Leonardo DiCaprio: How come the 987th woman I slept with was just like 543rd?

Leonardo DiCaprioRegular readers to this blog know that I am anything but a regular writer, in part because I live a life along the lines of Mr. Leonardo DiCaprio.

Booze…women…drugs…women, and parties. It’s hard to blog on a regular basis when you’re finding your way back from the fourth dimension after smoking strange things with strangers in Argentina. Regardless, I feel it is time to disclose something for my jealous friends out there — psychologically, cocaine can be no different than a vagina.

New York Magazine recently reported:

Leonardo DiCaprio, noted community organizer, successfully gathered up a group of nearly two dozen women to depart a Miami nightclub to an unknown but certainly superior location. The witness reported:

“He left with 20 girls. Leo and 20 girls. He is my hero. He was overflowing with models everywhere. The Jonas brother looked scared, like he was going to drown and suffocate in the women. His face was hilarious.”

The New York Post also reported:

Leonardo DiCaprio partied like a rock star with a host of celebs and models at a $28,000-a-night luxury villa in St. Barts over New Year’s.

The actor and his friends, 1Oak owner Richie Akiva, art dealer Joe Nahmad, electric race-car team co-owner Bert Hedaya and restaurant guru Maggio Cipriani, rented the famed Villa Rockstar at the Eden Rock hotel, where they stayed for a number of days before they threw a lavish New Year’s party.

The “Eyes Wide Shut” lifestyle of Mr. DiCaprio may seem alluring (and I admit, it is quite the experience to spend days locked up in a sprawling estate with disease-free loose women), but one must be careful what they wish for — it may come true.

Once you have two girls at once, then you need to have three. Once you have three, then you must have four. Once the numbers get too much for one man, then there needs to be male company — and that’s when things get weird. Really weird. Bizarre.

Dear reader, it may sound like I have a wonderful life, but I assure you this: I am miserable.

At some point the man of 1,000 women (and a dozen men) must admit to himself that he does not seduce seas of women (and puddles of penis) because he is dashing — he seduces because he is incapable of having a meaningful relationship that goes deeper than the flesh.

Do I inject myself full of all sorts of strange substances because I am a free man, or because I am a slave to my own passions? Do I surround myself with the skin of morally bankrupt beauties because it is liberating to do so, or because I am spiritually suffocating? The answer, I hope, is obvious.

No matter how many women I fill up with my sex organs, I always feel empty. No matter how often I pump myself full of hallucinogens, reality always sets in. No matter how many gadgets and gizmos litter my home, I convince myself that I need more.

Don’t be like me, dear reader. Think about my wild nights and fantasize about what it may be like to experience such madness, but do not dabble your foot in the devil’s waters if you can resist; a toe is all he needs to pull you under.

Wishing you the best from a deep, dark place,

Doctor Bizarre

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