This is the third time it's happened: My girlfriend left me for a guy in a band. Not even like a good band, or a band people know about. Just a regular band no one cares about or even likes. Bands are dumb. I'm probably gonna learn the guitar soon. What are some good songs to know? – Jeff, Los Angeles

First, don't get wound up over who she's with now. Anxiety is a form of arousal. Play with that book of matches, and you might find yourself in flames. What I'm talking about is jerking it while crying. Do that even once and it's hard to look people in the eye forever. Avoid.

Instead, focus on yourself. Meditate. Stare deep and intensely at the mirror of your subconscious, for there you will discover the reason you keep mixing it up with chicks who're attracted to expensive haircuts.

That whole “If-You-Can't-Beat-'Em-Join-'Em” slogan is so antique and Gershwin-y, it's like you can barely take the advice cuz it stinks so bad like sawdust and brown mustard and prohibition. 

Forget a guitar. Get futuristic. 

Climb the highest mountain of self-knowledge and consult your spirit animal for your own phallic symbol of virility: maybe a cool pen, keychain, or wireless mouse.

Phil Spector wouldn't let his wife Ronnie hang out with the Beatles or the Stones.  He also kept a glass coffin for her in the basement, and he'd grab her by the arm and drag her downstairs and be like, “let's face it, you're definitely going in this glass coffin.”

The guy knew more about music than Mozart and Beethoven and Chopin assembled like Voltron, and all it did was make his life a piano-based Deer Hunter in slow motion. 

Remember: Spector killed a person and went to jail – and though he only got a life sentence, his hair got the electric chair.

Stay in School,
Levenson

I recently caught my wife in a weird lie. She said she was going to the library, but it turned out she was at a nightclub dancing and spraying champagne everywhere. I should have known, because no one puts on that much lipstick just to read, and the library isn't open at one in the morning. And also she was definitely on ecstasy. Still, I don't feel like I can trust her anymore. What should I do?  – Ezra, Montreal

Come on, man.

I do so much lying to convince girls to go out with me that once we're in a real relationship, I'm sweating like Donnie Brasco trying to hold the pieces together. It's great until we get to the part where I have to cast a fake family.

Quit being such a self-righteous chauvinist, and instead of obsessing over your wife's one weird lie, consider all the wasted opportunities you've had to fabricate a false identity. Your wife is unconscious with a glow stick on her head and you could be starting a second family in a far away city, like one of those crooked airline pilots in the '90s. 

You could have two wives and spend none of your time giving a shit about whether either are lying about whatever raves they're at, because you're double-wifing down on both them broads. Sick, right?

No?

No. You're right. It sounds sad and lonely and anxious and depressing and void. You can't live like that.  What's the point?

You can't touch religion or ideas or theories, but you can feel love in your heart and your bones.  When all else fails, that's all that's real. 

I took so much ecstasy in the '90s, my blood type changed to “B Positive.” And it won't shut up about it.

I also took some worse stuff.  It all felt like real love, but it was lies. I grew up. Tell your wife to – or tell her to take a walk. I hear Paul Oakenfold's single.  

P.L.U.R.,
Levenson

Angry? Depressed? These are symptoms of heterosexuality. Noah Levenson can help. Wait, I'm sorry.  Noah Levenson can't help. Follow @nlevenson on Twitter.