me. At noon, my editor called and said we needed a website because the sales were looking pretty good. At one PM Good Fucking Morning America called me. I had just finished my shift and was unlocking my bike from a stop sign. That’s how it started.

    “One Date Too Many” had hit a nerve. My little 232 page rant about relationships rang true for most men in a certain demographic. Y’know, the demographic which buys a bunch of shit. I did the shows. I did book signings. I got a car. Crashed it and got a scooter. I told “Stupid” Dave to fuck off. I payed back my old friend Beacher for letting me crash on his couch. I pretty much partied my face off for a year. And the girls! Boy howdy! Something about writing a book taking a stand against relationships in general makes you irresistible to women. But that is another book. And I’m pretty sure a skirt should type that one.

    I made the New York Times Best Seller list and bought a sports coat. I was a writer. Finally.

    Then a funny thing happened. The publisher wanted another one! I never even considered what I would write after ODTM.

    I was stumped. So, I did what all great writers do when they are blocked. I got shit faced on snaupps with an eighteen year old stripper named Morgana. I opened up the front door of my new place and Morgana stumbled past me to throw her muddy shoes on my kitchen table when something occurred to me and I mentioned it to her. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to call yourself Organa?”

    Later that night. I asked Morgana what she would want in a book of relationship advice. She stated that she would enjoy a book about making a relationship last. It was such a simple and pure moment. That was really want this pretty, bow-legged, buck toothed princess wanted more than anything. To know how to make it last. How do we reach down within our humanity and make a go of the most beautiful thing two people can do together? At that point I lifted a tall boy to Morgana’s inspirational suggestion. She responded by vomiting on my coffee table and I decided to do the exact opposite of her idea.

    I got some paper towels and called my editor. I should have known that Morgana was trouble. All the signs were there. I just lost my awareness. But what if there was a system for understanding when to pull the plug on a night. On a girl. Or on a relationship altogether. A countdown to the inevitable moment right before a girl pukes on your coffee table. Or your heart.

    I thought it over that night as Morgana slept on the floor in the hallway. Was I up for the challenge? Was Morgana’s presence a sign that I was not? The hours ticked away and I fell asleep on the couch with the paper towel roll as my pillow. The sun rose and a shaft of light cut across the room and on to my defeated face. I heard humming from the kitchen. Morgana had showered and made eggs. The place was spotless as if some tiny hospital janitorial team had snuck in as I slumbered and sanitized. She placed the breakfast down in front of me and gave me a very dirty blow-job. We had coffee, ignored the eggs and I called her a cab.

    As she was leaving she kissed me and whispered in my ear. “My name is Karen.” She slipped her number in my hand and closed the door. I never called her. She was a nice girl but she threw up on my fucking coffee table. I’m glad I held on for the last few hours. But the alarm had rung. The breakup clock had run out on Karen.