Problem: Mr. Cigarette Butt Won’t Come To My Pad.

• My pad should come to him.
• Talk through video conference.
• Talk through phone.
• SMS each other.
• Radio each other through two empty cans connected by a string. (But that would require meeting each other otherwise.)
• There should be an intermediary.
• He could come right outside my pad.
• Ask him for something he wants in exchange of coming to my pad. (Mr. Cigarette Butt, you want big boobs and a nice wet pussy? I’ll take you to a plastic surgeon.)
• His probable reasoning: I’m lonely. He’s lonely. Put two lonely people together and they become lonelier.
• I’ll cook for him the most complicated recipe I can come up with: pizza delivery.
• Wait until he changes his mind.
• Calculate the pros and cons of his absence and presence in my pad.
• Coerce him.
• Ask him to come to the doorstep if not inside the pad.
• Lure, deceive, or blackmail him.
• Rant derogatory remarks about him on this blog.
• He’s a lousy kisser anyway.
• Make him an offer he can’t refuse. Point him a gun and ask him to cooperate to come to my pad.
• Did my pad ask him to?
• Ask Mr. Cigarette Filter what to do.
• Perhaps he’s already here.
• He’s hiding in the bathroom.
• Or right outside beneath my window.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt’s legs were amputated.
• He’s driving a wheel chair.
• Redefine “my pad”. (e.g. A block of absorbent material saturated with ink?)
• Redefine “Mr. Cigarette Butt”. (e.g. A consumed squashed cigarette sitting at the bottom of a garbage bin outside.)
• Redefine “won’t come”. (e.g. Inability to orgasm or ejaculate.)
• Wait, watch, then arouse Mr. Cigarette Butt’s curiosity.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt has an IQ of a cigarette butt.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt has an IQ of a butt.
• He drives away pads, including sanitary pads.
• He is the anti-magnetic equivalent of my pad.
• However he comes to my pad, my pad walks away.
• Does Mr. Cigarette Butt consider this a problem?
• Does my pad consider this a problem?
• Are you Mr. Cigarette Butt?
• The length of successive steps that Mr. Cigarette Butt takes are such that he is always coming but never does actually come. E.g., L/2,L/4,L/8…, where L> or = the distance between Mr. Cigarette Butt and my pad.
• He thinks I’m a dude.
• I think he’s a dudette.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is an illusion.
• He is made up of atoms that only exist when I think of him.
• My pad is an illusion.
• My pad couldn’t think, ergo Mr. Cigarette Butt does not exist.
• Prove Mr. Cigarette Butt’s existence.
• He is an insecure, insensitive insectivore.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is a virtual entity that exists only in electronic devices.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is man-made. Rather, woman-made.
• Law of Inertia: Mr. Cigarette Butt is in a state of perpetual rest.
• In other words, he has no initiative.
• The first cause: someone or something must provoke Mr. Cigarette Butt to action.
• For every Mr. Cigarette Butt, there exists an equal and opposite Mr. Cigarette Butt.
• Not all chemicals are bad. Without oxygen for example, there would be no way to light cigarettes, a vital ingredient in making Mr. Cigarette Butt.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt who has big muscles and a nice car is trying to make up for a lost feature.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is like Kleenex—soft, strong, and disposable.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt’s mother didn’t permit him to come to my pad.
• He is busy in another pad.
• He hates to admit that he is a health nut and a non-smoker.
• He can’t admit he is just Mr. Cigarette Stick Unlit.
• Lure him with packs of cigarettes.
• Miss Cigarette Butt is in my pad. Interested?
• Mr. Cigarette Butt has Alzheimer’s disease and forgot about coming to my pad.
• He is sitting on a tree branch outside my pad, peering at my window through a telescope.
• He is a ghost, a poltergeist, a being who exists in the fifth dimension.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is conjured by my enemies who awaits for my debacle or demise.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is dead.
• He is suffering from Cotard Delusion and believes he is dead.
• I am a solipsist, therefore only I, and not Mr. Cigarette Butt, exist.
• I doubt therefore I think. I think of Mr. Cigarette Butt therefore he exists.
• I think. Therefore, I think.
• I think. Rene Descartes thinks of me, who in turn thinks of Mr. Cigarette Butt, who in turn thinks of Rene Descartes.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt does not think of me. Therefore, I don’t exist.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt does not think of my pad. Therefore, my pad does not exist.
• He must’ve been sucked by his toilet and was transported into the fifth dimension.
• He is suffering from Diogenes Syndrome.
• He has Fregoli Delusion and thinks my pad and I are one and the same.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is an aviatophobic bat. All bats can’t walk.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt has a conjoined twin.
• He is claustrophobic, irrationally afraid of cramped places like my pad.
• My pad is androphobic.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is disguised as an interstellar unidentified cheese-skinned alien.
• He can come through the window if he prefers it.
• He can emerge from my toilet bowl, or from the drain on the sink.
• He can travel through wire and appear on my TV.
• He can pop through my laptop screen.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt fears women.
• He is a misogynist.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt has erectile dysfunction.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt has a sexually transmitted infection.
• He has penile warts on his face.
• His penis relocated on his face.
• He is the Moon and I am the Earth, both of which according to the laws of gravity can attract each other but cannot ever collide with each other.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is a forest fire. Beautiful from afar, but deadly closeup.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is a cryptic poem that hides many secrets.
• He is a member of the Illuminati.
• He is an opossum.
• The distance between me and Mr. Cigarette Butt is a light year away. The moment he arrives at my doorstep he’s already a rotten corpse.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is a star. I think he exists whereas he has departed eons ago.
• His dog ate his car.
• The road towards my pad is under reconstruction.
• Perhaps he can see me through my bathroom mirror.
• I can talk to him through his reflection on the toilet water.
• Mr. Cigarette Butt is disguised as my electric fan. He’s already here.

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