Be A More Depressed, Less Hairy You Day!

Today you got word of a new prescription drug that makes you more depressed but less hairy. You decided getting rid of all your dark brown arm-fuzz was worth the yawning chasm of misery you’d be throwing yourself into, so you ran out to your doc and demanded the pill immediately.

After three months on the pills, all your body hair will almost magically disappear, turning you into a smooth, sleek, pretty creature who can barely summon the energy to get out of bed in the morning. You’ll get a thrill out of moving your hand over your own skin, sliding it like an ice cube across a counter-top, and when you finally do get out of bed you’ll spend every minute bloated with dread at the thought of somehow finding a way to climb under the covers to get back into bed again. Your boyfriend says he loves it too, though you can’t understand how he could possibly find anything to love about you. You can’t understand how anyone could ever love anything. How?

After about a year you’ll stop taking the pills, not because you’ll be sick of being depressed, but because hairy will be in again.

Happy Be A More Depressed, Less Hairy You Day!

Part It Down The Middle Day!

Part your hair down the middle today for the very first time in your life and you’ll walk outside to find a Mercedes in your driveway instead of a Hyundai. Drive it to work where you’ll find you’re the President of the company instead of a middle-management toadie. Check your bank account and instead of a negative balance there will be a very positive one, like seven figures positive. Check your response to alcohol and discover it to be moderate and controllable. Check your demeanor at parties and find it to be gregarious. Ingest dairy and discover that you appear to be tolerant. You’ve disrupted the order of things. You’ve changed the part of your hair at age 46 and really turned things around for yourself while triggering a ripple effect that will engulf the planet in pestilence and rogue waves within as little as three months time. Why couldn’t you have just been happy with the way things were?

Happy Part It Down The Middle Day!

She Found Out You’re One Of Those Guys Who Throws A Ball Around The Office At Work Day!

You came home and half the closet was empty, nothing but bare hangers swinging on the rod. Her drawers had been ransacked. Her suitcases were gone. She clearly either took off in a hurry or someone made it look like she did. Part of you wants to call the police to report an abduction, but you’re worried that she simply found out that you’ve been cheating on her. Read the note she left on the fridge:

Cameron,

I’m sorry but I can’t do this anymore. It’s not because I don’t love you, I do. Or at least I did. It’s not because I’m scared of getting too committed. It’s not even because I found out that you cheat on me sometimes. I’ve known that for close to a year now and it’s something I think I can live with. What happened was today I was bored and I found myself perusing your work website, and I checked out the “Staff” link to see if there were any photos of you. I found one. Such a nightmarish one. One of you in your desk chair with your shirt sleeves rolled up, tossing a Nerf football to one of your co-workers. The caption read “Blowing off some of that 4 PM steam.”

I hope you’ll understand that I had to go. This isn’t the kind of image that one can sweep under the rug. Had I walked in on you cheating on me with one of my relatives, or murdering a small animal, or shaking hands with Karl Rove and then stuffing some bills into your pocket that he clearly slipped you during the handshake, I might be able to chalk it off as “just one of those things.” But not this. Had you told me when we meant that you were one of those guys who throws a ball around the office at work, I could have saved us both a lot of time by ending it immediately. At least I found out before we got married.

I hope you have a nice life and you won’t come looking for me. You should really stop throwing a football around the office by the way. It makes you look like you love, and I mean like really cherish, rape.

Best,

Lucille.

Happy She Found Out You’re One Of Those Guys Who Throws A Ball Around The Office At Work Day!

Kill The Boy Day!

Don’t just break up with the boy, end his life. Stick a knife in his voicebox and be sure he’ll never use it to call you in the middle of the night and trick you into sneaking away with him for another long weekend of forgetting all about the life you’re trying to make for yourself. You’re a professional lady, career-minded and a smart-dresser, and you don’t need a lowlife popping by and convincing you that 72 hours in his arms is more important than the rest of your 72 or so years on this earth.  Cut off his hands and throw them in the river so he can never use them to brush your hair away from your forehead again. Slice out his eyes and crush them under your business heels; they’ve hypnotized their last unwitting victim into getting naked at the slightest hint of a wink. Let him keep his penis because you’re not some kind of monster, but set his hair on fire, sand down his lips with a power sander and carve into his chest and stomach to rip out the muscles filling his pecs and abs with so much rock-hard steel. Once he’s in pieces and the pieces are nothing but slippery, ruddy mud, spend an evening remembering the good times. You’re not likely to find someone who so makes it happen for you again, not likely to find another Derrick again.

Happy Kill The Boy Day!

Dad’s Affair Day!

Leave your dad alone today. He’s sad because the woman he used to cheat on your mom with died. She was diagnosed two years ago. She called him last Spring and asked him if she could see him once more before she dies, but your dad refused. Even your mom said it’d be cool if he went and saw her. After all, they had a nine-year affair. Your dad was a big part of this woman’s life and she should get the chance to say goodbye, was your mom’s reasoning. But the revelation of the affair caused such a rift in their marriage that your dad just didn’t want to have any contact with her. Didn’t want to risk opening old wounds. Now she’s dead and not only is your dad in mourning, but your mom thinks less of him than ever, letting that woman die without saying goodbye like that. She’s not proud of the man she married today.

Happy Dad’s Affair Day!

Stop Her Day!

She’s about to choose something besides spending the rest of her life with you because she wants to be practical so race to the airport or death cult orientation or whatever and tell her she’s making a mistake. She’ll decide you’re right and she should be with you because you made her laugh once. Within two weeks of the two of you being a couple start acting really cold toward her. When she asks if you regret winning her back tell her no but continue to be cold and curt. You’ll never say it out loud but deep down you’ll know that you only fought to get her back because you didn’t want anyone else to have her. Now that she’s yours, you don’t remember why you wanted her so badly. In 18 months she’ll leave you for someone else. Play the victim.

Happy Stop Her Day!

Psychosexual Thriller Day!

Meet someone who may or may not be a killer but you don’t care because sex. When more bodies start popping up, get worried but also confused because is the sex getting better? Start to wonder if you’re the next body that’s going to be killed, or maybe you’ve been the one killing the bodies all along, though it really doesn’t matter either way because wow this sex is just really something. When you decide that maybe it’s time for you two to take a break, find yourself staring at your own reflection stretched along the broad side of a kitchen knife. Aroused but fighting it, manage to wriggle away but just barely, then at just the right moment get the upper hand. You’ll find yourself on top, in a position you two know very well except never before with a knife in the mix and does that make it hotter (yes)? You’ll be about to toss the knife away and leave it to the police when one last threatening gesture makes you bring the knife down in self-defense. Blood everywhere and no more sex but you discovered scary things about yourself so hooray for learning!

Happy Psychosexual Thriller Day!

Ski Weekend Day!

You’re really excited to have been invited to go on a ski weekend with your friends Jeff, Sally, Maurice and Paula because you’re pretty sure that ski weekends involve everyone gathered around in a cabin exposing their deep emotional core to each other just like in the Alan Alda movie The Four Seasons.

“Awwwww God sometimes I wonder if I ever felt a single thing,” you’ll scream as soon as you get inside the cabin, just before placing your suitcase on the ground.

“Jesus,” Jeff will say.

“Dude, are you all right?” Maurice will ask, hovering over you as you lay on your back with your legs up in the air like a baby.

“I need to be swaddled! I need to be swaddled in your friendship!”

Maurice and Paula will try to drag you up from the ground. Don’t let them.

“Swaddle me! People have given their love to me and I’ve rejected it. I just want to accept for once. Swaddle me in your emotional warmth!”

They’ll all go to the closet to take off their coats and discuss what to do.

Stand up and scream at the top of your lungs, “I HAVE NEEEEEEDS!!!”

Sally will come to you and she’ll hug you gently. Then she’ll ask if maybe this can wait until later in the evening.

“Alda didn’t pull this kind of crap until late Act 2 of Four Seasons. Think we can at least get some dinner in us first?”

Apologize and explain that you’ve never been on a ski weekend before, and tell them that you’re just so excited and oh God you’re going to let it fly again.

“NEEEEEEEEEEEDS!!!!!!”

Happy Ski Weekend Day!

Crossing Guard Who Can Tell When You’re Going To Die Day!

The reason the crossing guard cries every time you cross the street is because you’re going to die before you turn 26 and she knows it. She gets visions of when and how people are going to die when they step into her cross-walk. Something about surrendering your safety into her hands gives her a window into your future to the moment when not even she can protect you. She knows you’re going to die when you fall in the shower of a hotel room in Chicago where you’ll be staying for business. You’ll be found by a maid.

Today when you see her, tell her, “It’s not your fault. Fate is fate.”

She’ll wheel around on you and hiss, “But what if it wasn’t your fate until I saw it? What if my seeing it is what caused it? What if I’m taking years off the people I’m supposed to be protecting?”

You won’t know how to comfort her, which is too bad because she’ll just then jump in front of a bus whose driver won’t know to stop because she won’t have held up the sign telling him to stop. She didn’t want to go on living with the possibility that she was shortening the lives she was supposed to be guarding. If you’re thinking that this isn’t your fault, just know that she never would have felt so distraught if people like you, who are fated to die an early death, didn’t go crossing in her crosswalk forcing her to wrestle with the implications of her seeing your moment of passing. Way to make the crossing guard kill herself, clumsy.

Happy Crossing Guard Who Can Tell When You’re Going To Die Day!

Looks Like They Found Your Papier-Mâché Sculptures Of The Family Next Door Day!

When you pull onto your block you’ll see two police cars waiting outside your house. Your front door will be open and Kevin, your next-door neighbor, will be standing on your lawn, pointing at your house, irate.

Looks like they found your papier-mâché sculptures of the family next door.

Drive slow and savor these final few seconds of peace before you have to get out of your car and begin trying to explain yourself. You’ll have to detail to them who you were when you lived in Russia, how you were celebrated for your shocking papier-mâché representations of the life you and your fellow countrymen were living, how it became a common occurrence to spot yourself on the cover of a magazine for an interview you would have forgotten having given.

But after moving to America, you found yourself completely uninspired. Nothing about the suburban landscapes in which you passed your days seemed worthy of your artistic interpretation. Until Kevin and Mary and Lewis, Pamela and little Georgette Tohlmacher. moved in next door. Suddenly you couldn’t sculpt quickly enough. That family demanded your eye, your passion, and your skill. That family has inspired you to stay awake for 72 hours at a time, panicked that you might die or the world might end before you manage to channel your vision of the Tohlmacher family’s essence onto the chicken wire.

You know it will be difficult to explain to a man just trying to give his wife and children a good life why the house next door to his is filled to a room with dozens of sculptures of his flesh and blood. Especially difficult to explain will be the nudes. Though you used as your source only your imagination (except for the weekends in the summer when Kevin mowed his lawn shirtless), you are certain they won’t be very appreciative of the artist’s need to let his muse guide him where it will.

You’re at the house now. Time to get out of your car and make an appearance at your latest exhibition.

Happy Looks Like They Found Your Papier-Mâché Sculptures Of The Family Next Door Day!

Mary Jane Day!

You and your friends like to smoke Mary Jane. At first it was just to be cool, then you started to get addicted. One thing led to another, and now you’re running a human trafficking ring solely to get your next fix.

“I used to dream of growing up to become a great man. Instead I became a guy who forces innocent women into prostitution.”

Take another hit of Mary Jane, then try to bargain the Russian down to $12,000 per girl.

“Thirteen,” the Russian will say. “You wouldn’t be so short on money if you didn’t smoke so much Mary Jane.”

“If I didn’t smoke so much Mary Jane I wouldn’t be involved in this game at all. I would have been the president of the United States.”

You’ll start to cry, but the Russian won’t blink an eye. He’ll just take your money and load the girls onto your truck while you sob. He’s used to people crying while he does business with them, because he does a lot of business with people who smoke a lot of Mary Jane.

“It inspires sudden attacks of crippling regret in the people who smoke it,” the Russian will say to you as he pats you on the shoulder. “You should quit.”

You’ll be stunned that he could be so stupid. “No one can quit Mary Jane. One puff and you’re addicted for life. The only way I could ever quit is—”

The Russian will give you a look that says, “Yes, that’s what I mean. You should kill yourself. That’s what I mean by quit.”

“It is the only way to get out from under the weight of addiction to Mary Jane.”

Tonight, after the girls you bought are all safely chained up in a basement, you’ll finally, and for eternity, kick the habit.

Happy Mary Jane Day!

Travel Across The Country With Someone You Would Never In A Million Years Travel Across The Country With Day!

Whether it’s because the airport got snowed in or you got robbed and don’t have any ID or credit cards or just because you have trauma induced amnesia after being in one of those New York City elevators when it ate somebody, today you’re going to travel across the country with someone you would never in a million years travel across the country with. Here are your options:

The man who pushed the button on your father’s lethal injection: you’ll recognize him when he steals your cab, but you won’t be able to remember from where at first. Then it’ll come to you. You were eight and your father was strapped into the lethal injection machine and this is the guy who pushed the button. You remember his blank look directly into your eyes when your father (he murdered his boss) finally went still. Now he’s offering to share that cab he stole, and you do need to get going in a hurry…

The 50-year-old woman who has been bullying your daughter on Facebook: She’s clearly unhinged. She randomly picked your daughter as the target of an endless series of hateful Facebook wall posts, encouraging your daughter to commit suicide because according to her, your daughter would be doing everyone a favor by dying. You’ve involved the police and you’ve even appeared on television to discuss whether your high-profile civil lawsuit against her is viable. But right now she managed to flag down a fruit truck and there’s room for one more in the flatbed…

A man who looks exactly like you and, impossibly, is you: He’s you. But you’re staring at him and he’s physically occupying space right next to you outside of your body. But he’s you. There’s no need to even ask questions. There are duplicates for all of us and you’ve met yours. Now to decide whether wrapping your arms around his waist and riding all the way to California on the back of his motorcycle will cause the tapestry of commonly accepted reality to unravel…

Happy Travel Across The Country With Someone You Would Never In A Million Years Travel Across The Country With Day!

Plants And Rags Day!

Everything’s in boxes on a truck but you want to leave some evidence behind. She bought the ficus tree, the one you let die after she left. It looks like a stripped bicycle chained to a sidewalk signpost for five seasons, all spokes, rust brown and weaker than wind, filling the corner of the apartment with ruin.

Leave it for the new tenants to find so they can register a complaint with the landlord. “You said the apartment would be clean and ready for our move-in date but there is a corpse in the corner, a body left to rot.” Let them know that this is hallowed ground, a battlefield where a brave boy and girl fought for a love they once believed in, fought way beyond the point when the war was over.

Let them complain. Let them call the landlord to come and clean up the body. Someone needs to know that something died within these walls. Your love was too big, its destruction too important to be swept under the rug. There should be an inquiry. The people need to know.

Happy Plants And Rags Day!

Kevin And Lucy Day!

Today everyone named Kevin was meant to be with someone named Lucy, but the Kevins all chose to marry someone named Sabrina instead, just because the Sabrinas had fun underpants.

Everyone named Lucy sometimes think about everyone named Kevin, and they want to kill all the Sabrinas.

Everyone named Lucy will take a glance down at their own underpants, and they’ll see it fraying at the waist-line, and the elastic around the thighs will be a little looser than when they bought them.

Everyone named Lucy will say, “That’s it!” Then everyone named Lucy will rush out to an underpants store and buy new pairs of very sexy underpants that are nothing but fun.

When they get home, everyone named Lucy will gather all their old underpants into a brown paper bag and get ready to incinerate them. Staring into the bag, everyone named Lucy will realize that buying new underpants isn’t the solution.

“New underpants fray,” everyone named Lucy will whisper into their bags of old underpants. “Mine always do. Sabrina’s surely did too.”

Everyone named Lucy will realize that everyone named Kevin probably watched the underpants worn by everyone named Sabrina turn to so much ratty ruined rags within months of getting married.

“Now he’s stuck with her,” everyone named Lucy will say.

The Lucys will feel sorry for the Kevins. The Lucys will feel sorry for the Sabrinas too. The Lucys will try to feel sorry for themselves, but they’ll be too overwhelmed with sadness for the Kevins and the Sabrinas.

“He just wanted to marry someone with fun underwear, and she just wanted someone to find a reason to marry her,” all the Lucys in the world will say. If you’re outside and it’s windy, you’ll probably hear some of them.

Happy Kevin And Lucy Day!

That Was Your Last Relationship Day!

You’re only 36 but the 14-month romantic relationship you ended yesterday is going to be the last one you’ll ever be party to. While you are feeling optimistic about playing the field and finding “the one,” you shouldn’t. You’ll date many people and you’ll often be the one who decides it’s not right. Either owing to your confidence in yourself or your constantly finding others lacking in the ability to give you the kind of approval you craved but never received from your parents, you’ll spend he rest of your healthy years dating cautiously, having increasingly less frequent random sexual encounters, or enduring months at a time completely alone. You won’t realize the relationship you ended yesterday will be your last until you’re in your mid-50’s.

Happy That Was Your Last Relationship Day!

Storage Wars Day!

You went on that show Storage Wars and you bid on the stuff in one of the lockers and won. You brought home all the porcelain knick knacks, bed linens, jewelry, and old Life magazines that could fit into an 8X10 foot space.

“Which is why I’m going to kill your wife and daughters if I don’t get it back in 6 hours,” the man who was behind on his rent on that storage locker is telling you as he waves a knife in front of your face.

You sold all of his stuff already. He says it’s okay, he doesn’t want the Life magazines or the bed linens. But among the knick knacks, there was apparently a set of racist salt and pepper shakers that he considers very valuable. Also, among the jewelry, there was an amulet.

“It’s the middle of the night,” you’re telling him. Your wife grunts from behind the duct tape over her mouth.

“Guess you’ll have to break in,” the man whose stuff you won on TV will say.

Later, after your high-octane treasure hunt is completed and you discover that the salt-shakers were composed of a crystallized synthetic drug and the amulet contained a key to a safe-deposit box full of diamonds, you’ll reread your contract for your appearance on Storage Wars and, sure enough, there will be a term that explicitly releases them from liability should the former owner of the stuff you win comes to your home and makes an attempt on your life. Also, they’re completely protected if the stuff you win is haunted or if it causes the spread of a dormant yet deadly virus for which there is no known vaccine.

“Well that show just lost a viewer,” you’ll say after removing the duct tape from your wife’s and daughters’ mouths and holding them to your chest to try and quiet their cries.

Happy Storage Wars Day!

Wash Your Slut Body Day!

All that casual sex to make you feel better about yourself starts to leave a residue, so you need to wash your slut body at least once a week. Today’s the day to recline in a hot tub and apply bath lotion to every patch of your skin that’s come in contact with another human being’s mouth, genitals or cash. Girls, make sure to get under the knees and the back of the neck. Boys, make sure to get the armpits and inside the nostrils. Soak and luxuriate your slut body for hours and hours. You’ve worked hard to get it this disgusting. Enjoy the cleanup because you’ve earned it, hussy.

Happy Wash Your Slut Body Day!

Ask Her New Husband Day!

Short on cash? Got an ex-wife with a new husband? Meet with him and ask him for some money.

Don’t just launch into it though. When you sit down, start off by asking if your ex-wife is well and if he’s taking care of her. He’ll say of course he is because he’s not you in that he cares about others.

Tell him you have a business prospect that could really turn into something big and since you care so much about your ex-wife you decided to ask her new husband if he wants to get in on this while he has the chance. He’ll say, “You drank your way out of another job and you need rent money.”

Say, “Isn’t it enough that you have my woman. Now you want to make me beg?”

He still won’t have taken out his checkbook yet, so here’s where you cry.

He needs to see it. He needs to see you cry with snot and everything. Then he’ll sigh and pull the checkbook from his pocket. Though it’s a lot of steps to go through, he really does want to give you that money. Being the second husband is a tough gig. No matter how awful you were, you were still there first. She once said in front of everyone that she would love you forever and it bothers him. He needs near constant reassurance that he’s better than you, and there’s no better way to get that than to give you a handout while you’re sobbing.

Make this money last. You’ll get maybe two more chances at payoffs from him, and the last one will be a big one. But after that he’ll cut you off. Unfortunately, that’s part of it. Refusing you money “for your own good” will be even more satisfying than giving you money like he’s ladling out soup for you at a shelter. So maybe try and sketch out a budget for yours– Whoops you already spent it all on cocaine.

Happy Ask Her New Husband Day!

Assface Day!

He tells you not to call him Assface because that’s what his wife calls him.

“It’s kind of an inside joke,” he says. “Like she doesn’t really think I’m an assface. She just called me that once while we were doing it. ‘Keep it comin’ Assface!’ Like that’s the last thing your wife would ever say to you while you’re making love. It was really funny at the time.”

Ask him why he’s sleeping with prostitutes if he thinks she’s so funny.

“The joke’s gotten a little old I guess,” he’ll say.

You’ll have sex with him for twelve minutes, then he’ll return to see you every week for the next three years until one day he says it’s time to stop.

“I thought the whole me having sex with a prostitute thing was kind of a gag. Like it was the last thing a guy like me would ever do. When we were having sex it was like there were quotation marks around the whole act. Like if anyone saw me with you they’d never think I was actually with you, you know?”

He’ll sit on the edge of your bed, his shoulders slumped.

“But this week I realized that if I’m having sex with a prostitute, then I’m exactly the kind of guy who’d have sex with a prostitute. And if my wife calls me assface, then she’s totally the kind of woman who would call her husband assface, because that’s what she thinks of me.”

He’ll take your hands and say, “I only want to be true. Say something true to me.”

Tell him, “You were my least favorite client, Assface. Even though I’m a prostitute and I only see the kind of guys who would sleep with prostitutes, I used to worry about my other clients seeing me with you and thinking less of me.”

He’ll say thank you. You gave him the first genuine moment he’s experienced in years.

Happy Assface Day!

Your Roommates Found Out About Your Secret Roommate Situation Day!

“How long has this been going on?” Eric will ask when you wake up in your tee shirt and boxers and you enter the part of the living room not occupied by Hillary’s futon.

Eric and Paul will be seated on the couch, behind the coffee table where a display of surveillance photos will be laid out, showing you in a different living room, in a different tee shirt and boxers, chatting over breakfast with a whole different set of roommates.

“You spied on me?” say to Eric.

“No,” Paul will say. “The private detective we hired spied on you. And the moment you get caught living a lie is not the moment for you to act violated.”

Tell them that you didn’t want it to happen. It’s not that there was something lacking in your roommate situation here.

“After I found this room, friends kept forwarding me Craigslist ads. They were really appealing, not better than this place. Just…different. New. Full of possibility. I figured I’d answer one. I thought hey, I can look, I just can’t lease.”

“But you didn’t just look,” Hillary will say. “Did you.”

Get up from the recliner and stand in the corner by the handwritten note reminding everyone that the TV has to be turned off by 1 AM so Hillary can sleep.

“The lies started immediately,” tell them. “And they just kept multiplying. At first I lied just to not seem like who I was, a whacko who goes looking for roommate situations when he already has one. I made up this whole story about how I had just moved into town and was hoping to make it as a DJ.”

“You’re in dental school,” Eric will say.

“I know I am!” you’ll shout. “And you know I am too. And maybe that’s why I did it. When I’m here I’m just a boring old dental student, living with a painter and an actress, and a web designer, you all have amazing, fun lives and I’m just the stiff. But when I’m there, I’m DJ Riboflavin. I throw parties and I come home at all hours with ribald tales to tell. And they’re the ones who want to hear my stories for a change.”

“Made-up stories,” Paul will interject.

“But at least they want to hear them.”

“We want to hear your stories,” Hillary will say.

“No you don’t. And why would you. It’s dental school.”

Your roommates will promise to pay more of an interest in you and your struggles at school, if you promise to move out of the other roommate share.

“I can’t,” say. “Not for another seven months. I’m on a lease. It’s not fair that they should have to suffer because I’m dishonest. Just like it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Hillary, Eric and Paul will say that they understand, and they’re just glad the air is clear and they can trust you now. You’ll feel bad, but also a little excited. How did you pull it off? They found out you’re a liar, but you made them think you’ve only been lying to other people and they bought it. They still believe you’re in dental school. They believe you only presently occupy rooms in two apartment shares. And no one you live with anywhere has the slightest idea that you’re actually a practicing tax attorney who lives in a house in the suburbs with a wife, two wonderful children, and a Corgi mix.

“I’m almost at the point where even I don’t know who I am anymore,” you’ll say into the mirror when you get back into your room. “Almost. With every lie I tell I’m a little closer to the dream.”

Happy Your Roommates Found Out About Your Secret Roommate Situation Day!

You Fax Dicks Day!

“Am I afraid of offices moving everything to email and digitized documents?” you say into the Burger King bathroom mirror while pretending to be interviewed by Craig Ferguson. “Of course I am. But you can’t fight progress.”

You faxed your first dick back in 1993, to the office of a collection agency based in Cincinnati. That first one was done in anger, after they told you they were coming after the $567 you owed Discover. But once you saw the “Fax Successful” confirmation, you were hooked.

“I don’t just fax pictures of my own dick,” you continue into the mirror. “Sometimes I’ll go on the internet at the library and print out photos of white dicks. White dicks are really weird looking, but I guess that’s subjective.”

Not only are offices eliminating their fax machines, but it’s getting harder for you to find a Kinko’s that will let you send the fax on your own.

“It’s a privacy invasion to keep your fax machine behind the counter, in my opinion. It’s like if the Post Office required you to hand the clerk your documents so that they could stuff them in the envelope themselves.”

Once fax machines are eliminated completely, you doubt you’ll move on to emailing dicks.

“It’s not the same,” you tell the mirror. “Sure I could find a general company email address, but only one person sifts through those and it’ll be deleted immediately. But a fax machine, sitting in the middle of the office floor, waiting for anyone to pass by and browse through the incoming documents. Let’s see, did my report from Glenn come in yet? No, no, not mine, whoah someone faxed us a dick! There’s the magic.”

So what will you do when it’s all over?

“My wife jokes that I’ll go crazy without being able to fax dicks,” you tell the mirror. “But I’m getting on in years. Can’t go on doing the same thing forever. I’ll probably just take to gardening or something peaceful like that. I like activities that let you feel the earth.”

The Burger King manager pounding on the bathroom door tells you that it’s about time for you to get to Kinko’s and fax off some dicks before sundown.

Happy You Fax Dicks Day!

Be The Gun Store Knifer Day!

Go into the gun store and hide in dark corners with your knife at the ready. When someone comes around the corner and within your reach, murder them silently with your knife. Then move to another part of the store and wait to knife other customers. Don’t stop until you’ve knifed about 30 gun store customers. No one will be able to believe someone would be able to kill so many people with a knife in a place where there are so many guns, which will illustrate your gun control thesis, “Guns don’t kill people…which is why they shouldn’t be sold. They don’t even work!”

Now go home and try to stop hearing the final last gasps of the people you knifed at the gun store. If you can’t make that happen, use the knife to stab yourself in the ears.

Happy Be The Gun Store Knifer Day!

Neighbor Lady With A Baby Day!

Your new next-door neighbor lady has a baby.

“You fuck someone for that?” ask her.

She’ll look at the baby and say, “Yup.”

You can tell she’s remembering the night she made the baby and thinking about the damp, flawed but seemingly endless expanse of beautiful skin on the man she fucked to get the baby so you give her a minute. You pretend to look at your phone. You pretend to laugh at a text that isn’t there.

“He still in the picture?” ask her.

Your neighbor lady will shake her head no. This is where you offer to be the father-figure to her child.

“Eighty bucks a week,” say. “I’ll teach it street smarts, how to use tools, what dignity is and why it’s important, and shit you can do to keep from paying taxes.”

The neighbor lady will say, “Seventy.”

Shake on it, then as soon as she pays you that week’s fee, hold her baby and let it rest its sleepy head on your rock-hard pectoral muscles.

“Don’t you worry,” say to the neighbor-lady while holding the baby. “You made the right decision. Your baby’s gonna grow up to have a nice life, now.”

Your neighbor-lady will start to cry until you tell her to stop it.

Happy Neighbor Lady With A Baby Day!

Multiracial Cycling Club Day!

You really don’t need to name your bicycling club The Multiracial Cycling Club. Everyone assumes that a bicycling club would allow people of different races to join, but you act like that’s the main feature of your club. Even though you may be proud of how many different cultures and ethnicities are represented by your membership, the name seems weird and it makes people uncomfortable. And change the slogan too. “Because when it comes to riding bikes, it’s all pink inside” doesn’t even make any sense.

Happy Multiracial Cycling Club Day!

Confess Your Drunk Driving Hit And Run To Your Cats Day!

The only way to get this off your conscience is to confess. Unfortunately, if you confess to a human they’ll probably insist that you go to the police or at least cut down on your drinking. Your cats, however, aren’t quite so judgey. It’s a lot to lay on them all at once but it’s time they earned their keep.

“Listen up assholes,” say to them after you’ve gathered them all in the living room and blocked the kitchen door to keep them from getting way. “Your owner did something she regrets, and it’s only fair that you know what it is.”

Take a long sip of your Moscow Mule. This is going to be hard to get out.

“Last year around Easter Sunday. Wait, was it Easter Sunday? Ah fuck it you assholes don’t know what Easter is. Anyway I was tooling around looking for this one bar I remembered used to give away free chicken strips at happy hour. All a sudden this guy just jumps in front of my car out of nowhere. Splat.”

Two of your cats will stare at you with concern. The other four will be fighting over a q-tip they found.

“I stopped. I didn’t just peel away or anything. I went out to see what I could do. But when he rolled over and asked for help, he looked like my Dad. No way was I taking him to the hospital with that face on his skull. So I booked it.”

Down the rest of your Mule, then scratch the head of the cat who jumped on your lap at the end of the story. Your cats forgive you. Maybe it’s time you forgave yourself, even though considering all those details you don’t deserve to be forgiven in the slightest.

Happy Confess Your Drunk Driving Hit And Run To Your Cats Day!

Set All The Women’s Underwear On Fire And Walk Away Slow Day!

You are a janitor at a high-end gym and about a year after getting the job you got the idea to start breaking into women’s lockers and stealing their dirty underwear.

“Dirty rich lady underwear,” you’ll mutter today as the flames rise. “Dirty rich lady underwear casting a goddamn spell.”

At first it was just a goof, kind of like stealing office supplies or sneaking Danish from a catered plate for a meeting you aren’t attending. But soon it became an addiction.

“You took hold of me,” you’ll growl as the lace fringe turns to ash. “Let me think I was in control, but you held all the cards.”

Your home has been overrun with dirty women’s underwear, hundreds of pairs stuffed into desk drawers and kitchen cabinets and old tube TV casings. You slept on it as your bed. You dried yourself with it after your bath. You sat under it like a blanket let it keep you warm while you read your magazines on the papasan chair. You piled it up so that it looked like a person and you’d talk to it about people in your life who betrayed your trust.

“I’m done with ladies’ panties. Time to be all I can be!” you’ll shout at the silk and the cotton and the string-hips and printed briefs. “Life begins at 56.”

The fire will grow too hot to sit near. Get out of your house, turn your back on it and walk away slow as the underwear blaze swallows your home whole. Way to turn over a new leaf on your 56th birthday.

Happy Set All The Women’s Underwear On Fire And Walk Away Slow Day!

Pharmacy Pal Day!

You and your Pharmacy Pal like to sit and wait for your prescriptions and reminisce about the women you’ve loved.

Him: “We spent three days in bed in a hotel room in Cleveland. When we finally put our clothes on and turned on the TV, Reagan had been reelected.”i

You: “She used to throw forks at my head she loved me so much. Her husband once offered to pay me $75,000 if I’d move three states away.”

Today’s the big day when you both realize you’re describing the same woman. A woman who used to cry over the bow of the Staten Island Ferry while wearing a white dress.

“That’s so insane,” you’ll say. “I guess with all the women you and I have had we were bound to intersect.”

“Was she real?” he’ll ask. “Or a spectre.”

“Specter,” you’ll say. “Totally. No one else on the boat could see her. She was the ghost of a woman who’d been jilted at the altar and threw herself overboard.”

“How many specters you had?” your Pharmacy Pal will say.

You hate when he asks you first, because he always tops it. You tell him six disembodied apparitions or “energies” as the people on TV like to say.

“Seven,” he’ll say. “Fucking ghosts. They really don’t have any morality do they?”

They really don’t, tell him. Then both of you should sit silently and enjoy your memories of the spirits of women you’ve made love to.

Happy Pharmacy Pal Day!

Tell Your Wife’s Sister It’s Over Day!

“We can’t do this anymore,” say. “You have too strong a hold on me. Every time you open your mouth you make me want you more, and I can’t betray Katie any longer.”

“My sister cheats on you with your brother,” she’ll tell you.

Remind her you don’t have a brother.

“If you did, she’d cheat on you with him.”

Tell her that imagining having a brother, and imagining your wife secretly having sex with him, just made you super-hot. Enter her.

When finished say, “We can’t do this anymore” and mean it this time.

Happy Tell Your Wife’s Sister It’s Over Day!

Remember Where You Came From Day!

You’ve had amnesia for eight months now. You had an accident where your car went over a bridge. You were rescued by a lonely man named Arnold who you fell in love with as he nursed you back to health. He’s refused to help you reconnect with the life you had before you lost your memory. That’s been fine because you’re happy with him, but you still can’t help but wonder who you were really. Arnold doesn’t want to tell you because he’s scared you’ll leave.

“I researched it. The guy you were with before the accident was fucking hot. And you had a really great job. I don’t want you two to learn who you used to be. You’ll dump me so fast.”

You’ve explained to Arnold that there’s no way the guy you were with back then could win you back if he couldn’t even be bothered to find you and help you remember who he is and why you and he were an item. And a job’s just a job.

“No way,” Arnold says. “He’s way too hot. If he’s still into you I’ll be history.”

You badger him until he relents and gives you the address of the guy you don’t remember loving. You visit him and after brief pleasantries he’s inside of you. Feeling that, you remember everything, including that he is a well-respected economist and that you are the Vice President of the United States. Return to Washington and have them call off the search party and tell them to arrest Arnold for kidnapping someone really important. Then work on creating some smooth lines of communication in a fractious Congress.

Happy Remember Where You Came From Day!

Porn Apartment Day!

Half-way through masturbating to a scene about a housewife who decided to have sex with a man who was just trying to sell her a vacuum, you’ll realize that the people you’re masturbating to are having sex in the very spot where you are masturbating. Your apartment must have been used as a location for pornographic videos before you moved in. If you continue to masturbate to this scene, to the point of achieving orgasm, you’ll create a paradox that results in Germany having won the second World War.

Happy Porn Apartment Day!

Vows Day!

You wake up in Joe’s bed on your wedding day, the day you’ll begin the rest of your life with Henry.

Don’t roll out of bed shouting regrets at the clothes on the floor.

Don’t double over in tears.

Don’t shake Joe awake and tell him it was a mistake insisting you love Henry and you just got scared and you did something to put it all in jeopardy because that’s how a young girl sets things in motion.

Stay still, your breath steady, testing the weather under the covers. A heat created by the humming machinery under your and Joe’s skin. He runs hotter than Henry.

Joe opens his eyes and tells you he’s a despicable Best Man. Tell him you’re a despicable bride.

In calm even tones, both of you repeat the following:

I [Your cheating/lying/best friend or husband-to-be betraying name]

Promise to never ever hurt Henry like this again.

I will devote my life to making Henry’s life more comfortable and entertaining

As penance for this dishonest act.

I will never tell Henry about this morning, about last night.

I will do what I can to understand the feelings that made me want to harm this person I love dearly.

I will do what I can to be a good wife/a better friend.

Pinky swear, then sneak out of Joe’s room and down to yours using the fire stairs. It’s time to get ready for the best day of your life.

Happy Vows Day!

Training Day!

Today is your first day behind the fish counter at Whole Foods. The guy training you is named Felix and Felix is sad.

“Last night I got up the nerve to ask my wife to take me back,” Felix says. “She said no, that she’s happy with her new life, living with a new man who doesn’t wear the stink of the sea on him at all times, a stink so deeply penetrating it’s like he’s got guppies swimming through his veins instead of blood. She used to make me hold my arms in a bucket of bleach up to my elbows once a week. I did it. For her I did it, and I still do it in case she ever decides to change her mind and find a place in her heart for me again. That’s why my arm hair’s blonde if you were wondering.”

You were wondering and you’re glad he explained it. However, you’re worried that Felix’s heart isn’t in this and you’re going to start your training off on the wrong foot.

“There’ll be other fish in the sea,” you say, laughing uncomfortably. “Hey how about we start training?”

Felix says, “I can’t train you kid. I can’t induct you into this life. I can’t let another man suffer loveless and alone, nothing to keep him company but the fish scales permanently stuck to the tops of his shoes. Swim, boy.”

Look Felix in the eye and say, “If I can convince your wife to take you back, will you train me?”

Felix will say yes. You’ll spend the next six years of your life trying to convince his wife to take him back but she won’t budge. Eventually, Felix will die of a broken heart, and when his coffin goes in the ground, so will your dream of working a fish counter at Whole Foods. This is how you will learn that just because you have a dream, the universe is under no obligation whatsoever to make sure you see that dream fulfilled.

Happy Training Day!

Say Goodbye To The Guy You Ran Some Errands For Day!

While on the run from the police who want to arrest you for Public Sadness you’ll spy a townhouse with the front door wide open so you slip inside hoping to have a place to hide for a while. In the vestibule you’ll realize you’ve been there before. It’s Murray’s house. Murray’s an angry old rich man and fifteen years ago you used to run errands for him.

“Come to gloat?” Murray will be sitting in a wheelchair before you at the end of the long hall, two suitcases flanking him on the floor.

“I’ve come to say goodbye,” you’ll say.

Walk to Murray and kneel by his chair.

“I was reaching for my wife’s photo on the nightstand and I fell out of bed,” Murray will say. “That was enough to have my home health aide tell em I need full-time staff care. Off to the damn home.”

“Time to go Murray,” the home health aide will say from behind you.

You need to stay in that house until the police pass, so start stalling.

“Murray, there’s something I never told you.”

Murray will say spit it out. Shoot a look at the home health aide to get Murray to tell him to wait outside. When he’s gone, say, “I came to you when I was just 23. You were very important to me at that time, like a father I never had. My whole adult life, I’ve tried to live it with yours as my example.”

Murray’s eyes will well up with tears. “I wasn’t sure if I got through to you, kid. I need to tell you something too.”

Say, “What is it Murray?”

Murray will say, “Lean in closer. I want to tell you about something I want to give to you. When I’m not around anymore.”

You’ll do as he says. He’ll cough a few times, wipe his mouth slowly, then he’ll take a few deep breaths, trying to summon enough air in his lungs to speak. When he finally does, he’ll say, “Sorry kid.”

Two policemen will have you in their grip and facedown on the floor before you realize what’s happened. They came in the open front door right after you and snuck up while you were waiting for Murray’s declaration.

“Nice job stalling, sir,” one of the cops will say.

“Just glad I could help clean up this neighborhood a little bit before I say goodbye to it,” Murray will say.

Look up at Murray and say, “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry about a lot of things I guess.”

“Then you really did follow my example, kid.”

One of the cops will say, “Maybe next time you won’t be so sad in public, we won’t have to put you away.”

You’ll be taken before the judge and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.

Happy Say Goodbye To The Guy You Ran Some Errands For Day!

Every Boy Needs A Hero Day!

When Jeff sees you out on the ledge he won’t be scared. He knows you can fly.

“No,” his coworker Arnold will say. “She can stop time, but she can’t fly.”

“You’re both wrong,” Keith from legal will say. “She has the ability to control crowds with the pitch and tremble of her voice.”

“For God’s sake,” the guy from the mail room (forgot his name) will say. “She’s able hypnotize people with her eyes. What’s wrong with you fucking idiots? Get it straight.”

“You’re all wrong,” Evan Holcomb III, the CEO of the company will say. They didn’t see him walk up behind them.

“Mr. Holcomb,” they’ll all say. He’s never spoken to any of them before.

Staring up at you, Mr. Holcomb will continue talking as if he forgot his employees were there. Or, at least, as if he forgot they were his employees. He’ll marvel at you, a deep sadness in his eyes, and he’ll say, “She can hold her breath for a really long time.”

His employees will manage to keep from laughing at him until he wanders away. Then they’ll go back to looking at you, waiting to see how you get yourself out of this one. They’ve all been arguing over which powers you possess every since your first day of work, when you wore the blue dress. They don’t know what made you decide to step out on that ledge while they were all at lunch, but they know whatever it is, you can get out of it.

You — and your eyebrows, and the way your voice gets deep when you argue, and your fingernails, and your sweetness — are their hero. Get down off that ledge safely and you’ll prove them right for having believed in you.

Happy Every Boy Needs A Hero Day!

She Attended The Orgy Without You Day!

You found the cocktail napkin in her pants pocket when you were looking for some money to pay a delivery person. Modern Loving House. She went.

“You told me you didn’t want to go,” say to her.

“I didn’t,” she’ll say. “Then I changed my mind.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

Run from the house in tears and don’t come home for a couple of days. You can spend time at the second apartment where your presently housing a girlfriend. Your wife knows about Shannon.

After you’ve cooled off, return home and your wife will sit you down and explain with a hand on your knee.

“You’re a showboat,” she’ll say. “When we attend an orgy, all eyes are always on you, as you fuck in wild positions with the precision of an acrobat. Look, he’s doing the Grungy Martindale. The Upside Down Chinese Fire Drill. The Jo Polniaczek. I’m always shunted off to the sidelines by the crudité. Even while getting drilled I get asked what it’s like to be married to such a sexual artist. I just wanted to experience an orgy on my own. I just wanted–”

“To not have your sexual partnering ignored in the looming shadow of my own,” say. “I never knew how my erotic virtuosity affected you.”

“It’s not that I’m not proud,” she’ll say.

“I’m not proud,” tell her. “I’m not proud that I made you feel this way.”

Call the RSVP lines of your next three scheduled orgies and tell them you won’t be able to make it, but your wife will still attend. Return to her, kiss her forehead, and tell her, “It’s time for you to shine.”

Happy She Attended The Orgy Without You Day!

Whisking You Away From A Terrible Mistake Day!

He’ll spot you at the table with your hand clasped in the hand of the guy who’s wrong for you, the one with the curly dirty blonde hair and a fat wealthy face. He’ll see the surrounding family, soon-to-be in-laws, a joyless, undermining lot all of whom claim to be Christian folk but who only care about property and vodka and what kind of promotions the neighbors’ kids are getting.

“Let’s go,” he’ll say to you, suddenly standing beside your chair.

“You think so?” you’ll ask.

“Look around,” he’ll say. “You know you don’t belong with them. They only want you because you’re beautiful, because you’ll look good in the family photos, off to the left, unsmiling. Just like his mother.”

“Who is this?” the mother-in-law to be will ask.

“Let’s go,” he’ll say again.

Your fiance will stand up to him and say, “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull–”

He’ll pepper spray your fiance. Then he’ll go around the table and pepper spray everyone in your fiance’s family, including his grandmother. They’ll fall to the floor crying and clawing at their faces while he whisks you away to the sidewalk. Ask him why he pepper sprayed everyone at the table and he’ll tell you no one’s chasing after you are they, so it must have been a good idea.

“Go find another mistake to make,” he’ll say. “Be careful though, I might not be around for the next one.”

Ask him if he’d like to be your next mistake and he’ll wave his wedding ring at you. Ask him why he saved you from marrying the wrong guy if he’s already married and has no interest in you himself and he’ll say he has an interest in doing the right thing.

“I saw a beautiful girl sitting at the wrong table,” he’ll say. “I escorted her away from it. Just being a good citizen.”

Just then lightning will crack in the sky and he’ll shout, “Fuck I hate the fuckin’ rain!” Then he’ll run for shelter, leaving you there, soaked.

Happy Whisking You Away From A Terrible Mistake Day!

Rehabilitate Day!

Today’s your first day as a free man after being in jail for two days. The first thing you should do is go back to your hometown to see how things have changed while you were inside. You’ll discover that a parking meter that was broken before you left has been repaired now.

“Guess time doesn’t stop just because a man makes a mistake,” you’ll say out loud to the parking meter.

You’ll also find that Rise of the Planet of the Apes has left the multiplex, having been replaced by The Debt.

“So much is lost!” you’ll sob, falling to your knees, wishing to Christ you could go back in time 48 hours and not get drunk and take a leak on the front window of that Mailboxes Etc. But no matter how loudly you lament, time stubbornly pushes forward.

Happy Rehabilitate Day!

Make Sure There Isn’t Any Jagged Shrapnel Impaled In Your Bodies Before Trying To Make Love Day!

Having run from exploding glass and storms of debris, there’s a good chance that one of you has some shard of metal or a hunk of asbestos jutting into your skin, poisoning your blood stream and causing the kind of discomfort that makes it hard to focus on romance. It’s important as the last surviving man and woman on earth that the two of you begin to reproduce as soon as possible, but you’re first going to have to inspect your bodies to make sure you’re free of any gaping wounds or shrapnel. Before you start entering each other, make sure that all foreign objects find their exit.

There are some clean rags and rubbing alcohol on the shelf in the rear of the bunker. After dislodging all jagged relics of the society that once stood proudly as towering evidence of all that man can do from your legs, arms, and midsections, pour on the rubbing alcohol to fight infection. You’re made of strong stuff, no doubt, if you were able to survive not only the man-made fires but the ones that seemed to rain down from God’s hand, so as long as you aren’t losing a lot of blood you’re probably going to be fine. Wrap any wounds and give them time to heal. As soon as you both have your strength back, start having intercourse to respawn the human race for the second dawn of mankind.

Happy Make Sure There Isn’t Any Jagged Shrapnel Impaled In Your Bodies Before Trying To Make Love Day!

Met Him By The Trash Cans At The Burger King Day!

You were waiting for your whopper when he sidled up next to you and said, “I’m dangerous. Let me tell you some stories. After you finish eating your burger of course.”

He had a growl you couldn’t say no to. You took the whopper to go and ate it in his passenger seat while he talked about having been in the CIA. It didn’t matter if it was true or not. When you lead as dull a life as you lead, you’re grateful for some lies as long as they’re interesting. When he pulled over you got out and made love behind a tree. Some hikers averted their eyes.

He went back to the car first while you dressed. You heard gunshots. When you returned to the car he was splayed over the trunk and bleeding from five wounds. A helicopter flew away from a cliff above you. You walked the ten miles home, your head full of state secrets that could get you killed if anyone ever knew you possessed them. Your womb full of his child.

Happy Met Him By The Trash Cans At The Burger King Day!

Husband Eyes Day!

You provide a voluntary eye transplant service wherein people who want to see the world through someone else’s eyes can have them transplanted into their own skull for an exorbitant fee. Business was slow for a while because you could only do the operation for people who received eyes via a last will and testament. But after a long fight and pulling a lot of strings, you got a meeting with the organization handling the organs donated by people who select it on their driver’s licenses. You convinced them to allow bereaved spouses and children the chance to get the eyes of the deceased if they then donated their own eyes in turn, assuming that all the eyes in question are functioning. No one could challenge your argument, and now you’re making a lot of money off of bereaved women who want “Husband Eyes.”

Today you’re going to have a consult with a woman who has the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen. She’ll show you her dead husband’s eyes in an igloo cooler. You feel like replacing her eyes with her husband’s would be the equivalent of slashing a Klimt canvas in a museum. You’ll tell her you can’t cut out her eyes because you just fell in love with them, and her. She’ll tell you she’s still deep in mourning for her husband, to the point that she is walking around with his eyes in a fucking igloo cooler, and that you’re being very inappropriate. She’ll tell you she doesn’t want the surgery anymore and she thinks she should be refunded her co-pay for the consult. You’ll say co-pays are nonrefundable. She’ll argue, but you won’t budge.

“Keep your goddamn eyes then,” you’ll say. “But I keep the fucking co-pay. I’ll keep it in my hands and you can come get it back on the day I die by reaching into my open-casket coffin at my wake and ripping it from my right palm, where I’ll have had the undertaker sew to the skin.”

Happy Husband Eyes Day!

The M Stands For Murder Day!

Your ATM screen told you to kill somebody today. It showed you his face and gave you his address. It even said when he’ll be alone in his apartment and which window he leaves open. You only went in to get forty dollars and for the first time in many months you didn’t choose “fast cash.” Now you know what happens when you don’t choose “fast cash.”

“So? Do we have a deal?”

The deal is that once the ATM can determine that the target is dead, you will have fifty thousand dollars added to your checking account, increasing your balance to $50,143.

The ATM gave you two options to select from. You chose the “I’m not sure if I have it in me to take the life of another man” option.

The ATM displayed several screens that convinced you that your hesitation is the result of an illusion into which humans have invested in order to preserve society, but that if you could see it from the point of view of a machine, you’d realize how easy and inconsequential a murder is. The way it was phrased was very convincing. You agreed to kill the guy by selecting, “Okay, I’ll do it. I guess you really hated the way this guy pushed the buttons on your screen, huh?”

The ATM will respond that that’s none of your business. You’ll worry that you offended the ATM, but since it’s only allowing you to select from two options for what your side of the dialogue should be at every turn of the conversation, you guess that it’s not something you should concern yourself with. After committing the murder you’ll go back to the ATM and discover that your balance has increased by fifty grand, so it’ll all work out. Congrats. You’ll be the first to murder a man at the behest of a machine, but not the last.

Happy The M Stands For Murder Day!

All These Sweaters Day!

When you come home you set fire to your house then you go out into your backyard to watch it burn. Your neighbor comes into your yard to congratulate you on making the big move. You tell him thanks, it just felt like it was time to make a change. The wall of the dining room crumbles. The bay window bursts. He asks if you saved anything. You open a trash bag full of sweaters that you knitted over the past year and a half. All these sweaters are my ticket out of this life you tell him. Once I open up my own store I’m on easy street. He looks through the bag and thinks the sweaters are hideous and misshapen but doesn’t tell you. He wants you to open the sweater shop and fail. Everyone wants you to fail so they can feel justified in not burning down their own houses and opening their own sweater shops.

Happy All These Sweaters Day!

Spaversation Day!

Getting your nails done at a high-end spa you end up conversing with the lady in the chair next to yours.

“Falling out of love with anybody?” you ask.

She laughs and says, “How much time you got?”

You become fast friends and when your nails are dry you both leave the spa together, first to spy on her husband as he sits by the window during a business lunch.

“He made some promises,” she says. “At least, he stated some hopes for himself. I heard them as promises.”

“Doesn’t matter if it was said or even if it was heard,” you say. “It just matters what you’ve decided you thought you wanted, and how far away that is from what you have. Come on.”

You take her to a cafe across the street from your live-in boyfriend’s storefront real estate office.

“Sometimes I think I live with him just to learn what I don’t want in my next relationship,” you say.

One of you suggests that you both just leave town without a word, take off for a new city and a new life. You both laugh, then you agree to never see each other again.

“This was fun, but no one I see socially can know,” you say.

“Same here,” she says. “The only thing I have left is the illusion that my life might be better than my friends’.”

You smile at each other, and she doesn’t slow down the car. You just open the door and roll out onto the median.

Happy Spaversation Day!

How You And Ned Met Day!

You were fifteen and sort of angry in a general way, so you took your bike and tossed it down the steps into the park, letting it clatter and fall apart as it bounced on the cement. Your dad bought you that bike, and it worked fine still, but for some reason you decided to smash it to pieces.

Amid the sound of a bicycle bouncing end over end you were surprised to hear a man’s shout. You went downstairs to find a homeless man of about fifty-five sitting before a fire, rubbing the back of his head where your bike hit him. You apologized and he introduced himself as Ned.

A friendship began. You joined Ned nearly every night after school and watched him cook possum for dinner and he listened to you tell him about the teachers at school. Ned taught you to never believe anything that’s ever written in any book. Not ever.

“Not even the Thesaurus,” he said.

You were a devoted student of Ned’s and you obeyed his teachings. You came to believe that Ned knew more than you might ever know. He certainly knew more than all of your teachers combined. You decided that you would only accept knowledge that came from one of your talks with Ned, and you would only pursue a life according to Ned’s rules. You’re in prison now for exposing yourself to a minor during an armed robbery.

Happy How You And Ned Met Day!

I’m Steve And I Stole Your Prius Day!

You got a letter in the mail this morning from a guy named Steve. He says he’s the guy who stole your Prius back in March. He says he isn’t sorry he did it, not that it would matter because why would you forgive him. But he wanted to write to you to let you know who he is, and to send you a picture of himself. He realizes that sending you a picture of himself could put him at risk of being apprehended but he claims he lives far enough away from you that he’ll take his chances.

“Stealing your Prius was the first crime I’ve ever committed, and I wanted to explain why I did it,” the letter goes on. “I saw it sitting there outside the grocery store with the engine running and the door open. You had run back in to get something. Probably an item you purchased but left at the checkout. Taking a guess.

"Anyway,” he writes. “I decided then and there that maybe if I steal your Prius I’ll force my life in a direction that might lead to me changing the way I interact with the world. A car theft might lock me into some desperate situations that I’ll have to confront head-on in order to remain a free man.”

“Confronting things head-on is not what I normally do in life. I’ve usually felt as substantial as a ghost. When I meet someone new I feel like the person I’m meeting is already directing his attention to the memory of someone else with whom he’d prefer to be speaking at that moment. Before I release someone from my handshake, I’ve been forgotten. Up until I stole your Prius I felt I had lived my life with absolutely no impact on anything or anyone in this world.”

“So I’m writing to you to let you know who I am, and to let you know I stole your Prius. Though the theft didn’t do much to change my soft-spoken, quietly trod path through life, it did mean that I had an impact on someone. You. I inconvenienced you. I made you speak to the police and drive a rental provided by your insurance agent. Perhaps you even took the bus and developed a racial prejudice based on an assumption you’d made about my ethnicity. I did that to you. I am important to you. Which means I might have no stronger bond with anyone than I do with you.”

There’s a PO Box for you to write back to Steve. You dictate a letter to your home health aide to tell Steve the story about how you walked home after your Prius was stolen and got hit by a drunk driver, losing the ability to walk. You start to get weak as you dictate the part about your wife leaving you for your physical therapist, but you summon the strength to finish. You end on a congratulations to Steve for his newfound “impact” and you tell him you hope you and he can meet in hell one day. You ask your home health aide to mail the letter right away, but she doesn’t bother to mail it at all because she thinks her job is to help you get to the bathroom, not mail your letters, and if she starts acting like your secretary you’ll think it’s okay to continue treating her like one.

I’m Steve And I Stole Your Prius Day!

Coffee Shop Pranks Day!

Your pal Jimmy, a really funny guy who you always like to chat up at the coffee shop, will show up today with blood all over his shirt and hands.

“Rough day Jimmy?” you’ll ask.

Jimmy will tell you he woke up with no memory of the past three days. There was a girl in his room he’s never seen before. You gotta help him get rid of the body.

“This just another one of your ridiculous pranks Jimmy?”

You and the baristas will all laugh together, since you’ve all been the victim of Jimmy’s pranks in the past. Jimmy loves to play pranks.

“You’re with them aren’t you?” Jimmy will say to you all. Then he’ll take off running.

Alert his buddy at the public library that he’s probably on his way there and he’s suspicious. Make sure to send someone over to clean his apartment and get rid of the girl. You aren’t a part of any sort of nefarious agency or anything. You’re all just sick to death of Jimmy’s pranks so you got together to play a prank on him that he’ll never forget. Now get into your makeup and go greet Jimmy as his dead mother.

Coffee Shop Pranks Day!

You Got Up To Pee Day!

Your wife was all ready to leave. While you were getting ready for bed she put all her things back in her suitcase and left it by the door. She had her clothes folded underneath the bed and she was going to slip outside and get dressed on the landing and then drag her suitcase down to the street and hitch her way out of Denver. She wrote a note. It’s still on the desk, sealed in a yellow envelope. She forgot to grab it from the desk when you suddenly woke up to pee and wandered into the bathroom, so sleepy you didn’t even notice her standing by the open motel room door. You didn’t even notice her holding onto her folded up pants and shirt, with her suitcase tipped at an angle ideal for dragging. You just shuffled into the bathroom with eyes half-shut. In the time it took you to pee she got her clothes back under the bed, her suitcase back in the closet, herself back under the covers because she lost her head-start with you awake. She lost her nerve with you shuffling around the motel room. Now she’s back asleep beside you in bed and you’re still awake, no clue that she came this close to leaving you, no clue what that yellow envelope is doing on the motel room desk. Perhaps it’s a comment card, though you don’t remember seeing it there before you went to bed. Probably just a comment card. Guess they use the same yellow envelopes you use at home. You can check it out in the morning.

Happy You Got Up To Pee Day!

Power Outage Day!

The lights will go out and you’ll all hold still, unsure what it means to the agreement you established in the living room. Do you continue as if nothing happened or should you all take a time-out to go and fish your phones out of your pants pockets to check on the sitters.

“What do you think?” you ask Horace.

“I think it’s perfect,” he says.

He’s right, it is perfect. Thanks to a little accidental overuse of air conditioning, it feels like the city has shut down, life has hit pause, so that you all could step out of your usual roles as wife, husband, mother, and father and pretend for a little while that you are completely free to do as you please, to wander into another bedroom, another bed, a bed with Horace.

“Sweetie?” It’s your husband. He’s at the door. “Not coming in. Just checking, think it’s okay?”

While smiling at Horace, a smile he can see by the moonlight, say, “I think it’s more than okay. We’ll call in a half-hour, but I’m sure they’re fine.”

Horace will kiss you once then pull your underwear from beneath your skirt. You’ll hear your husband’s steps as he returns to his bedroom next door, where Horace’s wife is waiting for him. Kiss Horace again on the lips before he leaves a trail of kisses between your ribs. Lay back with your head hanging off the edge of the bed so that you can see the moon upside down. You’ll see the whole city upside down, even the tanks moving down the middle of the street.

Tanks. You’ll flip over to make sure you’re seeing right. Someone in the TV room will start shouting about what he just learned via CNN, then one of the servicemen outside will explain through a mobile PA system what it means for a city to be occupied. You get back into your clothes and your marriages, racing to head home to your children, racing through a world that became a very different place while you wandered.

Happy Power Outage Day!

Spy Vs Spy Day!

Today at the wine tasting you’re going to finally let Heather know that you’re not her husband.

“I had surgery to look like John,” tell her. “It’s important that certain governments think he’s still alive.”

Heather will run from the wine tasting into the fields surrounding the winery. Chase after her and tell her that you only revealed the truth because you fell in love, and that these years pretending to be her husband have been the happiest of your life. Ask her if she could possibly feel the same?

“I don’t like to admit it,” she’ll say. “But I’ve loved you more since you replaced him. I love you more than I ever loved him. I didn’t understand how my feelings could change, since I thought you were the same person the whole time, but now I do.”

Go home and make love. When you fall asleep, she’ll sneak off to the bathroom to contact her agency and let them know that the reconstructive surgery worked because you clearly don’t suspect a thing.

“Not only does he not know that I’m a spy pretending to be Heather so that I could monitor the movements of the spy pretending to be John,” she’ll whisper. “But he thinks he’s fallen in love with me.”

Her agency will say that it’s time for her to activate plan R.

Before she comes back to bed, contact your agency and let them know that the spy pretending to be Heather bought your “I love you” act and she doesn’t suspect in the slightest that you know she’s not Heather. Your agency will tell you to activate plan S.

Your agencies will then contact each other to laugh at how you two don’t have the slightest clue that they’re only using you to play a live-action Sims game.

Happy Spy Vs Spy Day!

You Sold Sneakers To Al Qaida Day!

You’ve been spiraling ever since 9/11, drinking yourself into a blind mess. Tonight, a prostitute who drinks at the same bar as you will invite you back to her apartment to look at pictures of the daughter she hopes to reconnect with one day, and you’ll decide she’s just broken enough to hear your confession.

“I sold sneakers to Mohamed Atta and three of the other hijackers,” you’ll tell her. “Two weeks before 9/11.”

Tell her that you spent forty minutes with them, pressing on their big toes to feel if they needed more wiggle room, watching them walking around in one shoe to get a feel for the insole. You even talked one of them out of a more expensive shoe because he mentioned he had arch issues and you knew the more expensive one offered crap support.

“So what are you saying?” she’ll ask. “Do you think you had a hand in 9/11 because you sold the hijackers sneakers?”

Tell her, “No. But I made 9/11 a little more comfortable for them, didn’t I?”

The prostitute will tell you that you couldn’t have known. If the CIA couldn’t apprehend them with all the red flags they were raising in the months leading up to 9/11, how were you supposed to know that you shouldn’t have sold them sneakers, or at least that you should have sold them sneakers that might inflame their sensitive tissue areas? She’ll tell you that you need to accept that you were just doing your job, and that maybe you’re just hanging on to the guilt because you’re too scared to live your life.

You and she will make love that night and then you’ll hang yourself by your belt in her bathroom.

Happy You Sold Sneakers To Al Qaida Day!

Tied To The Bed And Blindfolded Just As The Sun Bursts And Dies Day!

You let your boyfriend tie you to the bed and blindfold you during sex because things have gotten a bit rote lately. As luck would have it, your sex blindfold is made of a rarely used rubberized polyester that will protect your eyes when the sun bursts and dies today, and everyone else in the world will be instantly blinded. In the coming days you’ll be very popular because you’ll be one of the few people who can still see, and soon everyone will know that if someone still has the gift of sight it’s because they were having weird sex with a blindfold on when the sun burst. And that’s why in the future vision will be considered pervy.

Happy Tied To The Bed And Blindfolded Just As The Sun Bursts And Dies Day!

Keep A Secret Day!

The man in the raincoat will be reading a message on his smart phone when he slips off of the subway platform and falls onto the tracks. Run to the edge and see him there, belly down, conscious but moving slowly. Look around but there’s no one else to help him. Peer into the tunnel. No train coming. There’s time.

Your hand extended: “Here.”

The man will roll over half-way to look up at you. He’ll look down the tracks, searching for anyone else who might be watching from the platform. Then he’ll look at the message on his cell phone once more.

“Can you keep a secret?” he’ll ask.

You can. You don’t say so, but he must be able to tell from your eyes, because the man nods, stuffs the cell phone back in his pants, then reaches out and grabs the third rail.

Tell the police you ran to the edge and saw his body shaking, already cooked.

His wife will track you down because she wants to meet the last person who saw him alive. Tell her you only caught a glimpse of him before he disappeared over the side, and the next time you saw him he was gone.

If it will help you keep the secret to know what was in the email he was reading just before he died, the email he was reading was an email from Netflix asking about the picture quality of Sons Of Anarchy Season 1. If he was getting service down there on the tracks he would have selected, “The quality was very good.”

Happy Keep A Secret Day!

The Loneliest CEO Day!

The loneliest CEO cries in his Lincoln Town Car because he has no one waiting at home to hug him and listen to his stories when he walks through the door.

“You okay boss?” the loneliest CEO’s chauffeur asks through the window separating the front seat from the back.

“Do you know rough men?” the loneliest CEO asks. “Tough men who can kill me for a price?”

The chauffeur makes some calls then tells the loneliest CEO, “75 grand. Do you want it to be a surprise how they’ll do it?”

The loneliest CEO says no so the chauffeur says, “They’ll shoot you. Probably in the head but maybe someplace else.”

The loneliest CEO says, “Okay, but I want it to happen on the front porch of the girl I took to my high school prom. She lives in Ohio now. Married with three kids. I want you to drive me to her house tonight and have your rough friends meet me there. I’ll get on the porch and ring the bell, and when she comes to the door, tell them to shoot me so that I fall forward and die in her arms. Is all that understood?”

The chauffeur says you bet. They drive to Ohio to the woman’s house and when he rings the bell the woman’s kids answer the door. The killers don’t see who answers so they just go ahead and shoot the loneliest CEO and he ends up dying on top of his former prom date’s children.

Happy The Loneliest CEO Day!

There’s Nothing Left In Your Bank Account Day!

You and your wife developed drug addictions last fall and it’s been a super-fun time but today you checked your bank balance and there’s nothing left in the account.

“Honey,” say to her. “Did you spend the last of our savings on drugs?”

She’ll say, “Yes, want some?”

Say yes and do the drugs and feel absolutely wonderful for five hours.

Happy There’s Nothing Left In Your Bank Account Day!

Bunker Fight Day!

She says you never do anything sweet for her anymore and that she feels like you two only have sex to procreate in order to keep the human race from becoming extinct.

“I could sing,” you suggest.

She says go for it and you sing an old Carole King song that was popular before the hellfire turned the earth into a hot rock of pain and horror.

“Do you feel the things you sing in that song?” she asks. “Do you feel them for me?”

Tell her yes. Tell her the human race is very lucky because it’s going to have a beautiful new mother.

She’ll say, “I want you to say sweet things to me. More often. I want you to be sweet to me.”

Just then a 300 pound mutated rat will burst through the bunker door and you’ll wrestle it to the ground and slice it across its throat before it can hurt her. As you wipe the rat blood from your face go to her and say, “Guess he must’ve smelled all that sugar in your veins and wanted a taste of you, Sweetiepie.”

She’ll smile, and she’ll kiss the bloody wounds in your chest where the mutated rat bit through your radiation cloak.

Happy Bunker Fight Day!

Take Your Daughter To Work Day!

Your dad will spend the morning introducing you around to all the people he works with until he comes to Sharon.

“That whore?” say to her as she’s shaking your hand.

Sharon will ask you to repeat yourself. Your father will tell you to say you’re sorry.

“I’m sorry,” say.

Sharon will ask why you said that.

“Mommy always shouts ‘That whore’ and Daddy always shouts back 'Her name is Sharon and nothing happened,’” tell her.

Sharon will look to your dad. She’ll look really mad. Your Dad will laugh uncomfortably.

“Well?” say.

“Well what?” Sharon and your Dad will say.

“Did anything happen?”

“You’re being rude,” your dad will say.

Sharon will ask if your mom put you up to this. Tell her, “I just think if I found out whether or not anything happened, Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t have to yell the same stuff at each other all the time if I could go into their room and let them know once and for all whether or not anything happened.”

Sharon will say, “Well you can tell your mother that nothing will ever happen again, seeing as I’m sure she’s the one who put you up to this.”

“I’m sorry,” your dad will say.

“No I’m sorry,” Sharon will say. “Man am I ever sorry I got involved with you.”

Say, “Mommy didn’t put me up to this. I’m asking for myself. But Mommy did ask me to read you this letter.”

Pull out the letter and start reading. Sharon will run to the ladies room crying right after you begin with the salutation, “Dear Whore…”

Happy Take Your Daughter To Work Day!

The Broadway Adaptation Of The Movie Twister Day!

The Broadway adaptation of the movie Twister is dangerously over-budget because of the cows.

“Maybe we could cut the cows,” one of the investors suggests.

“As far as anyone is concerned, Twister is the movie where the cow gets thrown at the car,” tell them. “Taking the cows out of Twister the Musical is like taking the feet out of Footloose the Musical.”

Another investor says that it’s expensive to fling a cow at the audience every night, and the bungees keep snapping, leading to numerous audience members being crushed to death under the weight of 400 pound cows.

“That’s Broadway,” you say. Then you remind them all that they called you, you didn’t call them.

The investors will be unable to respond to that. They know you have them over a barrel since it’s true that they sought you out and they gave you full creative liberty. Unfortunately they are now responsible for the deaths of 26 tourists and 19 cows. They don’t know how to fire you, so they have no choice but to kill you with one of the cows. Tonight, when you go to your car, the death with be instant save for a few seconds of acknowledgement when you recognize the cow. Tickets to the show will sell out after your death is reported because people will want to see the play that killed its creator in the same manner it killed so many audience members. Then after more audience members die people tickets won’t sell out so much.

Happy The Broadway Adaptation Of The Movie Twister Day!

Babyland Day!

You have an idea for a comedy about if babies could talk. You think if babies could talk they’d speak in hypnotic verse, poems that cut to the essence of what it is to live and experience the color and sound of life. The adults would hear the babies’ message and they’d all go mad, unable to reconcile the lives of obligation and ambition they’ve been living with the undeniable simplicity of the babies’ truth. Most adults will either commit suicide or flop about on the floor, babbling in a manner not too different from the way babies used to. The babies’ will take over and that’s how the first ten minutes of BABYLAND will play out. There’ll be a brief montage of all the adults being rounded up and murdered, then about 75 minutes of babies doing stuff like running congress and seeking funding for much needed infrastructure projects. When the babies grow up they’re no different than the adults they slaughtered at the beginning of the movie so it ends in a way that makes you think. BABYLAND will be rated R for graphic violence and a scene where animals mate.

Happy Babyland Day!

Modern Rock Concert Day!

You’re a narcotics officer who’s working undercover to bust the lead singer of a modern rock band for drugs because the mayor doesn’t like him bringing his filthy music and godless stage show into his town.

“What if he doesn’t have any drugs?” you asked the mayor.

“You make sure he does,” the mayor told you.

You’re used to planting drugs on suspects when you know that getting the suspect behind bars is better for everyone in the long run, but you’re not sure how comfortable you are planting it on a guy just because the mayor has some ideas about what kind of music kids should be listening to. Lucky for the mayor you stopped worrying about keeping right away from wrong a long time ago.

When the band goes out on stage you sneak into their dressing room with the bag of heroin at the ready. Just as you’re about to stuff it into the lead singer’s guitar case, a girl walks out of the bathroom and sees you.

She doesn’t blink an eye. Just holds out her hand to you and says, “First, come listen.”

She takes you to the wings of the stage and tells you to stand there and listen to the band play. Just for the next song. When it’s finished, if you still think it’s right to frame the lead singer for a crime he didn’t commit, that’s up to you and the girl won’t stop you.

The song is slow and quiet at first, then picks up the tempo, and before long the lead singer is wailing and the entire crowd is electrified. The song makes you feel even more disappointed in yourself than you normally do, because the song actually fills you with hope that there’s still a chance for you to turn things around.

“I didn’t know who I was,” you tell the girl. She is holding your hand like you’ve known each other for years. “I could still be so much better.”

The girl leads you into the crowd and introduces you to her friends. They all look like her; everyone half your age looks like her. The girl says goodbye to her friends, says that you and she are going to make a go of it. You leave town with the girl that night, selling the heroin where you can and living off the proceeds. You have two little girls together and it isn’t long before the heroin runs out and it’s time for you to go back to work.

“No way am I going back to being a cop,” you say.

The girl tells you to go for a drive and listen to that song again, the one that told you what to do the night you two met. You do as she says and this time the song hits you ever harder, it admonishes you for not doing anything more with your life than selling drugs to people in peril. This time the song sounds urgent, like time is running out. With the song blasting out the car windows, you put the pedal to the metal and blaze out of town without so much as a goodbye to the girl and your daughters. It might be cold but it’s what the song wants. Rock and roll doesn’t always intervene in the lives of man, and when it does, man had better be ready to pay heed or else pay dearly.

Happy Modern Rock Concert Day!

We Can’t Let Go Of Him Day!

Everyone in your little podunk town is trying to kill you because they heard you got into one of those colleges up north where they teach you communications and how to flirt with Jewish girls by speaking heatedly about politics.

“So it’s agreed,” the senior councilman said last night at the Town Center. “We kill him before he gets on that bus tomorrow morning. We’re a jealous folk here in our simple little town, and if we can’t have him, no one can.”

“Perhaps we should do it tonight,” the town mailman said.

“Nope,” the senior councilman responded. “Too sleepy. Had a big dinner.”

That was your big break. Wake up early this morning, pack your bags, then go house to house murdering everyone in your town before getting on the bus to Villanova. Your town has a population of 865, so you have to kill 4.8 people per minute to make your bus in three hours. Use fire. Make sure you get everybody because if you leave any living witnesses, they could come to Villanova and kill everyone on campus out of vengeance.

Congratulations on being the ninth person in your town to get into college. Now let’s work on you being the first one to get out of that town alive.

Happy We Can’t Let Go Of Him Day!

Party Store Owner Discovers The Irony Of Being A Party Store Owner Who Could Never Throw A Party Of His Own Because He Doesn’t Have Any Friends Because He’s Awful Day!

Today the Party Store owner is going to chuckle to himself when he realizes that even though he has an entire store full of party supplies at his disposal, having not a single friend to his name means he doesn’t have the capability of throwing a party.

“Funny,” the Party Store owner thinks. “That I, of all people, would own a party store after having spent my whole life being such a miserable human being that I don’t have a single friend who would come to a party I threw. Come to think of it, I’ve never attended a party, unless you count that neighbor’s backyard wedding I watched from my bathroom window after calling the police with a noise complaint. I wouldn’t have even watched that if I didn’t want to see their faces the moment the police told them they had to take it inside. Man, me, a Party Store owner. Life sure does work in weird ways.”

Irony sufficiently acknowledged, the Party Store owner then starts going through job applications so he can throw some candidates in the trash based on the apparent ethnicity of their last names.

Happy Party Store Owner Discovers The Irony Of Being A Party Store Owner Who Could Never Throw A Party Of His Own Because He Doesn’t Have Any Friends Because He’s Awful Day!

Under A Red Lamp Day!

You’re sitting under a red lamp, chewing on a ten-day old cigar, telling your son what love really means, when the men come in to the restaurant to make you pay.

“Love really means being disappointed. Disappointed in your own heart for not being able to give enough of itself. Disappointed that your lover can’t make everything okay, that she can’t make you forget all about where you expected to be at this point in your life. Disappointed that love isn’t all you need. Disappointed that love’s all you have.”

“You killed Mom, didn’t you?”

“She was talking to the Feds.”

Two of Mack Leland’s soldiers just opened their rain coats and leveled shotgun barrels at your head. One of them moves his eyes from yours to your son. He’s giving you the split-second you need to slap your son to the ground before the triggers are pulled. You take advantage of his consideration, throw your son safely to the ground, and then you accept their gunfire readily and without rebuttal.

You die reasonably content. You at least got around to telling your son what love really is. You never got to tall him about the time you saw a ghost when you were in the war, but no one ever died without a few items left on their to-do list.

Happy Under A Red Lamp Day!

One Of Those Photos With The Girl Who Got Her Face Impaled On A Fence Day!

You have trouble dating because you were in one of those photos of a girl who got her face impaled on a wrought-iron fence.

“I just can’t get over the idea that we’ve met before,” boys will say. “And I get uneasy when I look at you. Did you once hurt me?”

When it’s clear they won’t let it go you have no choice but to tell them.

“I was in one of those photos of a girl who got her face impaled on a wrought-iron fence,” you tell them. You describe the photo, wherein the spike at the top of the fence had gone through the skin underneath your chin so that the spike was sticking out of your mouth.

“Aww God that’s it!” the boys shout. “Aww God! Aww my God! I remember that photo. Aww God!”

And that’s how it ends. You can be sure that from that point on every time they look at you they’ll be imagining you with a spike piercing your chin and sticking out of your mouth and they’ll be thinking “Aww God!” and wanting to cover their eyes. So you tell them the story of how the spike had to be sawed from the fence so that you could be lifted off of its base and rushed to the hospital, and then you say goodbye forever and log back onto OkCupid.

Today you’re going to go on a date with a guy who was in one of those videos where he dove off the roof into a pool but landed face first on the concrete perimeter instead.

“Aww God!” you’ll shout. You’ll tell him about your wrought-iron fence situation and he’ll shout “Aww God!”

Since you both remind each other of cringeworthy visuals of unimaginable pain you decide to marry and spend the rest of your lives looking at each other through your fingers, unable to put the horrible images out of your heads. Every morning when you wake up and see each other across the bed, you’ll ask each other once again, “So did it hurt real bad?” Then you’ll kiss and make coffee.

Happy One Of Those Photos With The Girl Who Got Her Face Impaled On A Fence Day!

Present For Your New Dad Day!

Your new Dad has been in the house for just a few weeks but he’s really hinting for a present from you for Father’s Day.

“I know I’m not your real dad,” he keeps saying. “So I get that you wouldn’t wanna give me nothing for Father’s Day. But I could also see how you might have missed having a Dad around to give something to on Father’s Day so if you wanted to give me something, The Panther wouldn’t give it back to you or anything. Just saying.”

Since you were already planning on running away from home tonight, you should redraft your goodbye note so that it seems like you always intended for it to be an early Father’s Day present.

“Dear Mom and Panther,” write. “I know that I don’t belong here anymore so I’m running away to Hollywood to try and be an aspiring child prostitute. Panther, I hope you enjoy the extra space around the house that I’m giving to you. Happy Father’s Day. Mom, I hope you’ll be very happy spending your life with a man who calls himself Panther.”

After you go, Panther will read the letter and say, “The Panther’s gonna cry Panther tears. The Panther just got a father’s day present. He remembered to resepct the Panther.”

Your Mom will say to her new husband, “Before we go chasing after him, why do you call yourself The Panther anyway?”

The Panther will jump away from her and crouch in the corner, making cat noises. Your Mom will argue that he just sounds like a housecat, but The Panther won’t break character, not even while your mom calls the police about your Father’s Day present.

Happy Present For Your New Dad Day!

Salads N’ Food Day!

Today at lunch when you sit down at Salads N’ Food, pull a handgun out of your bag and drop it into the salad, then go back to the salad station and tell the salad maker you found a handgun in your salad. He’ll say he doesn’t know how it happened. Tell the manager that his salad maker intended the handgun for someone else in the restaurant, and he was clearly planning an uprising. The manager will lock the door and keep everyone inside until he finds out who was the salad maker’s accomplice in the effort to overthrow the Salads N’ Food. The manager will start killing those he suspects were involved and It will take up most of the afternoon and all of you will remain friends for life because that’s what happens to people who were in the same Salad N’ Food when they saw innocent people die.

Happy Salads N’ Food Day!

You’re Five Day!

Today you’re five and you love matches. You love the way they feel in your hand, the way they smell, and especially, the way they start big, luscious, proudly raging fires that swallow anything and everything that might have the misfortune of residing in their path. When you use your matches to set fire to and destroy a small restaurant, leveling the dreams of a man who spent most of his twenties and thirties setting aside savings and making connections with people in the community and established businessmen to help him make his dream of one day owning a restaurant come true, the man will come to you and tell you he’s not angry - even though you can tell he is, and that he’s been crying - that he knows you’re too young to know better, so he just wants you to promise him that you’ll never play with matches again.

“I promise,” tell him, because this is what you have to do every time you play with matches and some adult decides that he can make you stop, that he has more power over you than the matches, and the fire, that beautiful, ever lovely fire. “I promise to never play with matches again.”

The man will go back to staring at the ashes of his hard work, unaware that if you actually had any intention of following through on your promise, you wouldn’t want to turn six.

Happy You’re Five Day!

Couples Jump Day!

Couples fresh in new love jump to their deaths hand-in-hand today and does the evening news bother to say a word about it? The TV doesn’t concern itself with those Americans so consumed with each other they sprint crazily from rooftops to the ground below. They only report on the resulting gridlock as Dads drive home from work rubbernecking, remembering those seven months twenty years prior when they wanted to pull their women close and leap twenty stories, putting an end to the world before the feeling fades.

In sports, the Grizzlies.

Happens every day in neighborhoods you might be too scared to visit, and neighborhoods you might hope to live in one day if that raise ever finds your paycheck. Dozens in the winter, hundreds in the spring. Littering the concrete with the mingling blood and bone of two human beings out of a billion who found each other. It was impossible but the puddle and the side by side body bags proves it happened. Too bad the news vans are all parked outside the house where the little blonde girl was kidnapped.

Only 14 years old. An honor student, beautiful Heather.

Good people don’t like to hear bad stories. People have to go to work in the morning. They don’t want to remember that they once had the chance to enter the infinite with hearts fat with gratitude that someone else on this planet exists. They want to know if it’s going to rain or if their baby stroller is hazardous.

Forget that raincoat.

No one cares if another new love falls out of the sky. It happens and it’ll keep happening and people don’t like to hear about it so it’s really not worth reporting.

Happy Couples Jump Day!