Today you’re Amber Bronte, the Bronte sister no one knows about because you’re still temping until you can get your Life Coach business off the ground.
“That’s so great!” your three sisters say to you when you tell them you now have four steady clients and your friend says he can build you a website for free. You don’t add that you think he might want you to sleep with him, and you don’t add that you might go ahead and do that if it means free website by summer.
“You have such persistence!” your sister says.
“Seriously you never give up, no matter how discouraging things are,” your other sister says.
The backhanded digs have begun. Time to throw the focus away from you.
“How are your book tours?” you ask.
They spend the next hour complaining about lackluster promotion from publishers, poorly appointed author accommodations provided by far-flung bookstores, and fans who want too much from them at book signings.
“Oh, Amber, I based a character on you in my new book,” Charlotte says.
Oh dear God.
Happy You’re A Bronte Sister Day!
Friday, February 12, 2016
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Wear Something Remarkable Day!
“Remarkable blouse,” your temp will say.
“Thanks, Dylan,” you’ll say to him.
“Remarkable,” he’ll mutter to himself as you step into your office to call your ex-husband.
“He noticed me.”
“That’s great, hon,” your ex-husband will say. “I really hope you find someone.”
“How’s house arrest?”
“Dullsville.”
Your husband is charged with violating building code, reckless endangerment and fraud after putting up a new construction slum and renting it out for $5000 per unit without ensuring even basic support to keep the entire structure from collapsing. You divorced him to keep the tenants from going after your money too, and after being separated for a while you both felt like it worked.
“Go tell that temp your blouse would look even more remarkable on his bedroom floor.”
You do what your ex-husband says and your temp immediately reports you to HR for sexual harassment. You’re fired and humiliated in the press. They’re excited to revisit the one-percenter slumlord story by taking down his ex-wife too.
Why do you listen to your ex-husband? The only thing remarkable he wears is the location bracelet on his ankle.
Happy Wear Something Remarkable Day!
“Thanks, Dylan,” you’ll say to him.
“Remarkable,” he’ll mutter to himself as you step into your office to call your ex-husband.
“He noticed me.”
“That’s great, hon,” your ex-husband will say. “I really hope you find someone.”
“How’s house arrest?”
“Dullsville.”
Your husband is charged with violating building code, reckless endangerment and fraud after putting up a new construction slum and renting it out for $5000 per unit without ensuring even basic support to keep the entire structure from collapsing. You divorced him to keep the tenants from going after your money too, and after being separated for a while you both felt like it worked.
“Go tell that temp your blouse would look even more remarkable on his bedroom floor.”
You do what your ex-husband says and your temp immediately reports you to HR for sexual harassment. You’re fired and humiliated in the press. They’re excited to revisit the one-percenter slumlord story by taking down his ex-wife too.
Why do you listen to your ex-husband? The only thing remarkable he wears is the location bracelet on his ankle.
Happy Wear Something Remarkable Day!
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Steal A Bike Day!
When you get the stolen bike home, a man in futuristic dress will be sitting in your living room.
“Oh, you already stole it,” he’ll say.
Roll the bike into your bedroom then sit with the man.
“Do you have any idea who you stole that bike from?”
You shake your head.
“The future. My future. That man is meant to lead the movement that will one day bring America under the rule of fascist tyranny for centuries…if someone can prevent you from stealing his bike. Because when he decides to walk to work he crosses against the light and gets hit by the front of one bus throwing him into the back of another bus, killing him instantly.”
“Oh my God,” you say. “I killed a man. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. In another timeline I come back a little earlier and kill you before you can steal his bike.”
You just stare at the assassin.
“I undershot it by a half hour,” he adds.
You still aren’t sure what’s happening.
“So you’re good. You can live the rest of your life peacefully until the end.”
“But in another timeline you came back at the right time and murdered me?”
He shrugs. “Shouldn’t steal stuff.”
All of this absorbed now, you ask him, “So what are you going to do now?”
“Dunno,” he’ll say. “Can’t exactly go back. It’s a one way time portal only. Guess I gotta find a place to live.”
And that’s how you become roomies with the assassin from a fascist future America who was sent back in time to murder you but got here too late.
Happy Steal A Bike Day!
“Oh, you already stole it,” he’ll say.
Roll the bike into your bedroom then sit with the man.
“Do you have any idea who you stole that bike from?”
You shake your head.
“The future. My future. That man is meant to lead the movement that will one day bring America under the rule of fascist tyranny for centuries…if someone can prevent you from stealing his bike. Because when he decides to walk to work he crosses against the light and gets hit by the front of one bus throwing him into the back of another bus, killing him instantly.”
“Oh my God,” you say. “I killed a man. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. In another timeline I come back a little earlier and kill you before you can steal his bike.”
You just stare at the assassin.
“I undershot it by a half hour,” he adds.
You still aren’t sure what’s happening.
“So you’re good. You can live the rest of your life peacefully until the end.”
“But in another timeline you came back at the right time and murdered me?”
He shrugs. “Shouldn’t steal stuff.”
All of this absorbed now, you ask him, “So what are you going to do now?”
“Dunno,” he’ll say. “Can’t exactly go back. It’s a one way time portal only. Guess I gotta find a place to live.”
And that’s how you become roomies with the assassin from a fascist future America who was sent back in time to murder you but got here too late.
Happy Steal A Bike Day!
Tuesday, February 09, 2016
One Night AirBnB Day!
When you arrive at the AirBnB, your kids are bouncing off the walls they’re so excited. You open up the trunk and hand them each a shovel.
“It’s a fun project in the back yard.”
You dig in the far corner of the yard, by the rose bush. You do most of the digging, your older son helping some, but your younger son and daughter can’t hold the shovels very well, so you instruct them to just pick up the rocks when you hit them.
“Can’t we go and play by the stream?” your younger son asks.
You don’t answer because your shovel just made a thud against something wooden.
You and your kids dig the chest out of the ground. You open the lid and reveal the remains of the man your father murdered 39 years ago, the man you helped him bury when you were no older than your youngest.
“He was a threat to our entire family,” you tell your kids. “When your grandad killed him, we were set up financially for generations. But all this land is being leveled for a condo, so we have to get these bones out of here before someone finds them.”
You and your kids carry the chest into the car and head to the stream. You spend all night digging. Once you have the chest in the ground, your oldest jerks his head up the hill.
“Someone’s watching.”
“Robby!” you say. But your son is already on the run.
When you get over the hill you find Robby standing over the body of a drifter who has a shovel shaped gash in his skull.
“We need to dig another hole,” Robby says. “For the family.”
Somewhere, you know your dad is smiling.
You dig as fast as you can so you can get someplace with a signal to try and extend your AirBnB rental, but they’ve already rented the place and you haven’t filled in the hole yet. You’re still digging when the new renters arrive with their kids.
“Robby!” you say. But he’s already run inside the house with his shovel.
Happy One Night AirBnB Day!
“It’s a fun project in the back yard.”
You dig in the far corner of the yard, by the rose bush. You do most of the digging, your older son helping some, but your younger son and daughter can’t hold the shovels very well, so you instruct them to just pick up the rocks when you hit them.
“Can’t we go and play by the stream?” your younger son asks.
You don’t answer because your shovel just made a thud against something wooden.
You and your kids dig the chest out of the ground. You open the lid and reveal the remains of the man your father murdered 39 years ago, the man you helped him bury when you were no older than your youngest.
“He was a threat to our entire family,” you tell your kids. “When your grandad killed him, we were set up financially for generations. But all this land is being leveled for a condo, so we have to get these bones out of here before someone finds them.”
You and your kids carry the chest into the car and head to the stream. You spend all night digging. Once you have the chest in the ground, your oldest jerks his head up the hill.
“Someone’s watching.”
“Robby!” you say. But your son is already on the run.
When you get over the hill you find Robby standing over the body of a drifter who has a shovel shaped gash in his skull.
“We need to dig another hole,” Robby says. “For the family.”
Somewhere, you know your dad is smiling.
You dig as fast as you can so you can get someplace with a signal to try and extend your AirBnB rental, but they’ve already rented the place and you haven’t filled in the hole yet. You’re still digging when the new renters arrive with their kids.
“Robby!” you say. But he’s already run inside the house with his shovel.
Happy One Night AirBnB Day!
Friday, February 05, 2016
Your Daughter Might Be God Day!
“She doesn’t care about the suffering of Earth’s people,” your husband says.
“Teenagers,” you say with a shake of your head.
“When I bring up earthquakes and tsunamis in chit chat she says it’s all part of her plan,” he says.
“Why do you always talk about that stuff?” ask him.
“She won’t let anyone see her face,” he says. “We’re not prepared, according to her. So she just keeps wearing that Scream mask.”
“She’s a movie buff,” tell him.
“If she’s God we need to change our parenting strategy!” he shouts.
“So what? Put her back in public school?”
“To expose her to all that she’s wrought, yeah, maybe!”
Now you’re full on fighting. That’s when your daughter walks in. Through the air holes of her Scream mask she says, “Talking about how I’m God and it’s hard to be a parent to the all-seeing all-knowing Deity?”
“Yeah,” your husband says.
“Stand up straight,” you tell her.
“Can you keep it down?” she asks. “I’ve grown bored with this world and am busy creating another one. No humans this time. Just insects. They’re the only living things I fucking nailed. Everything else turned to shit.”
“We’re having chicken and Brussels sprouts for dinner tonight,” you tell her.
“Too busy to eat,” she says.
“You’ll take a break and you’ll eat your dinner,” you tell her.
Your daughter stomps away. Your husband falls to his knees in fealty while you finish moisturizing your pregnant belly. Maybe the next kid will be a little less of a bossy pants.
Happy Your Daughter Might Be God Day!
“Teenagers,” you say with a shake of your head.
“When I bring up earthquakes and tsunamis in chit chat she says it’s all part of her plan,” he says.
“Why do you always talk about that stuff?” ask him.
“She won’t let anyone see her face,” he says. “We’re not prepared, according to her. So she just keeps wearing that Scream mask.”
“She’s a movie buff,” tell him.
“If she’s God we need to change our parenting strategy!” he shouts.
“So what? Put her back in public school?”
“To expose her to all that she’s wrought, yeah, maybe!”
Now you’re full on fighting. That’s when your daughter walks in. Through the air holes of her Scream mask she says, “Talking about how I’m God and it’s hard to be a parent to the all-seeing all-knowing Deity?”
“Yeah,” your husband says.
“Stand up straight,” you tell her.
“Can you keep it down?” she asks. “I’ve grown bored with this world and am busy creating another one. No humans this time. Just insects. They’re the only living things I fucking nailed. Everything else turned to shit.”
“We’re having chicken and Brussels sprouts for dinner tonight,” you tell her.
“Too busy to eat,” she says.
“You’ll take a break and you’ll eat your dinner,” you tell her.
Your daughter stomps away. Your husband falls to his knees in fealty while you finish moisturizing your pregnant belly. Maybe the next kid will be a little less of a bossy pants.
Happy Your Daughter Might Be God Day!
Thursday, February 04, 2016
Tell Your Husband When He Touches You It Feels Like You’re Being Napalmed Day!
“Like,” he asks, “Like it’s really hot?”
Tell him yeah, dumbass, napalm feels hot.
“Jesus, read a book.”
“But like,” he asks, “Like your skin is falling off your body?”
With a deep sigh, open your laptop and bring up the Wikipedia page for the word “Napalm.”
“I’m going out to the bars,” tell him as you place the laptop on his lap. “Read this so I don’t have to answer any more questions when I get back. I’ll be too fucked up.”
When you get back at 4 am he’ll still be reading the wiki page.
“So yeah,” he’ll say. “Losing skin is part of it. But do you mean it like, I want you just to ravage me so hard until my clothes and skin are ripped to shreds?”
Murmur something non-committal as you pass out. He’ll move to pick you up and carry you to bed, but then he’ll look at the photo of Phan Thi Kim Phuc again and he won’t know what to do.
Tomorrow he’ll ask you if gloves will help.
Happy Tell Your Husband When He Touches You It Feels Like You’re Being Napalmed Day!
Tell him yeah, dumbass, napalm feels hot.
“Jesus, read a book.”
“But like,” he asks, “Like your skin is falling off your body?”
With a deep sigh, open your laptop and bring up the Wikipedia page for the word “Napalm.”
“I’m going out to the bars,” tell him as you place the laptop on his lap. “Read this so I don’t have to answer any more questions when I get back. I’ll be too fucked up.”
When you get back at 4 am he’ll still be reading the wiki page.
“So yeah,” he’ll say. “Losing skin is part of it. But do you mean it like, I want you just to ravage me so hard until my clothes and skin are ripped to shreds?”
Murmur something non-committal as you pass out. He’ll move to pick you up and carry you to bed, but then he’ll look at the photo of Phan Thi Kim Phuc again and he won’t know what to do.
Tomorrow he’ll ask you if gloves will help.
Happy Tell Your Husband When He Touches You It Feels Like You’re Being Napalmed Day!
Wednesday, February 03, 2016
Think About What You Want To Do When The Ransom Gets Paid Day!
First thing you’ll do when you’re free. The thing you’ve been dying for during this entire abduction.
“For the life of me I don’t know,” you tell your kidnapper. “I think about food I want to eat or places I want to go and it’s like, who cares?”
“You’re depressed,” she says.
“But I’m not. Not right now.”
Your kidnapper starts shaking her head.
“No.”
“I don’t wanna leave!”
“No!”
“Don’t make me go back out there.”
“We need this money. We need your dad’s money.”
You know it’s true. So you turn back to your list, trying to think of anything you want to do when you’re free. You write “Drink a milkshake?” then cross it off, crumple up your paper and throw yourself face down on the pull out bed.
Happy Think About What You Want To Do When The Ransom Gets Paid Day!
“For the life of me I don’t know,” you tell your kidnapper. “I think about food I want to eat or places I want to go and it’s like, who cares?”
“You’re depressed,” she says.
“But I’m not. Not right now.”
Your kidnapper starts shaking her head.
“No.”
“I don’t wanna leave!”
“No!”
“Don’t make me go back out there.”
“We need this money. We need your dad’s money.”
You know it’s true. So you turn back to your list, trying to think of anything you want to do when you’re free. You write “Drink a milkshake?” then cross it off, crumple up your paper and throw yourself face down on the pull out bed.
Happy Think About What You Want To Do When The Ransom Gets Paid Day!
Tuesday, February 02, 2016
Blackjack Day!
Tonight you’re going to lose at Blackjack and you’re going to lose big. So big that the Blackjack dealer will have a crisis of conscience and quit his job on the spot.
“I can’t be party to the ruin of lives anymore,” the dealer will tell his boss.
“Who cares?” the boss will say in acceptance of his resignation.
Wait outside the casino and when the Blackjack dealer comes out say, “Thanks for quitting for me. I guess we’re boyfriend and girlfriend now.”
Take the Blackjack dealer to the parking lot where all the casino buses empty their port-o-johns. Find a space between the buses and escort him through your many erotic realms.
When finished, take him home and give him a bath and your bed. Spend the next 47 years blissfully happy together until the day of the car crash.
Happy Blackjack Day!
“I can’t be party to the ruin of lives anymore,” the dealer will tell his boss.
“Who cares?” the boss will say in acceptance of his resignation.
Wait outside the casino and when the Blackjack dealer comes out say, “Thanks for quitting for me. I guess we’re boyfriend and girlfriend now.”
Take the Blackjack dealer to the parking lot where all the casino buses empty their port-o-johns. Find a space between the buses and escort him through your many erotic realms.
When finished, take him home and give him a bath and your bed. Spend the next 47 years blissfully happy together until the day of the car crash.
Happy Blackjack Day!
Monday, February 01, 2016
Bake Cookies Day!
Bake cookies so your mom will be surprised when she comes home. You know she likes ginger cookies, but you don’t have all the ingredients. So bake chocolate chip cookies. She’ll still be impressed that her little girl baked cookies all on her own.
Once you’ve got three dozen, set them out to cool and go upstairs to change into something nice before your mom comes home.
You hear the front door open while you’re changing, so you hurry up into a dress then you run downstairs to find your big brother inhaling the cookies on the counter.
“Those are for mommy!!” you scream as you throw yourself on his back trying to knock the cookies out of his hand. “They’re for mommy!”
He spins around, trying to shrug you off.
“Stop it!” he yells. “Get off!”
“They’re for mommy!”
He spins again and slams his head into the corner of the cabinet. You fall off his back as he slumps down to the floor moaning. Cookies are everywhere.
“You ruined it!” you cry.
“It’s okay,” he says, holding his head.
“No you ruined it!” You try to gather the broken cookies but they keep falling apart.
“It’s okay,” he says. “She’s not coming back. She doesn’t deserve your cookies because she’s not coming back. She doesn’t want us.”
You give up collecting the crumbs and you cry into his sweatshirt.
“They were good cookies,” your big brother says. “I’m glad she didn’t get any. I’m glad she doesn’t get to enjoy all the good things you can do. She doesn’t deserve to.”
When your dad comes home he finds the two of you on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the mess. He doesn’t say a word. Just goes to his room and shuts the door behind him like every night since she went away.
Happy Bake Cookies Day!
Once you’ve got three dozen, set them out to cool and go upstairs to change into something nice before your mom comes home.
You hear the front door open while you’re changing, so you hurry up into a dress then you run downstairs to find your big brother inhaling the cookies on the counter.
“Those are for mommy!!” you scream as you throw yourself on his back trying to knock the cookies out of his hand. “They’re for mommy!”
He spins around, trying to shrug you off.
“Stop it!” he yells. “Get off!”
“They’re for mommy!”
He spins again and slams his head into the corner of the cabinet. You fall off his back as he slumps down to the floor moaning. Cookies are everywhere.
“You ruined it!” you cry.
“It’s okay,” he says, holding his head.
“No you ruined it!” You try to gather the broken cookies but they keep falling apart.
“It’s okay,” he says. “She’s not coming back. She doesn’t deserve your cookies because she’s not coming back. She doesn’t want us.”
You give up collecting the crumbs and you cry into his sweatshirt.
“They were good cookies,” your big brother says. “I’m glad she didn’t get any. I’m glad she doesn’t get to enjoy all the good things you can do. She doesn’t deserve to.”
When your dad comes home he finds the two of you on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the mess. He doesn’t say a word. Just goes to his room and shuts the door behind him like every night since she went away.
Happy Bake Cookies Day!
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Your Dog Ran Away Day!
He was found several towns away. It’s a miracle. Someone’s driving him up your driveway right this minute.
“Starsky!” you shout as he slides out of the car.
You run down the driveway and wait on your knees with open arms. Starsky trots up the driveway towards you.
“Come on, Starsky!” you shout.
Starsky slows as he approaches you. His shoulders fall. His head bows, reluctant. But also, ashamed.
You hold your arms out, but you don’t know if Starsky wants your embrace.
He halts just a few steps before you. Finally, he looks up and meets your eyes with his own.
You see it then. This runaway. It was no accident. Starsky wasn’t lost.
Your arms lower. You nod at him.
“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s okay boy. I understand.”
Starsky turns from you. He trots away. The man who returned him to you moves to stop him but you raise your palm to tell him to let the dog go.
You know when it’s over. You know when someone’s done with you.
Happy Your Dog Ran Away Day!
“Starsky!” you shout as he slides out of the car.
You run down the driveway and wait on your knees with open arms. Starsky trots up the driveway towards you.
“Come on, Starsky!” you shout.
Starsky slows as he approaches you. His shoulders fall. His head bows, reluctant. But also, ashamed.
You hold your arms out, but you don’t know if Starsky wants your embrace.
He halts just a few steps before you. Finally, he looks up and meets your eyes with his own.
You see it then. This runaway. It was no accident. Starsky wasn’t lost.
Your arms lower. You nod at him.
“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s okay boy. I understand.”
Starsky turns from you. He trots away. The man who returned him to you moves to stop him but you raise your palm to tell him to let the dog go.
You know when it’s over. You know when someone’s done with you.
Happy Your Dog Ran Away Day!
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Your Dad Says He’s In Love With One Of The Aides At His Home Day!
“I just felt an instant, mutual connection,” he says.
You stand stock still, waiting as your soul rises out of your body.
“I hope I don’t jinx this by talking about it.”
Say to him, “Well, that’s nice.”
Remember that you have power of attorney so his money’s locked down. If he wants to start a new relationship at the age of 82 now that your mom’s been in the ground for over a year, so be it.
“So is she around your age? Younger?”
“Younger.”
“How young?”
“Around 25.”
Hold on to something, steady yourself. The back of a chair. Something.
“And when did you meet her?”
“In Spain.”
He’s never been to Spain.
“You might have dreamed this whole thing.”
“I don’t think so.”
You let it go.
“Just don’t tell my son about this okay, Pete?”
You’re his son. Your name’s Lance.
Happy Your Dad Says He’s In Love With One Of The Aides At His Home Day!
You stand stock still, waiting as your soul rises out of your body.
“I hope I don’t jinx this by talking about it.”
Say to him, “Well, that’s nice.”
Remember that you have power of attorney so his money’s locked down. If he wants to start a new relationship at the age of 82 now that your mom’s been in the ground for over a year, so be it.
“So is she around your age? Younger?”
“Younger.”
“How young?”
“Around 25.”
Hold on to something, steady yourself. The back of a chair. Something.
“And when did you meet her?”
“In Spain.”
He’s never been to Spain.
“You might have dreamed this whole thing.”
“I don’t think so.”
You let it go.
“Just don’t tell my son about this okay, Pete?”
You’re his son. Your name’s Lance.
Happy Your Dad Says He’s In Love With One Of The Aides At His Home Day!
Friday, January 29, 2016
You Stopped Sleeping Day!
Your boss noticed you’ve been looking tired.
“You doing okay?” she asks.
Tell her, “I stopped sleeping. My dreams have gotten as bad as my waking panics. Worse, some nights. I haven’t tried giving up sleep yet. They say I’ll go mad but I’m already mad so maybe a madness I know the cause for will be a better madness than the one that showed up one day and wrapped me in its great dark arms promising to never let me go. It’s been eleven days now and I can’t quite see anything but blurred shapes and I can’t quite hear anything but elderly people’s sobs but trust me that’s an improvement.”
Your boss will say that’s all, then she’ll go home and throw away her bed hoping for lack of sleep to overtake her lack of will to do anything but curl up in a ball and moan faintly.
Happy You Stopped Sleeping Day!
“You doing okay?” she asks.
Tell her, “I stopped sleeping. My dreams have gotten as bad as my waking panics. Worse, some nights. I haven’t tried giving up sleep yet. They say I’ll go mad but I’m already mad so maybe a madness I know the cause for will be a better madness than the one that showed up one day and wrapped me in its great dark arms promising to never let me go. It’s been eleven days now and I can’t quite see anything but blurred shapes and I can’t quite hear anything but elderly people’s sobs but trust me that’s an improvement.”
Your boss will say that’s all, then she’ll go home and throw away her bed hoping for lack of sleep to overtake her lack of will to do anything but curl up in a ball and moan faintly.
Happy You Stopped Sleeping Day!
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Date With Loretta Day!
You have a date with Loretta tonight but you’re not going to make it on time because you’re going to get kidnapped.
“Please,” you say to the masked men who threw you in their van. “I have a date with a girl I’ve loved from afar for years. This could be the most important night of my life. Please don’t deprive me of it.”
“Godammit Steve,” one kidnapper screams at the driver.
“No real names!” the driver screams back.
“Sorry. Goddammit Kevin! We said no one would get hurt.”
Kevin/Steve yells back, “We’re not hurting him!”
“Standing in the way of true love? I’d say that’s pretty hurtful!”
“He’s got a point Ste– Kevin,” the third kidnapper says.
“Fine,” Steve/Kevin says. “Where’s this date supposed to be?”
They drive you to the restaurant and say they’ll be parked outside all night. If you try to escape they’ll kill you both.
The date goes wonderfully. You talk about your hopes, your fears, your childhoods, and your favorite episodes of Mr. Robot. At the end of the date you walk her home while the van follows. She invites you up and you make love. The next morning you come downstairs, the van still waiting for you.
“Looks like it went well,” one of the kidnappers in the back says. You can see his smile through the hole in his ski mask.
“It did,” you say, blushing.
“Ready to get on with this?” Steve/Kevin says.
“Wait, I told her I’d bring back bagels.”
They follow you to the bagel store and back, and they wait outside while you eat bagels and make love again upstairs.
Hours later, you come back downstairs.
“Now you ready to get on with this?” Steve/Kevin asks.
You nod, staring up at her window. “I am,” you say. “Now that I know my love will be here waiting for me, I’m ready to survive however long a kidnapping you have planned.”
They throw you in the van and speed away. Three days later your rich father delivers the money, but he ignores their demand for no cops. You’re killed in the shoutout. Loretta falls for one of your coworkers at your funeral.
Happy Date With Loretta Day!
“Please,” you say to the masked men who threw you in their van. “I have a date with a girl I’ve loved from afar for years. This could be the most important night of my life. Please don’t deprive me of it.”
“Godammit Steve,” one kidnapper screams at the driver.
“No real names!” the driver screams back.
“Sorry. Goddammit Kevin! We said no one would get hurt.”
Kevin/Steve yells back, “We’re not hurting him!”
“Standing in the way of true love? I’d say that’s pretty hurtful!”
“He’s got a point Ste– Kevin,” the third kidnapper says.
“Fine,” Steve/Kevin says. “Where’s this date supposed to be?”
They drive you to the restaurant and say they’ll be parked outside all night. If you try to escape they’ll kill you both.
The date goes wonderfully. You talk about your hopes, your fears, your childhoods, and your favorite episodes of Mr. Robot. At the end of the date you walk her home while the van follows. She invites you up and you make love. The next morning you come downstairs, the van still waiting for you.
“Looks like it went well,” one of the kidnappers in the back says. You can see his smile through the hole in his ski mask.
“It did,” you say, blushing.
“Ready to get on with this?” Steve/Kevin says.
“Wait, I told her I’d bring back bagels.”
They follow you to the bagel store and back, and they wait outside while you eat bagels and make love again upstairs.
Hours later, you come back downstairs.
“Now you ready to get on with this?” Steve/Kevin asks.
You nod, staring up at her window. “I am,” you say. “Now that I know my love will be here waiting for me, I’m ready to survive however long a kidnapping you have planned.”
They throw you in the van and speed away. Three days later your rich father delivers the money, but he ignores their demand for no cops. You’re killed in the shoutout. Loretta falls for one of your coworkers at your funeral.
Happy Date With Loretta Day!
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Cater Waiter Your Ex-Husband’s Wedding Day!
You don’t get any info about who’s getting married. You get a phone call with the address of the events hall and a one hour window to confirm you’ll take the shift. It’s not until you’re there in the thick of the reception, a tray of canapés held high above your head, that you start recognizing ex-mutual friends’ faces.
“Holy shit, Christine,” one of his work friends says to you.
“This is pretty messed up,” says Clara, who you got really close with but who ceased talking to you when the divorce went through since she’s married to his high school best friend.
“You guys, who’s getting married?” you ask.
A cheer erupts through the room as the double doors to the dance floor open. You see only the top of his haircut through the crowd and you know today is the wrong day to have been available to fill in for Melanie, who has the flu.
“And now the bride and groom invite you to witness their first dance as man and wife,” says the DJ before he spins “At Last.” (Your song was a Sugarcubes song, at your demand.)
The crowd parts and you find yourself standing in the center of the dance floor, holding your tray of tiny food.
He sees you.
She sees you.
They all see you.
“Congrats?” you say to him.
They don’t move. Their first song keeps spinning. You do the only thing you can think to do.
You dance.
It’s an elegant, solo routine. You glide and sway across the floor, occasionally miming someone in your arms, someone whom, over and over again, breaks free of your embrace, leaving you to wave goodbye to the apparition.
The song ends. Your ex and his bride are stunned. A slow clap begins. Your ex’s father. He always liked you. Others clap along, growing louder, faster.
They believe it was planned. A gift to the bride and groom. Before they can dance, his ex must dance him free of her, a farewell spin across the floor. Tonight’s the night the “Ex Dance” is introduced to wedding planners as a new tradition in matrimony. You leave the venue, get in your Corolla, and make a plan to go back to being an office temp in the morning.
Happy Cater Waiter Your Ex-Husband’s Wedding Day!
“Holy shit, Christine,” one of his work friends says to you.
“This is pretty messed up,” says Clara, who you got really close with but who ceased talking to you when the divorce went through since she’s married to his high school best friend.
“You guys, who’s getting married?” you ask.
A cheer erupts through the room as the double doors to the dance floor open. You see only the top of his haircut through the crowd and you know today is the wrong day to have been available to fill in for Melanie, who has the flu.
“And now the bride and groom invite you to witness their first dance as man and wife,” says the DJ before he spins “At Last.” (Your song was a Sugarcubes song, at your demand.)
The crowd parts and you find yourself standing in the center of the dance floor, holding your tray of tiny food.
He sees you.
She sees you.
They all see you.
“Congrats?” you say to him.
They don’t move. Their first song keeps spinning. You do the only thing you can think to do.
You dance.
It’s an elegant, solo routine. You glide and sway across the floor, occasionally miming someone in your arms, someone whom, over and over again, breaks free of your embrace, leaving you to wave goodbye to the apparition.
The song ends. Your ex and his bride are stunned. A slow clap begins. Your ex’s father. He always liked you. Others clap along, growing louder, faster.
They believe it was planned. A gift to the bride and groom. Before they can dance, his ex must dance him free of her, a farewell spin across the floor. Tonight’s the night the “Ex Dance” is introduced to wedding planners as a new tradition in matrimony. You leave the venue, get in your Corolla, and make a plan to go back to being an office temp in the morning.
Happy Cater Waiter Your Ex-Husband’s Wedding Day!
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Your Love Just Killed A Guy Day!
You and your girlfriend are so in love some guy just died.
“This is the news,” a TV newsman says while you and your girlfriend are kissing for like the hundredth time this hour. “Some guy died today because these two are too in love.”
A photo of the two of you is on the TV. You can’t see it because you’re busy getting naked again. You just put clothes back on. Naked again?
“Apparently this couple’s love is so strong that it needs to feed on the life force of others,” the Newsman continues. Not that you two would know. You’re too busy holding each other’s naked bodies and crying.
“If anyone can think of some way to break these two up,” the newsman says. “Please contact the police with your plan. Before their love comes for us all.”
You’re inside each other as the police meet with several of your respective ex-lovers who are busy detailing your emotional pressure points and relationship deal-breakers that might be exploited to bring an end to your love affair.
“This just in,” the newsman says. “A family of six was just found dead. They were just lying there in their house, like they all just dropped. It’s assumed the mass death occurred when these two came at the same time.”
Your picture on the TV again, not that you’d see it since you’re still marveling at the simultaneous orgasm that just made you both scream at God.
Happy Your Love Just Killed A Guy Day!
“This is the news,” a TV newsman says while you and your girlfriend are kissing for like the hundredth time this hour. “Some guy died today because these two are too in love.”
A photo of the two of you is on the TV. You can’t see it because you’re busy getting naked again. You just put clothes back on. Naked again?
“Apparently this couple’s love is so strong that it needs to feed on the life force of others,” the Newsman continues. Not that you two would know. You’re too busy holding each other’s naked bodies and crying.
“If anyone can think of some way to break these two up,” the newsman says. “Please contact the police with your plan. Before their love comes for us all.”
You’re inside each other as the police meet with several of your respective ex-lovers who are busy detailing your emotional pressure points and relationship deal-breakers that might be exploited to bring an end to your love affair.
“This just in,” the newsman says. “A family of six was just found dead. They were just lying there in their house, like they all just dropped. It’s assumed the mass death occurred when these two came at the same time.”
Your picture on the TV again, not that you’d see it since you’re still marveling at the simultaneous orgasm that just made you both scream at God.
Happy Your Love Just Killed A Guy Day!
Monday, January 25, 2016
Your Two Dads Day!
They’re fighting with knives.
“Dads, stop it!”
Your adoptive dad slashes your biological dad across the face. Your biological dad digs his blade deep into your adoptive dad’s gut. Your adoptive dad uses the last of his strength to land his blade in your biological dad’s heart.
“She’s my…daughter,” your adoptive dad whispers.
“No, she’s…my daughter,” your biological dad whispers back. They both die.
You really shouldn’t have gone looking for your real parents.
Happy Your Two Dads Day!
“Dads, stop it!”
Your adoptive dad slashes your biological dad across the face. Your biological dad digs his blade deep into your adoptive dad’s gut. Your adoptive dad uses the last of his strength to land his blade in your biological dad’s heart.
“She’s my…daughter,” your adoptive dad whispers.
“No, she’s…my daughter,” your biological dad whispers back. They both die.
You really shouldn’t have gone looking for your real parents.
Happy Your Two Dads Day!
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Lose At Pool Day!
Tonight at the bar, challenge another bar patron to a game of pool. Don’t make any shots.
“Are you losing intentionally?” the other player will ask.
Say yes.
“Then I don’t want to play,” the other player will say.
Tell him you’ll start playing for real, then don’t.
“Were you lying when you said you would play for real?”
Say yes.
“Then I don’t want to play!”
Tell him, okay, you admit that you were losing intentionally and you were lying when you said you’d start playing for real, but it’s just because you like to give yourself big challenges, so you let him get a major lead on you. Now, though, it’s a big enough challenge so you’re going to try to come back from your deficit by playing the best game you’ve ever played.
After your next few shots are just horrible, the other player will say, “Were you lying about that wanting a challenge stuff?”
Say no.
“Are you lying now?” he’ll ask.
Say, “What is truth?”
The other player will beat you with his pool cue until you’re dead. Hooray, you died in a bar, just like you always wanted.
Happy Lose At Pool Day!
“Are you losing intentionally?” the other player will ask.
Say yes.
“Then I don’t want to play,” the other player will say.
Tell him you’ll start playing for real, then don’t.
“Were you lying when you said you would play for real?”
Say yes.
“Then I don’t want to play!”
Tell him, okay, you admit that you were losing intentionally and you were lying when you said you’d start playing for real, but it’s just because you like to give yourself big challenges, so you let him get a major lead on you. Now, though, it’s a big enough challenge so you’re going to try to come back from your deficit by playing the best game you’ve ever played.
After your next few shots are just horrible, the other player will say, “Were you lying about that wanting a challenge stuff?”
Say no.
“Are you lying now?” he’ll ask.
Say, “What is truth?”
The other player will beat you with his pool cue until you’re dead. Hooray, you died in a bar, just like you always wanted.
Happy Lose At Pool Day!
Saturday, January 23, 2016
King Fun Day!
Today you’re King Fun.
“Chop off everybody’s heads,” you tell the people who do whatever you say.
Everyone in your kingdom is lined up and one by one their heads get chopped off. Until one small boy is about to be placed on the chopping block when he says, “For a guy named King Fun, you sure are a downer!”
You think about what the boy said. You take off your crown then hold your head in your hands.
“Oh my God! He’s riiiiight! I am a dooooooowner! I’m supposed to be King Fuuuuuun but instead of I’m King chop off everybody’s heeeeeeeads!”
You cry and cry and cry until everyone gets sick of hearing it and they start asking to have their heads chopped off so they don’t have to hear you anymore.
You wake up the next morning feeling better after having a good cry. You resolve to change your ways and live up to the name King Fun by being a little more positive and fostering an enjoyable atmosphere in your kingdom, but everybody’s already dead. Even the executioner. He cut off his own head. That’s how sucky it is to hear you cry.
Happy King Fun Day!
“Chop off everybody’s heads,” you tell the people who do whatever you say.
Everyone in your kingdom is lined up and one by one their heads get chopped off. Until one small boy is about to be placed on the chopping block when he says, “For a guy named King Fun, you sure are a downer!”
You think about what the boy said. You take off your crown then hold your head in your hands.
“Oh my God! He’s riiiiight! I am a dooooooowner! I’m supposed to be King Fuuuuuun but instead of I’m King chop off everybody’s heeeeeeeads!”
You cry and cry and cry until everyone gets sick of hearing it and they start asking to have their heads chopped off so they don’t have to hear you anymore.
You wake up the next morning feeling better after having a good cry. You resolve to change your ways and live up to the name King Fun by being a little more positive and fostering an enjoyable atmosphere in your kingdom, but everybody’s already dead. Even the executioner. He cut off his own head. That’s how sucky it is to hear you cry.
Happy King Fun Day!
Friday, January 22, 2016
Don’t Break Up With Lance Day!
His mom says he wouldn’t be able to handle it.
“Not today,” his mom begs. “Please. Just wait a little.”
“I don’t want to break up with your son,” you tell her.
His mom laughs.
“Come on, of course you do,” she says. “You’re so much hotter than him. And he’s so lame. But please, just keep dating him a little while longer?’
"Mrs. Sanford,” you tell her. “I really like your son. And part of me wonders if he could be the one.”
Lance’s mom laughs so hard at that one that she starts to cough. You pour her a glass of water. She thanks you, then hugs you.
“You’re so considerate. Lance doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “Which is why I’ve drawn up an eight-week plan for you to let him down easy. Take a look.”
Lance’s mom unrolls a large calendar across the kitchen table. It lays out exactly when you should start being cold around Lance (week 2), when you should fight with him over something small that represents a larger problem (week 4). Week 6 is when you should suggest that you and Lance spend some time apart. In week 7, you’re supposed to tell Lance you want to go on a date, just like in the beginning. You’re to tell him you want to see what it’s like if the two of you pretend all this fighting and questioning hasn’t been happening, so you can just enjoy each other’s company. In week 8, on the day of the final breakup, you’re to tell Lance how much fun you had on that pretend do-over date, and it reminded you what a great guy he is and why you liked him in the first place. But you also realized a relationship can’t exist within a pretend do-over date. Those weeks of fighting really did happen, and you think it would be better to just cut your losses and cherish what you had.
“Seem doable?” Lance’s mom asks.
“Look,” you say. “I like dating your son. I don’t want to break up with him. And I need you to get through your head that no matter what you think of him—”
You stop talking when Lance enters the kitchen.
“Hey, whatcha doin’?” he says. “Ready to go to the movie?”
He looks down and sees the calendar.
“Oh,” he says. “My mom showed you the eight-week calendar.”
There’s a moment of silence. You don’t know what to say.
“So,” Lance says. “Seem doable?”
Happy Don’t Break Up With Lance Day!
“Not today,” his mom begs. “Please. Just wait a little.”
“I don’t want to break up with your son,” you tell her.
His mom laughs.
“Come on, of course you do,” she says. “You’re so much hotter than him. And he’s so lame. But please, just keep dating him a little while longer?’
"Mrs. Sanford,” you tell her. “I really like your son. And part of me wonders if he could be the one.”
Lance’s mom laughs so hard at that one that she starts to cough. You pour her a glass of water. She thanks you, then hugs you.
“You’re so considerate. Lance doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “Which is why I’ve drawn up an eight-week plan for you to let him down easy. Take a look.”
Lance’s mom unrolls a large calendar across the kitchen table. It lays out exactly when you should start being cold around Lance (week 2), when you should fight with him over something small that represents a larger problem (week 4). Week 6 is when you should suggest that you and Lance spend some time apart. In week 7, you’re supposed to tell Lance you want to go on a date, just like in the beginning. You’re to tell him you want to see what it’s like if the two of you pretend all this fighting and questioning hasn’t been happening, so you can just enjoy each other’s company. In week 8, on the day of the final breakup, you’re to tell Lance how much fun you had on that pretend do-over date, and it reminded you what a great guy he is and why you liked him in the first place. But you also realized a relationship can’t exist within a pretend do-over date. Those weeks of fighting really did happen, and you think it would be better to just cut your losses and cherish what you had.
“Seem doable?” Lance’s mom asks.
“Look,” you say. “I like dating your son. I don’t want to break up with him. And I need you to get through your head that no matter what you think of him—”
You stop talking when Lance enters the kitchen.
“Hey, whatcha doin’?” he says. “Ready to go to the movie?”
He looks down and sees the calendar.
“Oh,” he says. “My mom showed you the eight-week calendar.”
There’s a moment of silence. You don’t know what to say.
“So,” Lance says. “Seem doable?”
Happy Don’t Break Up With Lance Day!
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Voodoo Doll Day!
You bought a Voodoo Doll but it’s broken.
“I’ve been stabbing it in the head with needles a million times but Karen’s head’s fine. Doesn’t even have a headache.”
The doll salesman will ask who Karen is. Explain that she’s the woman who sits in the cubicle next to yours at work and she hums too much.
“So I want to blind her. But your doll blows.”
The doll salesman says that you need to hide the doll under Karen’s pillow and have her sleep on it before it will work.
So you break into Karen’s house and hide the doll under her pillow. Then you call in sick the next day so that when she’s at work you can get the doll back.
Unfortunately, when you go to look for the doll, it’s not there. You search everywhere in Karen’s bedroom, then everywhere in her house. You get so tired that you fall asleep on her couch.
Karen shakes you awake, holding the doll up to your face.
“Looking for this?” she asks.
She found the doll last night. So she tucked it away, and when she found you asleep on her couch she slid the doll under the couch pillow you were sleeping on. Now she’s holding a pin to the doll’s head.
“Say you like me as a person,” Karen commands.
“But I don’t,” you say.
She pokes the doll head with a pin. You feel a sharp pain at your temple.
“I like you as a person,” you tell Karen.
“Say it again,” she says.
You do as she tells you. She makes you say it a dozen more times. Then she hands you the doll and lets you go.
“That’s it?” you ask. “That’s all you’re going to use the doll for?”
“No one’s ever said that to me before,” Karen says. “And if I used the doll for worse, you might not like me as a person anymore.”
You leave while Karen cries. Then you go to the doll salesman and tell him his doll backfired big time and now you still have to go into work and listen to Karen’s humming for forever.
“And I had to say I like her as a person,” you tell him. “So gross.”
“Quit and come work for me,” the doll salesman says. “I don’t hum.”
You tell him you don’t want to sell stupid dolls. So the doll salesman holds a flame near the doll you just returned to him and you feel a burning on your skin. You accept the job, and that’s how you embarked on a career selling Voodoo dolls, which you’ll do until you die or you get that doll back from him, whichever comes first.
Happy Voodoo Doll Day!
“I’ve been stabbing it in the head with needles a million times but Karen’s head’s fine. Doesn’t even have a headache.”
The doll salesman will ask who Karen is. Explain that she’s the woman who sits in the cubicle next to yours at work and she hums too much.
“So I want to blind her. But your doll blows.”
The doll salesman says that you need to hide the doll under Karen’s pillow and have her sleep on it before it will work.
So you break into Karen’s house and hide the doll under her pillow. Then you call in sick the next day so that when she’s at work you can get the doll back.
Unfortunately, when you go to look for the doll, it’s not there. You search everywhere in Karen’s bedroom, then everywhere in her house. You get so tired that you fall asleep on her couch.
Karen shakes you awake, holding the doll up to your face.
“Looking for this?” she asks.
She found the doll last night. So she tucked it away, and when she found you asleep on her couch she slid the doll under the couch pillow you were sleeping on. Now she’s holding a pin to the doll’s head.
“Say you like me as a person,” Karen commands.
“But I don’t,” you say.
She pokes the doll head with a pin. You feel a sharp pain at your temple.
“I like you as a person,” you tell Karen.
“Say it again,” she says.
You do as she tells you. She makes you say it a dozen more times. Then she hands you the doll and lets you go.
“That’s it?” you ask. “That’s all you’re going to use the doll for?”
“No one’s ever said that to me before,” Karen says. “And if I used the doll for worse, you might not like me as a person anymore.”
You leave while Karen cries. Then you go to the doll salesman and tell him his doll backfired big time and now you still have to go into work and listen to Karen’s humming for forever.
“And I had to say I like her as a person,” you tell him. “So gross.”
“Quit and come work for me,” the doll salesman says. “I don’t hum.”
You tell him you don’t want to sell stupid dolls. So the doll salesman holds a flame near the doll you just returned to him and you feel a burning on your skin. You accept the job, and that’s how you embarked on a career selling Voodoo dolls, which you’ll do until you die or you get that doll back from him, whichever comes first.
Happy Voodoo Doll Day!
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Love For A Year Day!
The dystopia you live in has a rule that people in love can only stay together for a year. At which time they have to apply to the government for an extension. If they aren’t granted an extension they have to either break up or commit suicide.
“It’s not fair,” you tell Greg.
“Better to have loved and lost,” Greg shrugs.
“It’s because the government is scared of love you know. The government doesn’t ban anything unless it’s a threat to their power.”
“What power does love have?” Greg asks.
The clock strikes midnight. Your year is up. You pull Greg’s face to yours and you kiss him.
A siren sounds. You both go on the run, hand in hand, a beacon for governmentally-thwarted lovers everywhere. The nation celebrates your love as the love that will set them free.
One night the president issues a pardon for your crime.
“It’s all right for them to stay together. The law only applies to lovers. Greg’s not that into her.”
You become livid. “He’s only doing that to try and break us up.”
Greg bites his lip. “Actually…”
You break up and Greg starts dating someone else, but the revolution continues. Lovers all across the land continue to love each other in violation, which pisses you off because now the whole country knows you just got dumped, and getting dumped used to be easier when it was the law.
Happy Love For A Year Day!
“It’s not fair,” you tell Greg.
“Better to have loved and lost,” Greg shrugs.
“It’s because the government is scared of love you know. The government doesn’t ban anything unless it’s a threat to their power.”
“What power does love have?” Greg asks.
The clock strikes midnight. Your year is up. You pull Greg’s face to yours and you kiss him.
A siren sounds. You both go on the run, hand in hand, a beacon for governmentally-thwarted lovers everywhere. The nation celebrates your love as the love that will set them free.
One night the president issues a pardon for your crime.
“It’s all right for them to stay together. The law only applies to lovers. Greg’s not that into her.”
You become livid. “He’s only doing that to try and break us up.”
Greg bites his lip. “Actually…”
You break up and Greg starts dating someone else, but the revolution continues. Lovers all across the land continue to love each other in violation, which pisses you off because now the whole country knows you just got dumped, and getting dumped used to be easier when it was the law.
Happy Love For A Year Day!
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Steal From Your Kids Day!
Your son has a toy truck. You want that toy truck. It’s not fair that he has it when you want it. Take that toy truck from your son and bring it into the office to play with.
Your son will visit you at work and ask if you’ve seen his toy truck. Lie to him. Say, “Psssh. That truck sucks. I didn’t take it.”
Your son will explain he has a play date and he needs his toy truck back if you have it. Stand your ground.
“I’m the president of a massive corporation. I don’t have your stupid fucking truck.”
Your eyes flash on the floor safe. Your son notices.
“It’s in the floor safe isn’t it?” he says.
“What floor safe,” you say, but he’s already out of his chair and spinning the combination dial.
“12. 16. 6,” he says as he spins, then pulls the door open to reveal his toy truck.
“Shouldn’t have used my birthday as the combo, dipshit,” he says, inspecting the toy truck for blemishes. “Have your secretary call me a car.”
You do as he says, happy that your son didn’t lift up the stacks of cash and bonds to find the Boba Fett action figure you stole from him.
Happy Steal From Your Kids Day!
Your son will visit you at work and ask if you’ve seen his toy truck. Lie to him. Say, “Psssh. That truck sucks. I didn’t take it.”
Your son will explain he has a play date and he needs his toy truck back if you have it. Stand your ground.
“I’m the president of a massive corporation. I don’t have your stupid fucking truck.”
Your eyes flash on the floor safe. Your son notices.
“It’s in the floor safe isn’t it?” he says.
“What floor safe,” you say, but he’s already out of his chair and spinning the combination dial.
“12. 16. 6,” he says as he spins, then pulls the door open to reveal his toy truck.
“Shouldn’t have used my birthday as the combo, dipshit,” he says, inspecting the toy truck for blemishes. “Have your secretary call me a car.”
You do as he says, happy that your son didn’t lift up the stacks of cash and bonds to find the Boba Fett action figure you stole from him.
Happy Steal From Your Kids Day!
Monday, January 18, 2016
What To Do At Game Night Day!
Tonight’s Game Night with you and the Palmers and the Costners and what you should do is you should stand up in the middle of Scattergories and shout, “I am done playing games with you people!” Then tell them about the hit and run in ‘93.
Pam Costner will stand up and shout that she’s also “done playing games with you people.” Then she’ll plant a kiss on your wife’s mouth and tell her she’s been in love with her for years.
Richie Costner will also stand up and shout that he, too, is effectively finished “playing games with you people.” He’ll walk out the front door, get in the car, and that’s all she wrote for Richie. You’ll never see him again.
Michael Palmer will similarly rise from his seat and say that he’s not going to be playing any stupid games with you people any longer. He’ll go to the bathroom and draw a bath in the tub and the blood from his open wrists will float out like ribbons.
Patty Palmer will announce in a whisper that she doesn’t want to play games with you people anymore. The rest you won’t understand because she’ll say it in Russian. She’ll be tried as a spy later this year.
Your wife, Debra, once she’s done being made out with by Pam Costner, will sit back down on the couch and say that she’s done playing games with you people, and she’ll take out a deck of cards and begin a game of solitaire. You won’t notice because you’ll be on the phone with the police confessing to vehicular manslaughter.
Happy What To Do At Game Night Day!
Pam Costner will stand up and shout that she’s also “done playing games with you people.” Then she’ll plant a kiss on your wife’s mouth and tell her she’s been in love with her for years.
Richie Costner will also stand up and shout that he, too, is effectively finished “playing games with you people.” He’ll walk out the front door, get in the car, and that’s all she wrote for Richie. You’ll never see him again.
Michael Palmer will similarly rise from his seat and say that he’s not going to be playing any stupid games with you people any longer. He’ll go to the bathroom and draw a bath in the tub and the blood from his open wrists will float out like ribbons.
Patty Palmer will announce in a whisper that she doesn’t want to play games with you people anymore. The rest you won’t understand because she’ll say it in Russian. She’ll be tried as a spy later this year.
Your wife, Debra, once she’s done being made out with by Pam Costner, will sit back down on the couch and say that she’s done playing games with you people, and she’ll take out a deck of cards and begin a game of solitaire. You won’t notice because you’ll be on the phone with the police confessing to vehicular manslaughter.
Happy What To Do At Game Night Day!
Sunday, January 17, 2016
Emily’s Sad Day!
Emily Connell, the president of the multi-national conglomerate where you temp, is sad today. You spotted her in a café staring out the window at the rain.
“Should I go in and see if I can cheer her up?” you ask your 7-year-old daughter.
“Do it. It could be good for your career. I can go see The Good Dinosaur some other day.”
Your daughter hails a cab and you go into the café and stand at the edge of your company president’s table.
“Why so sad Ms. Connell?” you ask.
She looks up at you through her tears.
“I know you.”
You sit down across from her. You wave to a waiter and tell him you’d like a glass or Port.
“This one’s on you, since you make 1500 times my salary at our shared place of employment.”
“Oh,” she says. “You work for me.”
“Tell me,” you say.
At that she unloads a tale of her third husband’s confession that he’s in love with her brother, a prominent member of British Parliament. He’s going to divorce her and announce his relationship with her brother, which will likely cause the board to oust her from her position as CEO due to a ridiculous “undue controversy” clause in her contract, and her brother will also have his government post threatened. Meanwhile, her (soon-to-be-)ex-husband has refused to offer testimony in a corporate malfeasance case, testimony that would be necessary to exonerate her of accusations that she manipulated the stock price with false accounting.
“So I’m facing public humiliation, professional disgrace, jail-time, and a broken heart,” she tells you.
You do the only thing you can do, the only thing you know how to do in situations like this. You try to cheer her up by farting the National Anthem.
It works.
“You’re quite talented,” she says, laughing through her tears.
“Thanks,” you say. “If you’re feeling better, I’d better hit the men’s room and check my underpants.”
When you come back from the men’s room, she’s gone. The waiter comes by and says she paid ahead and told them you could have whatever you want for the rest of the night. You get drunk on port and eat a half dozen scones, stuffing yourself until they lock up for the evening, making sure to bring one scone home for your daughter, who hasn’t eaten in hours.
Happy Emily’s Sad Day!
“Should I go in and see if I can cheer her up?” you ask your 7-year-old daughter.
“Do it. It could be good for your career. I can go see The Good Dinosaur some other day.”
Your daughter hails a cab and you go into the café and stand at the edge of your company president’s table.
“Why so sad Ms. Connell?” you ask.
She looks up at you through her tears.
“I know you.”
You sit down across from her. You wave to a waiter and tell him you’d like a glass or Port.
“This one’s on you, since you make 1500 times my salary at our shared place of employment.”
“Oh,” she says. “You work for me.”
“Tell me,” you say.
At that she unloads a tale of her third husband’s confession that he’s in love with her brother, a prominent member of British Parliament. He’s going to divorce her and announce his relationship with her brother, which will likely cause the board to oust her from her position as CEO due to a ridiculous “undue controversy” clause in her contract, and her brother will also have his government post threatened. Meanwhile, her (soon-to-be-)ex-husband has refused to offer testimony in a corporate malfeasance case, testimony that would be necessary to exonerate her of accusations that she manipulated the stock price with false accounting.
“So I’m facing public humiliation, professional disgrace, jail-time, and a broken heart,” she tells you.
You do the only thing you can do, the only thing you know how to do in situations like this. You try to cheer her up by farting the National Anthem.
It works.
“You’re quite talented,” she says, laughing through her tears.
“Thanks,” you say. “If you’re feeling better, I’d better hit the men’s room and check my underpants.”
When you come back from the men’s room, she’s gone. The waiter comes by and says she paid ahead and told them you could have whatever you want for the rest of the night. You get drunk on port and eat a half dozen scones, stuffing yourself until they lock up for the evening, making sure to bring one scone home for your daughter, who hasn’t eaten in hours.
Happy Emily’s Sad Day!
Saturday, January 16, 2016
New Dad Day!
You’re a new dad, which means everyone’s counting on you to not fuck up. So put the gun down.
“Will you just let me go?”
The bank manager says for the sake of your new baby daughter, yes, he’ll let you walk out the door if you don’t hurt anyone.
“What about the police outside?”
The police chief says into his megaphone that if you leave the money and you don’t hurt anybody and you promise to be there for that little angel, they’ll look the other way.
“What about the Feds?”
The FBI agents in the helicopters hovering over the bank call in on their dedicated line and tell you they have terrorists to catch. They don’t want to waste time keeping a new dad from his little girl.
“Okay,” you say. “Here I go.”
You put down your gun. You walk out the door of the bank. You walk all the way to the hospital. You kiss your baby on her forehead. You begin your life as a new dad, focused on taking care of your daughter and honoring the agreements you made with law enforcement.
That REALLY worked out!
Happy New Dad Day!
“Will you just let me go?”
The bank manager says for the sake of your new baby daughter, yes, he’ll let you walk out the door if you don’t hurt anyone.
“What about the police outside?”
The police chief says into his megaphone that if you leave the money and you don’t hurt anybody and you promise to be there for that little angel, they’ll look the other way.
“What about the Feds?”
The FBI agents in the helicopters hovering over the bank call in on their dedicated line and tell you they have terrorists to catch. They don’t want to waste time keeping a new dad from his little girl.
“Okay,” you say. “Here I go.”
You put down your gun. You walk out the door of the bank. You walk all the way to the hospital. You kiss your baby on her forehead. You begin your life as a new dad, focused on taking care of your daughter and honoring the agreements you made with law enforcement.
That REALLY worked out!
Happy New Dad Day!
Friday, January 15, 2016
The Sing To Your Food Diet Day!
The best way to manage your eating is to express appreciation for your food before you eat it. When you have your lunch in front of you, don’t just plow into it. Let your lunch know how much it means to you by singing a song you just wrote about it. Like let’s say you have a bowl of three bean chili. Sing it a ballad.
Oh well I know we been estranged
The road between us was steep and hilly
But now you’re here with me
And my life is great with you, my three bean chili
Or let’s say you’re about to eat a meatball hero. Sing that sandwich a song of positivity and joy.
It’s a neeeeew day
And everything feels just fine
Cuz I got a meatball hero in my hands
And I can feel the future is miiiiiiine
Really hit the high note on “mine.”
If you’re eating a salad, go with one of those twinkly high-pitched gnome-like indie singer songs that always play over yogurt commercials.
When I look into your eyes
I see a grassy sunlit meadow
And it’s green and bright and free of strife
I’ll meet you there
Whenever you’re ready to say hello again, salad
Because you’re just the sweetest treat of my sweet life
Once you finish singing, wait for your food to applaud. When it doesn’t applaud, ask your food who the fuck does it think it is. You worked hard writing that fucking song and it just sits there. Tell your food to go fuck itself then throw it at the wall. Don’t clean it up either. Just walk past the splash of food on your wall and give it the finger, day after day, then hold your phone to your ear and sing into it so your food thinks you’ve met other food to sing to. Your food will get jealous as it dries into a permanent stain that you’ll one day paint over. You should expect to lose two pounds a week.
Happy The Sing To Your Food Diet Day!
Oh well I know we been estranged
The road between us was steep and hilly
But now you’re here with me
And my life is great with you, my three bean chili
Or let’s say you’re about to eat a meatball hero. Sing that sandwich a song of positivity and joy.
It’s a neeeeew day
And everything feels just fine
Cuz I got a meatball hero in my hands
And I can feel the future is miiiiiiine
Really hit the high note on “mine.”
If you’re eating a salad, go with one of those twinkly high-pitched gnome-like indie singer songs that always play over yogurt commercials.
When I look into your eyes
I see a grassy sunlit meadow
And it’s green and bright and free of strife
I’ll meet you there
Whenever you’re ready to say hello again, salad
Because you’re just the sweetest treat of my sweet life
Once you finish singing, wait for your food to applaud. When it doesn’t applaud, ask your food who the fuck does it think it is. You worked hard writing that fucking song and it just sits there. Tell your food to go fuck itself then throw it at the wall. Don’t clean it up either. Just walk past the splash of food on your wall and give it the finger, day after day, then hold your phone to your ear and sing into it so your food thinks you’ve met other food to sing to. Your food will get jealous as it dries into a permanent stain that you’ll one day paint over. You should expect to lose two pounds a week.
Happy The Sing To Your Food Diet Day!
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Be The Kind Of Person Who Brings In Donuts To Work Day!
Today you’ll try and be the kind of person who brings in donuts to work. You’ll try and be a generous person with enthusiasm for the day ahead who delights in making things a little sweeter for your coworkers.
You’ll stand in front of your bathroom mirror barking at your reflection, “You can fucking do this Sharon! Stop fucking crying and go buy some goddamn donuts for motherfuck’s sake!"
When the negative thoughts invade your mind telling you it can’t be done, punch the mirror and feel the shards cut into your skin. Focus on that pain.
"Get the fuck out of here I need to focus,” you scream at the guy in your bed. He scrambles into his clothes and slams the door behind him. You check your wallet and this one didn’t steal all your money and credit cards for once.
“See! New day, new you! Now go buy your coworkers some fucking donuts and don’t fucking spit on them Sharon!"
On the bus to the donut place you get into three fist fights and you win all of them. Outside the donut place you have a panic arrack but you spy a pigeon eating a dead rat and it calms you.
Once inside the donut place you scream at the girl, "I don’t fucking care which kind. Just fill the fucking box!” When an armed robber comes in and tries to hold up the place you aren’t having it.
“Fuck you if you think you can fuck this up for me! That box is almost full!” You wrestle the gun from the robber. It goes off, grazing you in the side and killing the robber.
The next day a photo of you in the hospital is on the front page of the newspaper under the headline DONUT HERO. The article tells the story of a sweet girl who just likes to do nice things for her coworkers, but when a stranger put others in harms way, she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. “Sharon was always the kind of person who put everyone else first,” a coworker whose lunch Tupperware you once farted into will be quoted as saying.
Happy Be The Kind Of Person Who Brings In Donuts To Work Day!
You’ll stand in front of your bathroom mirror barking at your reflection, “You can fucking do this Sharon! Stop fucking crying and go buy some goddamn donuts for motherfuck’s sake!"
When the negative thoughts invade your mind telling you it can’t be done, punch the mirror and feel the shards cut into your skin. Focus on that pain.
"Get the fuck out of here I need to focus,” you scream at the guy in your bed. He scrambles into his clothes and slams the door behind him. You check your wallet and this one didn’t steal all your money and credit cards for once.
“See! New day, new you! Now go buy your coworkers some fucking donuts and don’t fucking spit on them Sharon!"
On the bus to the donut place you get into three fist fights and you win all of them. Outside the donut place you have a panic arrack but you spy a pigeon eating a dead rat and it calms you.
Once inside the donut place you scream at the girl, "I don’t fucking care which kind. Just fill the fucking box!” When an armed robber comes in and tries to hold up the place you aren’t having it.
“Fuck you if you think you can fuck this up for me! That box is almost full!” You wrestle the gun from the robber. It goes off, grazing you in the side and killing the robber.
The next day a photo of you in the hospital is on the front page of the newspaper under the headline DONUT HERO. The article tells the story of a sweet girl who just likes to do nice things for her coworkers, but when a stranger put others in harms way, she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. “Sharon was always the kind of person who put everyone else first,” a coworker whose lunch Tupperware you once farted into will be quoted as saying.
Happy Be The Kind Of Person Who Brings In Donuts To Work Day!
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Haunted Life Raft Day!
You and the other survivors of the capsized cruise ship have been floating for three days. Everything would be fine if it wasn’t for the ghost that’s haunting your life raft.
“I don’t think she even died on our cruise,” one of you says. “Do they reuse life rafts from other sunken ships?”
“Maybe she died on the boat itself,” someone responds. “Like of a heart attack. Or she got on the boat and her husband was supposed to meet her in their cabin but he never showed and sent a note saying he left her so she killed herself and then decided to haunt a life raft.”
“Maybe she died building the life raft,” someone else suggests. “Like in the factory?”
You all agree that that’s the most logical explanation. She must have been a life raft factory worker who died building the life raft so she haunted it.
Just then her apparition appears. You tell her you think that she died building a life raft and you want her to know her death wasn’t for nothing. That life raft she built is saving all of your lives.
“I never worked in a life raft factory you dumbasses,” she screams. “Time to take another one of you.”
She goes to the back of the boat and reaches her ghostly arm into a woman’s mouth, then pulls her insides out of her mouth until she’s turned the woman inside out completely.
You all help shove the spasming bloody inside out woman into the water. You have ten more hours to again guess why the ghost is haunting that life raft before she pulls the internal organs from another one of you.
Happy Haunted Life Raft Day!
“I don’t think she even died on our cruise,” one of you says. “Do they reuse life rafts from other sunken ships?”
“Maybe she died on the boat itself,” someone responds. “Like of a heart attack. Or she got on the boat and her husband was supposed to meet her in their cabin but he never showed and sent a note saying he left her so she killed herself and then decided to haunt a life raft.”
“Maybe she died building the life raft,” someone else suggests. “Like in the factory?”
You all agree that that’s the most logical explanation. She must have been a life raft factory worker who died building the life raft so she haunted it.
Just then her apparition appears. You tell her you think that she died building a life raft and you want her to know her death wasn’t for nothing. That life raft she built is saving all of your lives.
“I never worked in a life raft factory you dumbasses,” she screams. “Time to take another one of you.”
She goes to the back of the boat and reaches her ghostly arm into a woman’s mouth, then pulls her insides out of her mouth until she’s turned the woman inside out completely.
You all help shove the spasming bloody inside out woman into the water. You have ten more hours to again guess why the ghost is haunting that life raft before she pulls the internal organs from another one of you.
Happy Haunted Life Raft Day!
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Why You’ll Never Close The Party Store Day!
Tell him that your mother couldn’t afford to throw you a birthday party with the money she made working as a grocery store cashier.
“So she got a job at the party store, which would give her an employee discount so she could buy me some balloons.”
She kept looking for a better job, but one never came along. And since you kept having birthdays, she ended up trapped in that party store job.
“But soon she got an even better employee discount. And I got even more balloons on my birthday.”
It became your mom’s goal to get you so many birthday balloons that you’d be in danger of floating away. So she started sabotaging her coworkers, framing them for stealing from the register etc., and as they got fired one by one, she got promoted.
“But the real employee discount would come if she owned a piece of the store,” tell him. “If she owned a piece of the store, she’d be able to get balloons at cost.”
So your mom seduced the store owner and carried on an affair for a few months, making sure that his wife would find out and divorce him. The party store owner was so infatuated with how giving a lover your mom was that he married her as soon as the divorce went through.
“As his new wife, she was part owner of the store. I got so many balloons. But that wasn’t enough for my mom. Her new husband was too controlling over the store’s inventory and he wouldn’t buy the right balloons sometimes.
It was a slow-acting poison that she put into his food in small doses over the course of several months. When he died, the doctors only said it was a degenerative illness of the blood that they couldn’t quite pin down. Your mom owned the store outright, and when she eventually died, she passed it on to you.
"I have this party store because my mom wanted me to have a good birthday. And she devoted her life to giving me that good birthday by systematically climbing through the ranks of the store’s staff, seducing the owner, and eventually murdering him. And you want me to close it down?”
Your husband will say he was only thinking you might want to work less and be with your daughter more.
“I’ll be with my daughter when it matters. I’ll be with her on her birthday. She’ll know me because I’ll be the one behind the giant ass fucking wad of sick motherfucking balloons.”
Your husband will shrug. Increase the dose of poison in his food tonight.
Happy Why You’ll Never Close The Party Store Day!
“So she got a job at the party store, which would give her an employee discount so she could buy me some balloons.”
She kept looking for a better job, but one never came along. And since you kept having birthdays, she ended up trapped in that party store job.
“But soon she got an even better employee discount. And I got even more balloons on my birthday.”
It became your mom’s goal to get you so many birthday balloons that you’d be in danger of floating away. So she started sabotaging her coworkers, framing them for stealing from the register etc., and as they got fired one by one, she got promoted.
“But the real employee discount would come if she owned a piece of the store,” tell him. “If she owned a piece of the store, she’d be able to get balloons at cost.”
So your mom seduced the store owner and carried on an affair for a few months, making sure that his wife would find out and divorce him. The party store owner was so infatuated with how giving a lover your mom was that he married her as soon as the divorce went through.
“As his new wife, she was part owner of the store. I got so many balloons. But that wasn’t enough for my mom. Her new husband was too controlling over the store’s inventory and he wouldn’t buy the right balloons sometimes.
It was a slow-acting poison that she put into his food in small doses over the course of several months. When he died, the doctors only said it was a degenerative illness of the blood that they couldn’t quite pin down. Your mom owned the store outright, and when she eventually died, she passed it on to you.
"I have this party store because my mom wanted me to have a good birthday. And she devoted her life to giving me that good birthday by systematically climbing through the ranks of the store’s staff, seducing the owner, and eventually murdering him. And you want me to close it down?”
Your husband will say he was only thinking you might want to work less and be with your daughter more.
“I’ll be with my daughter when it matters. I’ll be with her on her birthday. She’ll know me because I’ll be the one behind the giant ass fucking wad of sick motherfucking balloons.”
Your husband will shrug. Increase the dose of poison in his food tonight.
Happy Why You’ll Never Close The Party Store Day!
Monday, January 11, 2016
Six Ways To Make Your Friend Be Attracted To You Sexually Day!
There are only six ways to get a good platonic friend to become attracted to you sexually. Let’s count them down backwards, though it should be noted that number six is no less effective than number 1. Sexual attraction is sexual attraction, period. Anyway, here they are.
6. Show your friend how physically attractive you are. Ask your friend, “Which body parts do you like?” If your friend says “Boobs” or “Feet” or “Nostrils,” tell your friend, “I have some of those!” Then prove it. Your friend will probably go, “Want! Oh Christ. I want your dying bag of blood and guts. Want to stuff it inside me and stuff me inside it. Shit!” Then start sex.
5. Show your friend what an attractive mind you have. Ask your friend what they want from an erotic partner intellectually. Your friend will probably be like, “I want to talk to my erotic partner about books.” So you should say, “I’ve read books. Four books.” Say that even if you haven’t because who has? Your friend will demand to know which books. Tell your friend, “I’ll only tell you which books after 10,000 sessions of intercourse.” By the time the 10,000 sessions of intercourse is over and you tell your friend you lied about the books, it won’t matter because you had intercourse 10,000 times which is enough.
4. Smell like stuff that turns your friend on. If your friend thinks a sexy night is a cozy time spent by the fire, cover yourself in the ashes of the nearest arson aftermath. If your friend is turned on by lavender because that’s what your friend’s mom used to wear before she died and it became a sex trigger in a weird way, pour a vat of lavender over your head then shove your friend’s face against your body until your friend is visibly aroused.
3. Taste attractive. Oysters are an aphrodisiac so rub yourself with oysters. The next time your friend licks you, the taste of oysters will make your friend think, “Wow. I was just platonically licking my friend like I always do, but this time for some reason I’m turned on.” Next comes nudity then comes the wedding then kids then death.
2. Give your friend all your money. Tell your friend, “I want you to have everything you want in life. Here’s everything I have.” Your friend will feel obligated to pleasure you sexually, which is the most awesome thing for your friend to feel obligated to do.
1. Change your wardrobe and your physical appearance so that you look exactly like your friend. We’re living in a narcissistic age and sometimes friends won’t be attracted to you because they’re too into themselves. So get plastic surgery to look exactly like your friend. That way, loving you will be the same as self-love. Sex with you will be no different than masturbation. You should also change your personal beliefs so that you and your friend agree on absolutely everything and there is never any discord whatsoever between the two of you. Enjoy being so loved by your friend you’ll both lose your grasp of the boundaries of personal consciousness and go mad!
Happy Six Ways To Make Your Friend Be Attracted To You Sexually Day!
6. Show your friend how physically attractive you are. Ask your friend, “Which body parts do you like?” If your friend says “Boobs” or “Feet” or “Nostrils,” tell your friend, “I have some of those!” Then prove it. Your friend will probably go, “Want! Oh Christ. I want your dying bag of blood and guts. Want to stuff it inside me and stuff me inside it. Shit!” Then start sex.
5. Show your friend what an attractive mind you have. Ask your friend what they want from an erotic partner intellectually. Your friend will probably be like, “I want to talk to my erotic partner about books.” So you should say, “I’ve read books. Four books.” Say that even if you haven’t because who has? Your friend will demand to know which books. Tell your friend, “I’ll only tell you which books after 10,000 sessions of intercourse.” By the time the 10,000 sessions of intercourse is over and you tell your friend you lied about the books, it won’t matter because you had intercourse 10,000 times which is enough.
4. Smell like stuff that turns your friend on. If your friend thinks a sexy night is a cozy time spent by the fire, cover yourself in the ashes of the nearest arson aftermath. If your friend is turned on by lavender because that’s what your friend’s mom used to wear before she died and it became a sex trigger in a weird way, pour a vat of lavender over your head then shove your friend’s face against your body until your friend is visibly aroused.
3. Taste attractive. Oysters are an aphrodisiac so rub yourself with oysters. The next time your friend licks you, the taste of oysters will make your friend think, “Wow. I was just platonically licking my friend like I always do, but this time for some reason I’m turned on.” Next comes nudity then comes the wedding then kids then death.
2. Give your friend all your money. Tell your friend, “I want you to have everything you want in life. Here’s everything I have.” Your friend will feel obligated to pleasure you sexually, which is the most awesome thing for your friend to feel obligated to do.
1. Change your wardrobe and your physical appearance so that you look exactly like your friend. We’re living in a narcissistic age and sometimes friends won’t be attracted to you because they’re too into themselves. So get plastic surgery to look exactly like your friend. That way, loving you will be the same as self-love. Sex with you will be no different than masturbation. You should also change your personal beliefs so that you and your friend agree on absolutely everything and there is never any discord whatsoever between the two of you. Enjoy being so loved by your friend you’ll both lose your grasp of the boundaries of personal consciousness and go mad!
Happy Six Ways To Make Your Friend Be Attracted To You Sexually Day!
Sunday, January 10, 2016
A Hang Glider Just Crashed Into Your House Day!
His hang glider is implanted into the siding along the second floor.
“Fuck!” you shout. “I can’t have this now!”
“Mmph!” he mumbles. His head’s stuck in your house.
“Goddammit!” you shout. “The teen I seduced just killed my husband and he’s supposed to get rid of the body but with you faceplanted into the side of my house and your stupid giant kite hanging over the lawn for everyone to see, the news crews are gonna be here any minute.”
Mmph!“ he mumbles.
"Sorry dickface, but the murder just got pinned on you.”
And so your husband will forever be remembered as having been killed by some guy who thought he could commit a murder and then escape by hang gliding off the roof but then the wind just crashed him back into the house. You’ll make a killing from the life insurance, yo.
Happy A Hang Glider Just Crashed Into Your House Day!
“Fuck!” you shout. “I can’t have this now!”
“Mmph!” he mumbles. His head’s stuck in your house.
“Goddammit!” you shout. “The teen I seduced just killed my husband and he’s supposed to get rid of the body but with you faceplanted into the side of my house and your stupid giant kite hanging over the lawn for everyone to see, the news crews are gonna be here any minute.”
Mmph!“ he mumbles.
"Sorry dickface, but the murder just got pinned on you.”
And so your husband will forever be remembered as having been killed by some guy who thought he could commit a murder and then escape by hang gliding off the roof but then the wind just crashed him back into the house. You’ll make a killing from the life insurance, yo.
Happy A Hang Glider Just Crashed Into Your House Day!
Saturday, January 09, 2016
Waaaaaay Before Sunrise Day!
Her Courtyard By Marriott hotel room has a balcony in the middle of an office plaza that looks out on a dark corporate sprawl of office buildings. She sits out there drunk at 1 am when she sees a guy in a suit walk out of one of the buildings.
“Working hard or hardly working?” she shouts down to him.
“I don’t fucking need this!” he shouts back to her. “I just found out my company is doing business with the mafia!”
She apologizes. “I was just having some fun,” she says. “Drunk. You know.”
“Well maybe think about who you yell stuff at next time!” the guy shouts. “I thought I was working for a legitimate firm. But it turns out, they’re doing business with the mafia!”
“Want a drink?” she asks.
He climbs up the balconies to hers and they enjoy Scotch together.
“What do you think I’m gonna do?” he says after she asks him what he’s going to do about the mafia thing. “I’m going to report it to the local police station as soon as the sun rises.”
“What if we’re still making love?” she asks him.
They make love but they finish waaaaaay before the sun rises.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” she says when they’re laying in the afterglow like, seriously, hours before the sun comes up. “But if you rat on the mafia, that’s probably what will happen.”
“Could you do it?” he asks. “Could you go on working for a firm that does business with the mafia?”
“Yeah. Who cares? Besides, the mafia’s cool.”
He catches her drift and decides to not care who his firm does business with and so he becomes rich instead of dying, plus he had sex earlier (waaaaaay before sunrise),
Happy Waaaaaay Before Sunrise Day!
“Working hard or hardly working?” she shouts down to him.
“I don’t fucking need this!” he shouts back to her. “I just found out my company is doing business with the mafia!”
She apologizes. “I was just having some fun,” she says. “Drunk. You know.”
“Well maybe think about who you yell stuff at next time!” the guy shouts. “I thought I was working for a legitimate firm. But it turns out, they’re doing business with the mafia!”
“Want a drink?” she asks.
He climbs up the balconies to hers and they enjoy Scotch together.
“What do you think I’m gonna do?” he says after she asks him what he’s going to do about the mafia thing. “I’m going to report it to the local police station as soon as the sun rises.”
“What if we’re still making love?” she asks him.
They make love but they finish waaaaaay before the sun rises.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” she says when they’re laying in the afterglow like, seriously, hours before the sun comes up. “But if you rat on the mafia, that’s probably what will happen.”
“Could you do it?” he asks. “Could you go on working for a firm that does business with the mafia?”
“Yeah. Who cares? Besides, the mafia’s cool.”
He catches her drift and decides to not care who his firm does business with and so he becomes rich instead of dying, plus he had sex earlier (waaaaaay before sunrise),
Happy Waaaaaay Before Sunrise Day!
Friday, January 08, 2016
Fun Couple Day!
He slams the vacuum cleaner against the carpet to try to shake loose whatever’s stuck up there.
“Maybe you vacuumed up some of my dreams?” his wife says over the rim of her highball glass.
He jokingly searches the inside workings of the vacuum looking for her dreams.
“Don’t see any of those in here,” he says with a chuckle.
“Check the garbage disposal. Maybe you shoved my dreams down there! I haven’t seen them in so long, maybe you ground them up in the sink blades like they were just some leftover kale leaves from last night’s forgettable dinner!”
He jokingly checks the garbage disposal to see if there are any dreams in it.
“Nope. No dreams down there!” he shouts jovially.
“Maybe you threw them out with the trash. My dreams are so old and neglected that I could see you mistaking them for garbage. Did you happen to take my dreams and stuff them into a garbage can with the stripped toilet paper rolls, the soiled q-tips, and the junk mail pleas for charitable donations that we tear up and throw away without even fucking reading?!”
He jokingly goes down to the sidewalk to untie the garbage bags and root through the trash searching for her dreams.
“Can’t find any dreams in these Hefty cinch sacks!” he shouts up at their window.
She opens the window and shouts back at him, “Have you checked the grille and tires of our car? Take a flashlight and inspect the grille and tires for the blood of my dreams! You might have accidentally run down my dreams some night when you weren’t paying any goddamn attention to them. So you obliterated them against the grille of the car, then dragged them under the tires. Then to be sure they were dead you might have shifted into reverse and backed over my dreams until the life bled out of them into the street. Then you might have peeled away without even bothering to get out of the car to try and help.”
He jokingly goes upstairs to grab a flashlight, and then jokingly heads out to the car to inspect the grille and tires. There’s blood everywhere.
Back in the apartment, “My God, you drove home? I begged you never to drive when you’re like this.”
“He came out of nowhere. I thought I could live with the guilt but I can’t.”
When she finishes her drink, he takes her to the police station so she can turn herself in for the hit and run.
“Honey,” she barks at him. “Check the other jail cells for my dreams! See if they’ve been locked up in here for life without the possibility of parole.”
He asks the police if he can jokingly check the jail cells for his wife’s dreams, but the police remind him that a man is dead. This is no time for jokes.
Happy Fun Couple Day!
“Maybe you vacuumed up some of my dreams?” his wife says over the rim of her highball glass.
He jokingly searches the inside workings of the vacuum looking for her dreams.
“Don’t see any of those in here,” he says with a chuckle.
“Check the garbage disposal. Maybe you shoved my dreams down there! I haven’t seen them in so long, maybe you ground them up in the sink blades like they were just some leftover kale leaves from last night’s forgettable dinner!”
He jokingly checks the garbage disposal to see if there are any dreams in it.
“Nope. No dreams down there!” he shouts jovially.
“Maybe you threw them out with the trash. My dreams are so old and neglected that I could see you mistaking them for garbage. Did you happen to take my dreams and stuff them into a garbage can with the stripped toilet paper rolls, the soiled q-tips, and the junk mail pleas for charitable donations that we tear up and throw away without even fucking reading?!”
He jokingly goes down to the sidewalk to untie the garbage bags and root through the trash searching for her dreams.
“Can’t find any dreams in these Hefty cinch sacks!” he shouts up at their window.
She opens the window and shouts back at him, “Have you checked the grille and tires of our car? Take a flashlight and inspect the grille and tires for the blood of my dreams! You might have accidentally run down my dreams some night when you weren’t paying any goddamn attention to them. So you obliterated them against the grille of the car, then dragged them under the tires. Then to be sure they were dead you might have shifted into reverse and backed over my dreams until the life bled out of them into the street. Then you might have peeled away without even bothering to get out of the car to try and help.”
He jokingly goes upstairs to grab a flashlight, and then jokingly heads out to the car to inspect the grille and tires. There’s blood everywhere.
Back in the apartment, “My God, you drove home? I begged you never to drive when you’re like this.”
“He came out of nowhere. I thought I could live with the guilt but I can’t.”
When she finishes her drink, he takes her to the police station so she can turn herself in for the hit and run.
“Honey,” she barks at him. “Check the other jail cells for my dreams! See if they’ve been locked up in here for life without the possibility of parole.”
He asks the police if he can jokingly check the jail cells for his wife’s dreams, but the police remind him that a man is dead. This is no time for jokes.
Happy Fun Couple Day!
Thursday, January 07, 2016
You’re a Private Detective Day!
She walks into your office with long legs and a face.
“My husband’s having an affair,” she says.
“I’ll take the case,” you say.
The two of you have sex. On the desk?
A week later you confront her because her husband’s dead and you’ve been framed for the murder.
“Yeah,” she says. “Yup.”
The two of you have sex. Against the file cabinet?
Using your detective skills you find out this murder affects all branches of government in every country, even Philadelphia.
“Walk away,” President Obama says to you.
“Fine,” you say.
The two of you have sex. In the Oval Office?
Happy You’re a Private Detective Day!
“My husband’s having an affair,” she says.
“I’ll take the case,” you say.
The two of you have sex. On the desk?
A week later you confront her because her husband’s dead and you’ve been framed for the murder.
“Yeah,” she says. “Yup.”
The two of you have sex. Against the file cabinet?
Using your detective skills you find out this murder affects all branches of government in every country, even Philadelphia.
“Walk away,” President Obama says to you.
“Fine,” you say.
The two of you have sex. In the Oval Office?
Happy You’re a Private Detective Day!
Wednesday, January 06, 2016
The Last Hair Stylist In America Day!
Nuclear war. Millions killed. Only a few will survive, including you. You’ll be the last hair stylist in America.
“We need someone who knows agriculture,” the settlement Governor will say when you approach the gate. “And we need physicians of course. And carpenters to help us rebuild, electricians to see if the grids in the area can be up and running again.”
“Your hair looks awful,” tell him. “I can fix that.”
He’ll start to close the gate on you. Stick your foot in the gate to block it.
“Hey,” tell him. “You want to be governor of this little settlement? Or you want to go on to be governor of all the settlements? Because we’re all going to need someone to look up to, but we’re not going to look up to anyone with hair like that.”
He thinks about it. “You can tell I’m ambitious, can you?”
Shake your head. “I can tell you’re a man with bad hair. Let me ply my trade.”
The gate reopens and you begin grooming the future president of the newly risen settlements of the fallen world.
Happy The Last Hair Stylist In America Day!
“We need someone who knows agriculture,” the settlement Governor will say when you approach the gate. “And we need physicians of course. And carpenters to help us rebuild, electricians to see if the grids in the area can be up and running again.”
“Your hair looks awful,” tell him. “I can fix that.”
He’ll start to close the gate on you. Stick your foot in the gate to block it.
“Hey,” tell him. “You want to be governor of this little settlement? Or you want to go on to be governor of all the settlements? Because we’re all going to need someone to look up to, but we’re not going to look up to anyone with hair like that.”
He thinks about it. “You can tell I’m ambitious, can you?”
Shake your head. “I can tell you’re a man with bad hair. Let me ply my trade.”
The gate reopens and you begin grooming the future president of the newly risen settlements of the fallen world.
Happy The Last Hair Stylist In America Day!
Tuesday, January 05, 2016
Be The Girlfriend Of His Dreams Day!
He’ll say, “I really like tea.”
Next time he comes over, have a pot of tea brewing for him. Bam, super girlfriend!
He’ll say, “It sure is cold in here.”
Put your body on his and hold him close to keep him warm. Girlfriend supreme!
He’ll say, “I wish I had a stepladder to reach the shelf above the cabinets in the kitchen."
Over the weekend, hit the Target and buy him a stepladder, then leave it in his kitchen with a little bow on it. Huzzah! You’re the best girlfriend a short dude ever had.
He’ll say, "Jeff at work is really bugging me.”
Break into Jeff’s apartment and hide in his closet until he gets into bed. Pull on your burlap mask, burst out of his closet and pin Jeff to the bed. From the bag on your shoulder, remove the python you bought from Petsmart and let it slither over his face. Tell Jeff if he isn’t nicer to his coworkers, he’s going to find out what it’s like to have his head slowly digested by a reptile. Jeff will agree to be nicer and you’ll have unlocked the Excellent Girlfriend Achievement. Return the python for cash.
He’ll say, “I’m stuck in here.”
Go to a higher floor and pry open the elevator doors, then shimmy down the elevator cable to the roof of the car he’s stuck in. Pop open the escape panel on the roof of the car and tell him to take your hand. Then pull him up out of the car and instruct him to shimmy up the cable to the floor where the doors are open. Encourage him with supportive comments the whole way, letting him know you think he’s really strong to be climbing to safety like this, and he looks handsome when he panics. Awesome girlfriend = You!
He’ll say, “Will you marry me?”
Tell him you appreciate the offer but you’re really trying to get the hang of this girlfriend thing, and if you have to suddenly become his wife, you’ll be starting over at zero and everything you’ve been working toward will just be thrown into the trash. You do that enough, jumping from project to project any time things get challenging, and you don’t want to do it with this. Tell him you should be able to really nail your girlfriend shtick in about four to six more years, then you can start looking into whether or not you want to try and pursue wife stuff, or maybe law school and then, perhaps, politics? He’ll support you because you’re such a good girlfriend, how could he not!
He’ll say, “Then I think we should see other people.”
Introduce him to some friends of yours who you just know would be perfect for him. You’ve got that one friend who always seemed to get a little too physical when she talked to him, resting her hand on his wrist while making a point (Hi Pam!), and you bet they’d hit it off. Arrange a dinner party and sit him next to Pam and watch the sparks fly thanks to some help from little old you, the perfect girlfriend!
He’ll say, “Pam and I are in love and you have to accept this. You said you’d be moved out by today.”
Show him that not only have you moved out, but you’re only hanging around to help Pam move in! You want this to go smoothly for him and you’re not going to let some uncaring movers ruin her things on the first day of their shared life together, because you’re the best girlfriend he could ask for and you better goddamn believe he knows it!
He’ll say, “What are you doing here? Pam and I have been married for years and we have a son who just turned three.”
No duh, that’s why you’re parked outside his house dressed head to toe in a clown costume. Every three-year-old deserves a clown on his birthday, and who better to be that clown than daddy’s unbelievably awesome girlfriend (who just so happens to have taken a semester of Clowning when she was at Brandeis, thank you very much!). Congratulations, you just became the girlfriend of his dreams!
He’ll say, “Pam’s just too busy to pay attention to me anymore. Anyway, it’s been a such a long time since I’ve heard from you and I was wondering what you’re up to. Remember that time you rescued me from a stalled elevator? You were such a good girlfriend.”
Such a good girlfriend? Girlfriend of his dreams! Goddammit, get it right! And once you achieved all you could achieve in the girlfriending realm, you went to law school, killed it, and now you’re a congressional representative for his district. Tell him you’re ready to listen to any concerns he has about how the country is doing and what can be done to make a better America because you are ready to be THE CONGRESSIONAL REPRESENTATIVE OF HIS DREAMS!!!!
Happy Be The Girlfriend Of His Dreams Day!
Next time he comes over, have a pot of tea brewing for him. Bam, super girlfriend!
He’ll say, “It sure is cold in here.”
Put your body on his and hold him close to keep him warm. Girlfriend supreme!
He’ll say, “I wish I had a stepladder to reach the shelf above the cabinets in the kitchen."
Over the weekend, hit the Target and buy him a stepladder, then leave it in his kitchen with a little bow on it. Huzzah! You’re the best girlfriend a short dude ever had.
He’ll say, "Jeff at work is really bugging me.”
Break into Jeff’s apartment and hide in his closet until he gets into bed. Pull on your burlap mask, burst out of his closet and pin Jeff to the bed. From the bag on your shoulder, remove the python you bought from Petsmart and let it slither over his face. Tell Jeff if he isn’t nicer to his coworkers, he’s going to find out what it’s like to have his head slowly digested by a reptile. Jeff will agree to be nicer and you’ll have unlocked the Excellent Girlfriend Achievement. Return the python for cash.
He’ll say, “I’m stuck in here.”
Go to a higher floor and pry open the elevator doors, then shimmy down the elevator cable to the roof of the car he’s stuck in. Pop open the escape panel on the roof of the car and tell him to take your hand. Then pull him up out of the car and instruct him to shimmy up the cable to the floor where the doors are open. Encourage him with supportive comments the whole way, letting him know you think he’s really strong to be climbing to safety like this, and he looks handsome when he panics. Awesome girlfriend = You!
He’ll say, “Will you marry me?”
Tell him you appreciate the offer but you’re really trying to get the hang of this girlfriend thing, and if you have to suddenly become his wife, you’ll be starting over at zero and everything you’ve been working toward will just be thrown into the trash. You do that enough, jumping from project to project any time things get challenging, and you don’t want to do it with this. Tell him you should be able to really nail your girlfriend shtick in about four to six more years, then you can start looking into whether or not you want to try and pursue wife stuff, or maybe law school and then, perhaps, politics? He’ll support you because you’re such a good girlfriend, how could he not!
He’ll say, “Then I think we should see other people.”
Introduce him to some friends of yours who you just know would be perfect for him. You’ve got that one friend who always seemed to get a little too physical when she talked to him, resting her hand on his wrist while making a point (Hi Pam!), and you bet they’d hit it off. Arrange a dinner party and sit him next to Pam and watch the sparks fly thanks to some help from little old you, the perfect girlfriend!
He’ll say, “Pam and I are in love and you have to accept this. You said you’d be moved out by today.”
Show him that not only have you moved out, but you’re only hanging around to help Pam move in! You want this to go smoothly for him and you’re not going to let some uncaring movers ruin her things on the first day of their shared life together, because you’re the best girlfriend he could ask for and you better goddamn believe he knows it!
He’ll say, “What are you doing here? Pam and I have been married for years and we have a son who just turned three.”
No duh, that’s why you’re parked outside his house dressed head to toe in a clown costume. Every three-year-old deserves a clown on his birthday, and who better to be that clown than daddy’s unbelievably awesome girlfriend (who just so happens to have taken a semester of Clowning when she was at Brandeis, thank you very much!). Congratulations, you just became the girlfriend of his dreams!
He’ll say, “Pam’s just too busy to pay attention to me anymore. Anyway, it’s been a such a long time since I’ve heard from you and I was wondering what you’re up to. Remember that time you rescued me from a stalled elevator? You were such a good girlfriend.”
Such a good girlfriend? Girlfriend of his dreams! Goddammit, get it right! And once you achieved all you could achieve in the girlfriending realm, you went to law school, killed it, and now you’re a congressional representative for his district. Tell him you’re ready to listen to any concerns he has about how the country is doing and what can be done to make a better America because you are ready to be THE CONGRESSIONAL REPRESENTATIVE OF HIS DREAMS!!!!
Happy Be The Girlfriend Of His Dreams Day!
Monday, January 04, 2016
You Share A Cubicle With Your Girlfriend’s Dad Day!
“Mr. Palmer?” you exclaim as he wheels a chair in and places his briefcase on the stretch of desk you’re not occupying.
“When you’re out of work at my age, after a while you take what you can get,” he says. “So I’m back to temping. Don’t tell my daughter.”
It’s pretty weird to work with your girlfriend’s dad every day, especially keeping it a secret from your girlfriend. But he turns out to be the best cubicle mate you’ve ever had. And the two of you are working together to fulfill your daily tasks and you’re meeting your monthly goals with ease and style.
“The dream team,” your supervisors call out to you as they pass your cubicle.
The only problem is the part about not telling your girlfriend that you temp with her dad.
“We work great together, sure,” her dad says to you over lunch one day. “But my daughter can’t know that her dad’s a temp. And I can’t have you lying to my little girl.”
When you end it with her, she wants a reason. You say you two don’t have enough in common, but you say it like it’s a question and you want her to confirm the answer. She says she thinks there’s something more going on.
“Is it because since your mom started working as a pizza delivery girl at our pizza parlor and I’m her boss now?”
You shake your head no. You try “it’s not you, it’s me,” but she doesn’t buy it. You try everything you can to avoid telling her that her dad is a temp, and he’s the best coworker and cubicle mate you ever had.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m going to make your mom’s life hell. She’s only going to deliver pizzas to bachelor parties and senior citizens living on tight budgets.”
You shrug. “Like I care. Fire her if you want. My mom’s a big girl.”
You know she won’t. She’s told you over and over that your mom’s the best pizza delivery person she ever had. A natural.
If only you could tell her the same about her dad and his admin assistant skills. But it’s better this way. If pushing her out of your life means her dad can do his work unencumbered by the shame of disappointing his daughter or coercing her boyfriend to lie to her, it’s what has to be done. For the cubicle.
Happy You Share A Cubicle With Your Girlfriend’s Dad Day!
“When you’re out of work at my age, after a while you take what you can get,” he says. “So I’m back to temping. Don’t tell my daughter.”
It’s pretty weird to work with your girlfriend’s dad every day, especially keeping it a secret from your girlfriend. But he turns out to be the best cubicle mate you’ve ever had. And the two of you are working together to fulfill your daily tasks and you’re meeting your monthly goals with ease and style.
“The dream team,” your supervisors call out to you as they pass your cubicle.
The only problem is the part about not telling your girlfriend that you temp with her dad.
“We work great together, sure,” her dad says to you over lunch one day. “But my daughter can’t know that her dad’s a temp. And I can’t have you lying to my little girl.”
When you end it with her, she wants a reason. You say you two don’t have enough in common, but you say it like it’s a question and you want her to confirm the answer. She says she thinks there’s something more going on.
“Is it because since your mom started working as a pizza delivery girl at our pizza parlor and I’m her boss now?”
You shake your head no. You try “it’s not you, it’s me,” but she doesn’t buy it. You try everything you can to avoid telling her that her dad is a temp, and he’s the best coworker and cubicle mate you ever had.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m going to make your mom’s life hell. She’s only going to deliver pizzas to bachelor parties and senior citizens living on tight budgets.”
You shrug. “Like I care. Fire her if you want. My mom’s a big girl.”
You know she won’t. She’s told you over and over that your mom’s the best pizza delivery person she ever had. A natural.
If only you could tell her the same about her dad and his admin assistant skills. But it’s better this way. If pushing her out of your life means her dad can do his work unencumbered by the shame of disappointing his daughter or coercing her boyfriend to lie to her, it’s what has to be done. For the cubicle.
Happy You Share A Cubicle With Your Girlfriend’s Dad Day!
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
They Used To Call You Doctor Party Day!
“What would they call you now, Doctor Behind Bars?” the prison guard asks.
“No,” you tell him. “They took away my license to practice when my wife overdosed at one of the OxyContin parties I threw monthly using my own prescription pad. So now it’s just Mister Party.”
“Mister Party? Seriously?”
“I’m not going to change my last name just because Karen couldn’t handle her shit.”
The prison guard processes your paperwork and you’re released on parole after a 12-year sentence. You take a few steps into freedom and get the urge to turn around and run back inside. Everyone’s door was wide open when you were Doctor Party. But without a prescription pad, Mister Party has nowhere to go.
Happy They Used To Call You Doctor Party Day!
“No,” you tell him. “They took away my license to practice when my wife overdosed at one of the OxyContin parties I threw monthly using my own prescription pad. So now it’s just Mister Party.”
“Mister Party? Seriously?”
“I’m not going to change my last name just because Karen couldn’t handle her shit.”
The prison guard processes your paperwork and you’re released on parole after a 12-year sentence. You take a few steps into freedom and get the urge to turn around and run back inside. Everyone’s door was wide open when you were Doctor Party. But without a prescription pad, Mister Party has nowhere to go.
Happy They Used To Call You Doctor Party Day!
Thursday, November 05, 2015
This Is How You’ll Fall In Love Day!
A bank representative will come to your house and tell you it’s not your house anymore, it’s the bank’s. Your husband will die of a heart attack on the spot. The bank representative will help you try and resuscitate him, but it won’t be any use.
At the funeral, the bank representative will stand by a tree and watch. You’ll go to him, with the same flush of giddiness you felt when you first saw him standing on your porch.
“You felt it too,” you’ll say.
“When we were performing CPR,” he’ll say. “I knew your husband was gone. But I kept performing mouth to mouth. Knowing that his lips had probably recently touched yours, I couldn’t resist putting my mouth to his again and again and again.”
“I thought you were hogging him,” you’ll say with a giggle. “But you were wrong. His lips hadn’t touched mine for quite some time.”
He takes you home because you need a roof over your head and you live the rest of your years together. On your death bed you’ll say to him, “Thank God my dead husband never paid his bills and ruined his heart with fatty foods.”
“Thank God my bank had a no mercy attitude to delinquent borrowers,” he’ll answer.
He kisses you, with the same hungry kiss he gave to your husband when he searched his mouth for a lingering taste of yours. He kisses you to keep you from opening your mouth and saying goodbye.
Happy This Is How You’ll Fall In Love Day!
At the funeral, the bank representative will stand by a tree and watch. You’ll go to him, with the same flush of giddiness you felt when you first saw him standing on your porch.
“You felt it too,” you’ll say.
“When we were performing CPR,” he’ll say. “I knew your husband was gone. But I kept performing mouth to mouth. Knowing that his lips had probably recently touched yours, I couldn’t resist putting my mouth to his again and again and again.”
“I thought you were hogging him,” you’ll say with a giggle. “But you were wrong. His lips hadn’t touched mine for quite some time.”
He takes you home because you need a roof over your head and you live the rest of your years together. On your death bed you’ll say to him, “Thank God my dead husband never paid his bills and ruined his heart with fatty foods.”
“Thank God my bank had a no mercy attitude to delinquent borrowers,” he’ll answer.
He kisses you, with the same hungry kiss he gave to your husband when he searched his mouth for a lingering taste of yours. He kisses you to keep you from opening your mouth and saying goodbye.
Happy This Is How You’ll Fall In Love Day!
Tuesday, November 03, 2015
You Sold The Drugs That A Beloved Actor OD’d On Day!
It’s all over the papers.
“Beloved Actor OD’s On Jennifer’s Drugs.”
You try to go about your day but everyone knows. When you drop your daughter off at day care, the other moms are glaring at you.
“Thanks for making movies suck more, Jennifer,” the Day Care Administrator says as she leads your daughter inside.
At the supermarket, the deli guy goes over the quarter pound of ham that you requested.
“Oh I’m sorry,” he says sarcastically. “But then again, you’re no stranger to giving people more than they can handle.”
When you get home your husband is waiting with his bags packed,
“I can’t stay here,” he says. “I loved that one movie he was in with the horse. Now there’ll never be a sequel, because of your drugs.”
You ask him what he’ll live off of.
“I’ll get a job. I don’t wanna live off your drug money.”
You ask what about his daughter.
“Keep her,” he says. “She was raised on drug money.”
Just to get him started, you give him $500,000 in drug money and send him on his way.
“I respect your decision,” you say.
The next day your secretary has lots of messages for you.
“Lots of people want to buy our drugs!” she says. “They think if it killed that one actor it must be good drugs.”
You hire more people, which stimulates the economy and gets you praise in the news as a job creator.
“That worked out,” you say out loud to no one and nothing.
Happy You Sold The Drugs That A Beloved Actor OD’d On Day!
“Beloved Actor OD’s On Jennifer’s Drugs.”
You try to go about your day but everyone knows. When you drop your daughter off at day care, the other moms are glaring at you.
“Thanks for making movies suck more, Jennifer,” the Day Care Administrator says as she leads your daughter inside.
At the supermarket, the deli guy goes over the quarter pound of ham that you requested.
“Oh I’m sorry,” he says sarcastically. “But then again, you’re no stranger to giving people more than they can handle.”
When you get home your husband is waiting with his bags packed,
“I can’t stay here,” he says. “I loved that one movie he was in with the horse. Now there’ll never be a sequel, because of your drugs.”
You ask him what he’ll live off of.
“I’ll get a job. I don’t wanna live off your drug money.”
You ask what about his daughter.
“Keep her,” he says. “She was raised on drug money.”
Just to get him started, you give him $500,000 in drug money and send him on his way.
“I respect your decision,” you say.
The next day your secretary has lots of messages for you.
“Lots of people want to buy our drugs!” she says. “They think if it killed that one actor it must be good drugs.”
You hire more people, which stimulates the economy and gets you praise in the news as a job creator.
“That worked out,” you say out loud to no one and nothing.
Happy You Sold The Drugs That A Beloved Actor OD’d On Day!
Monday, October 26, 2015
Kitchen Switchers Day!
You created the new show called Kitchen Switchers where people switch kitchens. So every morning after waking up in their own house they have to drive across town to the house with the kitchen they switched with if they want any coffee or breakfast. It’s a big hit since everyone likes watching people look through kitchen cabinets to find where stuff is.
Today you’re going to get a call that one of your former Kitchen Switchers has returned to the kitchen she switched with.
“Karen?” you’ll say as you enter the kitchen slowly. “What are you doing here? Show’s over.”
“I am where I belong,” Karen will say. “This is my kitchen.”
The mom of the house will whisper in your ear, “We just woke up and there she was. Eating an English Muffin. The last English Muffin I might add.”
“Karen,” say to her, your arms up to show no weapons. “Why don’t we take you back to your kitchen?”
“I said, THIS IS MY KITCHEN!” she screams.
“Okay,” you say. “This is your kitchen. All yours.”
“I always felt there was something off about my life. I love my husband. Love my kids. Love my job. But something made me feel like I wasn’t really me.”
She looks around the room, tears running down her cheeks.
“Then your show came along. And I saw this kitchen and I knew, this is it. This is the kitchen I was supposed to cook in. These fixtures. This model fridge. The way those high cabinets above the sink are organized. It was all so right.”
She seemed to stare at the adjustable faucet nozzle like it was a childhood memory.
“Then you took it away from me,” she says. “Show’s over. Back to your own kitchen.”
You hold still, afraid.
“THEN YOU TOOK IT AWAY FROM ME!!!” she screams as she drives a butter knife into your left temple.
Happy Kitchen Switchers Day!
Today you’re going to get a call that one of your former Kitchen Switchers has returned to the kitchen she switched with.
“Karen?” you’ll say as you enter the kitchen slowly. “What are you doing here? Show’s over.”
“I am where I belong,” Karen will say. “This is my kitchen.”
The mom of the house will whisper in your ear, “We just woke up and there she was. Eating an English Muffin. The last English Muffin I might add.”
“Karen,” say to her, your arms up to show no weapons. “Why don’t we take you back to your kitchen?”
“I said, THIS IS MY KITCHEN!” she screams.
“Okay,” you say. “This is your kitchen. All yours.”
“I always felt there was something off about my life. I love my husband. Love my kids. Love my job. But something made me feel like I wasn’t really me.”
She looks around the room, tears running down her cheeks.
“Then your show came along. And I saw this kitchen and I knew, this is it. This is the kitchen I was supposed to cook in. These fixtures. This model fridge. The way those high cabinets above the sink are organized. It was all so right.”
She seemed to stare at the adjustable faucet nozzle like it was a childhood memory.
“Then you took it away from me,” she says. “Show’s over. Back to your own kitchen.”
You hold still, afraid.
“THEN YOU TOOK IT AWAY FROM ME!!!” she screams as she drives a butter knife into your left temple.
Happy Kitchen Switchers Day!
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Bar Talk Day!
A bar is the perfect place to meet new people and have some interesting conversation! So, today, sidle up to the bar next to a stranger with a kind face and say, “Hey friend. Got a story to tell?”
His story will be about the night his son was born, when three masked men arrived at his cabin on horseback and absconded with the newborn, claiming he was the golden one, He who will bring order to the ancient warring tribes of M'al Anan'to. The man gave chase in the rain but a strange force drew him to the ground where he slept. When he woke in the morning, his baby was gone, only the hoofprints remained as evidence of the abduction. His wife never spoke again.
“Hilarious!” you’ll say. “You’re not gonna believe this but I was raised by three masked dudes on horseback! You must be my dad!”
He’ll agree that’s quite a hilarious coincidence. Then the two of you will catch up on how your lives have been. He’ll tell you your mom still doesn’t talk. You’ll tell him that those warring tribes weren’t really warring that much and they just needed an outside party to talk sense. You’ll want to keep talking but your long lost dad will have to leave to catch a movie, so you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon watching a sports talk show on mute on the bar’s flatscreen.
Happy Bar Talk Day!
His story will be about the night his son was born, when three masked men arrived at his cabin on horseback and absconded with the newborn, claiming he was the golden one, He who will bring order to the ancient warring tribes of M'al Anan'to. The man gave chase in the rain but a strange force drew him to the ground where he slept. When he woke in the morning, his baby was gone, only the hoofprints remained as evidence of the abduction. His wife never spoke again.
“Hilarious!” you’ll say. “You’re not gonna believe this but I was raised by three masked dudes on horseback! You must be my dad!”
He’ll agree that’s quite a hilarious coincidence. Then the two of you will catch up on how your lives have been. He’ll tell you your mom still doesn’t talk. You’ll tell him that those warring tribes weren’t really warring that much and they just needed an outside party to talk sense. You’ll want to keep talking but your long lost dad will have to leave to catch a movie, so you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon watching a sports talk show on mute on the bar’s flatscreen.
Happy Bar Talk Day!
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Watch The Kids You Didn’t Want Day!
Every year you like to check in on the kids of the guy you lived with for six years but you didn’t marry because he wanted kids and you didn’t want them with him.
“I thought my genes were a mess, and his genes are definitely no picnic,” you say to his six-year-old girl, Pam, when she runs over to talk to you at the playground. “But you seem fine.”
You study her face. You see him in it, and hints of someone else. Those hints could have pointed to you.
“Are you studying my face to imagine if your features were on it?” Pam asks.
You nod. “You’d look horrible with my eyebrows,” you tell her. “But I think you would have benefited from my cheekbones. Your mom doesn’t have very defined cheekbones, does she?”
Little Pam shakes her head no. “Pisses me off,” she says.
“You have his big skull,” you say, reaching out to adjust her hair. “They shouldn’t part your hair like that with a skull like his. I hated his haircuts.”
Pam smiles as you take a picture with your iPhone and show it to her. Her older brother Matt runs over and interrupts.
“Don’t talk to her, Pam,” he says. Then, to you, “Stop imagining us with your traits instead of our mom’s. You made your choice, lady.”
“Yes, I made my choice. And I’m happy with it,” you tell him.
“Yeah right. That why you stalk us at the playground once every autumn?” he asks. “Admit it! You wish we sprouted from your eggs, and you’re living your life in regret for giving our dad the kiss-off.”
“As if!” you shout at Matt. You march away from them, pissed. Matt can be such an asshole.
“I’d be so bummed if I was your mom, Matt!” you yell from the parking lot.
Pam looks sad.
“Not you Pam!” you shout. “You’re cool.”
Pam waves and says, “See you next year!” Then she and Matt run and make their nanny put down her phone and give them snacks.
Fuckin’ Matt. He always gets into your head. You’re doing fine. You only check in with them to be glad you don’t have to raise an assmunch like Matt. If only he knew that. Maybe you should write him a letter letting him know.
Pam’s cool though.
Happy Watch The Kids You Didn’t Want Day!
“I thought my genes were a mess, and his genes are definitely no picnic,” you say to his six-year-old girl, Pam, when she runs over to talk to you at the playground. “But you seem fine.”
You study her face. You see him in it, and hints of someone else. Those hints could have pointed to you.
“Are you studying my face to imagine if your features were on it?” Pam asks.
You nod. “You’d look horrible with my eyebrows,” you tell her. “But I think you would have benefited from my cheekbones. Your mom doesn’t have very defined cheekbones, does she?”
Little Pam shakes her head no. “Pisses me off,” she says.
“You have his big skull,” you say, reaching out to adjust her hair. “They shouldn’t part your hair like that with a skull like his. I hated his haircuts.”
Pam smiles as you take a picture with your iPhone and show it to her. Her older brother Matt runs over and interrupts.
“Don’t talk to her, Pam,” he says. Then, to you, “Stop imagining us with your traits instead of our mom’s. You made your choice, lady.”
“Yes, I made my choice. And I’m happy with it,” you tell him.
“Yeah right. That why you stalk us at the playground once every autumn?” he asks. “Admit it! You wish we sprouted from your eggs, and you’re living your life in regret for giving our dad the kiss-off.”
“As if!” you shout at Matt. You march away from them, pissed. Matt can be such an asshole.
“I’d be so bummed if I was your mom, Matt!” you yell from the parking lot.
Pam looks sad.
“Not you Pam!” you shout. “You’re cool.”
Pam waves and says, “See you next year!” Then she and Matt run and make their nanny put down her phone and give them snacks.
Fuckin’ Matt. He always gets into your head. You’re doing fine. You only check in with them to be glad you don’t have to raise an assmunch like Matt. If only he knew that. Maybe you should write him a letter letting him know.
Pam’s cool though.
Happy Watch The Kids You Didn’t Want Day!
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
She’s Going To Say No Day!
You hired a high school brass band to lead from the restaurant to a waiting ferry that’s been decorated with petunias, her favorite flower. The ferry will take you deep into the water where the lead singer from her favorite boy band ($7000) will come up from below deck and serenade her with the song that was chosen as the theme for her senior prom, which she did not attend. The ferry will take the two of you to an island where a canopy bed has been assembled and covered in rose petals for her to lay down upon and receive a massage from a Spanish massage therapist who whispers into her ear how beautiful she is every 45 seconds. Next comes the dancing and singing improv troupe that will come out from the trees and pretend to be island natives inventing language so that one of them can write a love letter to your bride-not-to-be. Next come the fireworks spelling her name in the sky, then a white horse will trot out from the palm trees, then the horse will carry her to a beautiful garden full of frolicking bunny rabbits. She’ll lay down and the bunny rabbits, well-trained, will scurry about her and nuzzle her face while you read to her a poem you wrote. Next comes the check in her name for $75,000, followed by a huge cake that her dad will jump out of (stationed in Afghanistan, you petitioned to get him leave for the weekend to be here for this). Finally you’ll get down on one knee and give her the ring with the diamond you mined yourself, a plane will sky write your question across the sky while pre-teen ballerinas flutter about her and drape her in garlands of flowers. You’ll look up into her beautiful eyes and ask if she’ll be willing to spend the next 50 years by your side and she’s going to say no.
Happy She’s Going To Say No Day!
Happy She’s Going To Say No Day!
Monday, October 19, 2015
You’re The Landlord Day!
Today you get to be the landlord. Knock on everyone’s door and shout “You have to pay me the rent!” Tell the tenant with a loud stereo, “Hey what’d I tell you about that stereo, pally?” Tell the tenant cooking the smelly stew, “Hey what’d I tell you about that smelly stew? This hallway stinks like a soup kitchen.” Tell the tenant crying because his live-in girlfriend moved out, “Hey what’d I tell you about forgetting all about her and putting yourself out there to find someone new, someone worthy of all you have to offer and who isn’t always restless, always wondering if there’s a prettier, wealthier, more interesting-to-have-sex-with guy out there waiting to welcome her sweet bod into his bed while she’s wasting her time on a dink like you? Quit blowing your nose into your shirttails and go out to the club. Babes await!”
The crying tenant will tell you he appreciates the kind words but he still needs some time.
“Just take good care of her,” he’ll tell you.
Head back down to your apartment where his ex is panting for you to make love to her again because you’re the landlord. Who can resist? It’s not even fair.
Happy You’re The Landlord Day!
The crying tenant will tell you he appreciates the kind words but he still needs some time.
“Just take good care of her,” he’ll tell you.
Head back down to your apartment where his ex is panting for you to make love to her again because you’re the landlord. Who can resist? It’s not even fair.
Happy You’re The Landlord Day!
Friday, July 17, 2015
You And The Summer Camp Slasher Are In Love Day!
You thought you were protecting her. She’s the last pretty girl who’s still alive of all the Counsellors In Training. Normally that would mean a long drawn out chase before she either narrowly escapes or she ends up killing the murderer. But you just noticed it’s been over a half hour of running through the woods, and there’s no killer chasing her.
“I can’t exactly chase myself,” she says.
“It was you all along,” you tell her. “You killed Brandon and Diane and Maureen and Nandanee and Karen and Mitch and–”
“Is this a roll call? Look this is who I am. I kill hot teens in the woods. I’m not the perfect girl but I’m happy with who I am and I’m not going to have some guy try and change me into what he thinks a girl should be…even if I’m in love with him.”
You blush. You can’t help it. Love. The word that’s been ricocheting around your head ever since you first saw her teaching campers how to tell deer scat from wolf scat. You can’t believe that very same word just crossed her lips.
“I…Guess I love you too.”
You both smile. Then you burst out laughing.
“This is crazy though! I mean, you’re a slasher!”
“And you’re super-hot,” she giggles. “But instead of driving a scythe through your face, all I wanna do is kiss it.”
She takes a step forward.
“Can I?” she asks. “Kiss you?”
You place your hand on her bare shoulder, her skin warm under your palm. You guide her closer to you and she places a kiss on your neck, then your cheek, then your mouth. Then you both lay down on the path in an embrace.
You pull away.
“But if we have sex…”
“Will I have to kill myself?” she says. “We’ll see. I’ll either commit suicide or be a hypocrite, two fates that are worth the risk if it means making love to you right now.”
She kisses you again in a way that lets you know this is no time to discuss hypotheticals. The way she takes you, it’s gentle, but you can sense the violence inside of her.
She stops when you hear a moaning from the woods. Brandon must still be alive.
“Don’t,” you plead. “Stay here with me.”
She smiles, she complies.
After, you fall asleep feeling blissfully ravaged. You wake up when you hear footsteps. She’s just returned from someplace. She curls up behind you on the path, and you notice that you don’t hear Brandon moaning anymore.
Happy You And The Summer Camp Slasher Are In Love Day!
“I can’t exactly chase myself,” she says.
“It was you all along,” you tell her. “You killed Brandon and Diane and Maureen and Nandanee and Karen and Mitch and–”
“Is this a roll call? Look this is who I am. I kill hot teens in the woods. I’m not the perfect girl but I’m happy with who I am and I’m not going to have some guy try and change me into what he thinks a girl should be…even if I’m in love with him.”
You blush. You can’t help it. Love. The word that’s been ricocheting around your head ever since you first saw her teaching campers how to tell deer scat from wolf scat. You can’t believe that very same word just crossed her lips.
“I…Guess I love you too.”
You both smile. Then you burst out laughing.
“This is crazy though! I mean, you’re a slasher!”
“And you’re super-hot,” she giggles. “But instead of driving a scythe through your face, all I wanna do is kiss it.”
She takes a step forward.
“Can I?” she asks. “Kiss you?”
You place your hand on her bare shoulder, her skin warm under your palm. You guide her closer to you and she places a kiss on your neck, then your cheek, then your mouth. Then you both lay down on the path in an embrace.
You pull away.
“But if we have sex…”
“Will I have to kill myself?” she says. “We’ll see. I’ll either commit suicide or be a hypocrite, two fates that are worth the risk if it means making love to you right now.”
She kisses you again in a way that lets you know this is no time to discuss hypotheticals. The way she takes you, it’s gentle, but you can sense the violence inside of her.
She stops when you hear a moaning from the woods. Brandon must still be alive.
“Don’t,” you plead. “Stay here with me.”
She smiles, she complies.
After, you fall asleep feeling blissfully ravaged. You wake up when you hear footsteps. She’s just returned from someplace. She curls up behind you on the path, and you notice that you don’t hear Brandon moaning anymore.
Happy You And The Summer Camp Slasher Are In Love Day!
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Mom’s Back Day!
“Been 13 years mom,” you tell her.
She looks at you and your brothers.
“And you’re all still as ugly as your father,” she says.
Mom’s gone again.
Happy Mom’s Back Day!
She looks at you and your brothers.
“And you’re all still as ugly as your father,” she says.
Mom’s gone again.
Happy Mom’s Back Day!
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Tell Your Boyfriend What Happened During The Thunderstorm Day!
“I got married,” tell him.
He’ll ask to who.
“Steve something,” say.
You ducked into a bar you’d never been to before to escape the rain. It was already dimly lit and the lights were blinking with the lightning. Steve something was the only other person in the bar.
“It was too romantic to let the opportunity pass,” explain. “The bartender officiated.”
Your uber is outside. Your boyfriend helps you downstairs. You take off your straw hat (you’re honeymooning in Turks and Caicos) and look up at him.
“Is he good to you?” your boyfriend asks.
“Who?”
“Steve something,” he says.
“No idea,” you tell him. “He watched my gimlet while I went to the bathroom.”
“Goddammit!” your boyfriend shouts. “One time I let a vagrant sneak a sip of your drink and you’re gonna hold that over me forever?”
Open the car door.
“Goodbye Dan,” tell him.
“It’s Dave,” your boyfriend will say.
“Dave,” say. “That suits you.”
“It’s been a nice eleven years,” the Dave guy says as your Uber pulls away, taking you to the airport where you’ll fly to the honeymoon suite of Mr. and Mrs. Something.
Happy Tell Your Boyfriend What Happened During The Thunderstorm Day!
He’ll ask to who.
“Steve something,” say.
You ducked into a bar you’d never been to before to escape the rain. It was already dimly lit and the lights were blinking with the lightning. Steve something was the only other person in the bar.
“It was too romantic to let the opportunity pass,” explain. “The bartender officiated.”
Your uber is outside. Your boyfriend helps you downstairs. You take off your straw hat (you’re honeymooning in Turks and Caicos) and look up at him.
“Is he good to you?” your boyfriend asks.
“Who?”
“Steve something,” he says.
“No idea,” you tell him. “He watched my gimlet while I went to the bathroom.”
“Goddammit!” your boyfriend shouts. “One time I let a vagrant sneak a sip of your drink and you’re gonna hold that over me forever?”
Open the car door.
“Goodbye Dan,” tell him.
“It’s Dave,” your boyfriend will say.
“Dave,” say. “That suits you.”
“It’s been a nice eleven years,” the Dave guy says as your Uber pulls away, taking you to the airport where you’ll fly to the honeymoon suite of Mr. and Mrs. Something.
Happy Tell Your Boyfriend What Happened During The Thunderstorm Day!
Monday, July 13, 2015
Give Up On Dad Day!
Dad’s not coming.
“He is,” you tell your bride as she waits for you to recite the vows you wrote.
He’s not. And the caterer never got the check Dad said he’d give them. Mom’s new husband Rick will have to pay for that.
“I hate Rick,” you tell your brother and Best Man. “I’d rather everyone go hungry than have mom’s Rick pay a dime for my wedding. Just wait, Dad’ll get here.”
The owner of the wedding venue walks up the aisle and pulls you into a non-consensual embrace from which you can’t escape. Her mouth near enough to your ear to send a whisper straight to your spine, she says,
“Kid. We get married when we realize the limits of the family we were born into, and we decide to try and do better by making a family of our own. You reached the limit of how much a man can shuffle his feet. That girl there in the white, you make her wait a second longer and you’ll give her something to wonder about for the rest of your lives together. Give up on your Pa or I’m calling this wedding a no-go right now. I won’t allow a marriage to start like this. Not under my gazebo.”
She releases you and you take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife while your father dances with a prostitute in a motel off the highway, the money for the caterer now cocaine.
Happy Give Up On Dad Day!
“He is,” you tell your bride as she waits for you to recite the vows you wrote.
He’s not. And the caterer never got the check Dad said he’d give them. Mom’s new husband Rick will have to pay for that.
“I hate Rick,” you tell your brother and Best Man. “I’d rather everyone go hungry than have mom’s Rick pay a dime for my wedding. Just wait, Dad’ll get here.”
The owner of the wedding venue walks up the aisle and pulls you into a non-consensual embrace from which you can’t escape. Her mouth near enough to your ear to send a whisper straight to your spine, she says,
“Kid. We get married when we realize the limits of the family we were born into, and we decide to try and do better by making a family of our own. You reached the limit of how much a man can shuffle his feet. That girl there in the white, you make her wait a second longer and you’ll give her something to wonder about for the rest of your lives together. Give up on your Pa or I’m calling this wedding a no-go right now. I won’t allow a marriage to start like this. Not under my gazebo.”
She releases you and you take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife while your father dances with a prostitute in a motel off the highway, the money for the caterer now cocaine.
Happy Give Up On Dad Day!
Friday, May 29, 2015
Diane’s Never Won Anything Before Day!
“Well guess what Diane!” the morning radio DJ says. “May is Money Month here on the Itchy In The Down There show, and you just won $500!”
“Oh my God,” Diane says over the sound effects (farts, Jimmy Walker saying “Dy-No-Mite,” the sound of steel bending in Tower 2). “I’ve never won anything before!”
“How’s it feel?” DJ Itchy asks.
Diane is silent.
“Diane?”
“Never,” she whispers, almost inaudible under the sound bite from a Mel Gibson voicemail to his wife. “Not once.”
“Diane?”
“I’m 52,” she says. “What rewards? What accomplishments? 52 years, and all I can say I’ve achieved in life is a radio DJ once threw me five hundred bucks. And that’s pure random chance. Not the result of anything I’ve done. Just because you happened to dial a bunch of numbers. My God, I’ve let it all slip away.”
“Hey, it’s not random chance. You had to enter your work phone number on our website to win, right?”
“No,” Diane says. “No, I didn’t do that. I’m just temping at this desk.”
“Oh,” DJ Itchy says. “Oh God.”
“Oh God!” Diane sobs. “I didn’t win, did I?”
“Diane!” DJ Itchy says. “Diane don’t hang up!”
Diane disconnects the call midway through a sob.
Unsure what to do, because what can he do, DJ Itchy slowly presses a control board button and plays the sound clip from ‘Terms of Endearment’ where Shirley MacLaine is crying and repeating “I’m so stupid! I’m so stupid!” just after Debra Winger dies.
Happy Diane’s Never Won Anything Before Day!
“Oh my God,” Diane says over the sound effects (farts, Jimmy Walker saying “Dy-No-Mite,” the sound of steel bending in Tower 2). “I’ve never won anything before!”
“How’s it feel?” DJ Itchy asks.
Diane is silent.
“Diane?”
“Never,” she whispers, almost inaudible under the sound bite from a Mel Gibson voicemail to his wife. “Not once.”
“Diane?”
“I’m 52,” she says. “What rewards? What accomplishments? 52 years, and all I can say I’ve achieved in life is a radio DJ once threw me five hundred bucks. And that’s pure random chance. Not the result of anything I’ve done. Just because you happened to dial a bunch of numbers. My God, I’ve let it all slip away.”
“Hey, it’s not random chance. You had to enter your work phone number on our website to win, right?”
“No,” Diane says. “No, I didn’t do that. I’m just temping at this desk.”
“Oh,” DJ Itchy says. “Oh God.”
“Oh God!” Diane sobs. “I didn’t win, did I?”
“Diane!” DJ Itchy says. “Diane don’t hang up!”
Diane disconnects the call midway through a sob.
Unsure what to do, because what can he do, DJ Itchy slowly presses a control board button and plays the sound clip from ‘Terms of Endearment’ where Shirley MacLaine is crying and repeating “I’m so stupid! I’m so stupid!” just after Debra Winger dies.
Happy Diane’s Never Won Anything Before Day!
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
In The Supermarket Day!
You put your hand on the freezer door to get the fish sticks he used to buy.
You never ate them before he came into your life. You used to assume such foods were gross.
But he kept demanding them, he loved them so. He made you think if he had to choose between you and the fish sticks you would be the one he’d happily let go.
“You’d be the one I’d happily let go,” he’d joke.
Then the two of you would take turns taking bites obliterating the length of a fish stick.
Your hand is on the freezer door to grab those fish sticks, a box of the fish sticks he used to buy.
Just because he’s gone back to his ex-boyfriend doesn’t mean that freezer door is locked to you forever.
He opened it for you.
This is what lovers do.
They open doors.
Even when the only thing on the other side is some frozen fish sticks.
The doors stay open. Everything on the other side is yours to keep.
He gave those fish sticks to you, he brought them into your life. He took away his heart, the fish sticks are yours to keep.
Happy In The Supermarket Day!
You never ate them before he came into your life. You used to assume such foods were gross.
But he kept demanding them, he loved them so. He made you think if he had to choose between you and the fish sticks you would be the one he’d happily let go.
“You’d be the one I’d happily let go,” he’d joke.
Then the two of you would take turns taking bites obliterating the length of a fish stick.
Your hand is on the freezer door to grab those fish sticks, a box of the fish sticks he used to buy.
Just because he’s gone back to his ex-boyfriend doesn’t mean that freezer door is locked to you forever.
He opened it for you.
This is what lovers do.
They open doors.
Even when the only thing on the other side is some frozen fish sticks.
The doors stay open. Everything on the other side is yours to keep.
He gave those fish sticks to you, he brought them into your life. He took away his heart, the fish sticks are yours to keep.
Happy In The Supermarket Day!
Monday, March 23, 2015
Bus Drive Day!
Hop on. Get behind the line. Sit where the handicapped and elderly do. You’ll get up if one of em shows.
“Buried the shit,” tell Miles.
Miles lifts his hands off the wheel and applauds. Probably a violation.
“Fucker in the ground!” he shouts. “Good for you, Gladys.”
Tell Miles about the last minutes.
“Asked me to forgive!”
“Ha!”
“Asked me to forget!”
“Ha! Ha!”
“Asked me to visit his sister in Tucson and tell her he regretted the bad blood. I have to do that, apparently. It’s a stipulation of the will.”
Miles will say, “Tucson’s nice.”
Sit back in your seat in silence for a while. He’s gone. He was a bastard and his money’s yours. But he was your bastard, and he was who you had at arm’s length for eleven years. He was a bastard, but you only get so close to so many people while they’re here, and he’s gone now.
“How much, Gladys?”
You try to sound excited. You try to sound like a girl who just won the lotto. But you sound like someone who doesn’t know where to turn when you say, “Eleven million.”
Miles laughs for you. He laughs all the way to your stop.
“Won’t be seeing you on this bus again!” Miles shouts.
You smile as you take the first step down. You sob as you take the second. You leap back up and pull Miles into a hug.
“You might see me again,” you tell him.
He pats your back twice.
You get off the bus and make your way across an office plaza to see a lawyer where you’ll listen to the “gold digger” accusations of some of his nephews and their wives.
Happy Bus Drive Day!
“Buried the shit,” tell Miles.
Miles lifts his hands off the wheel and applauds. Probably a violation.
“Fucker in the ground!” he shouts. “Good for you, Gladys.”
Tell Miles about the last minutes.
“Asked me to forgive!”
“Ha!”
“Asked me to forget!”
“Ha! Ha!”
“Asked me to visit his sister in Tucson and tell her he regretted the bad blood. I have to do that, apparently. It’s a stipulation of the will.”
Miles will say, “Tucson’s nice.”
Sit back in your seat in silence for a while. He’s gone. He was a bastard and his money’s yours. But he was your bastard, and he was who you had at arm’s length for eleven years. He was a bastard, but you only get so close to so many people while they’re here, and he’s gone now.
“How much, Gladys?”
You try to sound excited. You try to sound like a girl who just won the lotto. But you sound like someone who doesn’t know where to turn when you say, “Eleven million.”
Miles laughs for you. He laughs all the way to your stop.
“Won’t be seeing you on this bus again!” Miles shouts.
You smile as you take the first step down. You sob as you take the second. You leap back up and pull Miles into a hug.
“You might see me again,” you tell him.
He pats your back twice.
You get off the bus and make your way across an office plaza to see a lawyer where you’ll listen to the “gold digger” accusations of some of his nephews and their wives.
Happy Bus Drive Day!
Friday, March 13, 2015
Break A Promise To Your Stepson Day!
“Hey Jim,” he’ll say.
“I told you, Morris” tell him. “Call me Dad.”
Morris will remind you that you’re not his dad. And you shouldn’t want to be his dad because his dad is a fucking piece of shit drunk asshole who deserves to die.
“You said you’d kill him,” Morris will remind you. “I told you you could marry my mom if you killed my dad.”
“Yeah well, maybe I’m rethinking that deal,” tell Morris.
Morris will grip his wiffle ball bat like it’s a weapon.
“I gave you my blessing,” he’ll say. “You promised.”
Shrug. “Your dad’s bigger than me,” tell him.
Morris will wander off to regroup and figure out how to make his father pay, and once that’s done, make you understand that a broken promise to a stepchild yields grave, grave repercussions.
Happy Break A Promise To Your Stepson Day!
“I told you, Morris” tell him. “Call me Dad.”
Morris will remind you that you’re not his dad. And you shouldn’t want to be his dad because his dad is a fucking piece of shit drunk asshole who deserves to die.
“You said you’d kill him,” Morris will remind you. “I told you you could marry my mom if you killed my dad.”
“Yeah well, maybe I’m rethinking that deal,” tell Morris.
Morris will grip his wiffle ball bat like it’s a weapon.
“I gave you my blessing,” he’ll say. “You promised.”
Shrug. “Your dad’s bigger than me,” tell him.
Morris will wander off to regroup and figure out how to make his father pay, and once that’s done, make you understand that a broken promise to a stepchild yields grave, grave repercussions.
Happy Break A Promise To Your Stepson Day!
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Perform Surgery On Yourself On The Subway Day!
You have a gross mole that you’re sick of. Your insurance only covers you for bus accidents (except when they fall on blackout days), and while you’d like to perform a bathtub surgery, it’s 2015, who has a bathtub?
The one place that’s already gross enough that no one will mind is the subway. Not only can you use those wide, curved benches to gather your blood, but if you do it at rush hour there are bound to be lots of people who will call for help if things go south for you. Your fellow passengers love learning (look at all those books!) and they’ll be excited to watch a real live surgery without having to go to med school or steal cable.
So get drunk this morning, grab a steak knife and hop on the subway! You’re gonna die down there.
Happy Perform Surgery On Yourself On The Subway Day!
The one place that’s already gross enough that no one will mind is the subway. Not only can you use those wide, curved benches to gather your blood, but if you do it at rush hour there are bound to be lots of people who will call for help if things go south for you. Your fellow passengers love learning (look at all those books!) and they’ll be excited to watch a real live surgery without having to go to med school or steal cable.
So get drunk this morning, grab a steak knife and hop on the subway! You’re gonna die down there.
Happy Perform Surgery On Yourself On The Subway Day!
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Have Sex With Your Communications Professor Day!
You’ve been craving him all semester, but you’re worried it will hurt things for you in the long run.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” tell him during office hours. “But this is the kind of thing that comes back to haunt people. My career. My reputation.”
He’ll close the blinds.
“Don’t worry,” he’ll say.
He’ll unbutton his shirt.
“Nothing we do will have any effect on your life whatsoever,” he’ll say.
He’ll move some papers off the desktop and take your hand, guiding you to climb on top of his desk blotter.
“You’ll never look back on anything that transpires between the two of us as something to regret, or to remember with any sort of importance,” he’ll say.
You’re unbuttoning your blouse now, reassured.
“Because darling, I teach communications. As far as the world is concerned, I don’t matter in the slightest.”
You take him. You take him with great urgency. You take him like he could disappear into irrelevance at any second.
Happy Have Sex With Your Communications Professor Day!
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” tell him during office hours. “But this is the kind of thing that comes back to haunt people. My career. My reputation.”
He’ll close the blinds.
“Don’t worry,” he’ll say.
He’ll unbutton his shirt.
“Nothing we do will have any effect on your life whatsoever,” he’ll say.
He’ll move some papers off the desktop and take your hand, guiding you to climb on top of his desk blotter.
“You’ll never look back on anything that transpires between the two of us as something to regret, or to remember with any sort of importance,” he’ll say.
You’re unbuttoning your blouse now, reassured.
“Because darling, I teach communications. As far as the world is concerned, I don’t matter in the slightest.”
You take him. You take him with great urgency. You take him like he could disappear into irrelevance at any second.
Happy Have Sex With Your Communications Professor Day!
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Winter Cabin Day!
Rent a winter cabin with the intention of drinking bourbon and shooting rifles and spending afternoons standing at the edge of a frozen creek wondering why the dead loom larger in your life than the living. Your intentions for the weekend will go out the window when an escaped convict breaks into your cabin to eat all your canned chili.
“Make a sound and I’ll kill ya,” he’ll say, chili at the corners of his mouth.
“Drink?” you’ll offer.
The two of you will spend a fun weekend drinking and laughing and talking about how dumb prison guards can be. When the convict finally decides it’s time for him to move on to Memphis and kill the son of a bitch shacked up with his ex-wife, you’ll be sad.
“YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND!” you’ll scream when he steps out on the porch.
The two of you will hug as US Marshal sharp-shooters who’ve had the cabin surrounded for the last six hours open fire.
Happy Winter Cabin Day!
“Make a sound and I’ll kill ya,” he’ll say, chili at the corners of his mouth.
“Drink?” you’ll offer.
The two of you will spend a fun weekend drinking and laughing and talking about how dumb prison guards can be. When the convict finally decides it’s time for him to move on to Memphis and kill the son of a bitch shacked up with his ex-wife, you’ll be sad.
“YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND!” you’ll scream when he steps out on the porch.
The two of you will hug as US Marshal sharp-shooters who’ve had the cabin surrounded for the last six hours open fire.
Happy Winter Cabin Day!
Monday, January 12, 2015
Emma, Get Up From That Table And Run Day!
He’s the whole package, Emma. Weird smile, dimples that could store loose change, shoulders that look like your dead brother’s, and hella good hair.
Get up from that table and run.
He’s listening to you talk like every word out of your mouth is a revelation. He’s laughing at your jokes like the punchline is a self-evident truth that cracks everything wide open. You’re opening up to him about things you forgot you still cared about.
Get the fuck up from that table and run. Run like you just saw God on a horse.
You’re reaching across the table and already touching the back of your fingers to his. He’s not letting his eyes look anywhere but into yours. You’re leaning forward with every part of your body, like the only things keeping you from slipping out of your dress and into his embrace are that dining table and decency laws.
It’s almost too late. Get up, Emma. Get up and put your legs underneath you and get swallowed by the night before this feeling swallows you whole.
You’re kissing. It’s too late. Talk to you again in three and a half years.
Happy Emma, Get Up From That Table And Run Day!
Get up from that table and run.
He’s listening to you talk like every word out of your mouth is a revelation. He’s laughing at your jokes like the punchline is a self-evident truth that cracks everything wide open. You’re opening up to him about things you forgot you still cared about.
Get the fuck up from that table and run. Run like you just saw God on a horse.
You’re reaching across the table and already touching the back of your fingers to his. He’s not letting his eyes look anywhere but into yours. You’re leaning forward with every part of your body, like the only things keeping you from slipping out of your dress and into his embrace are that dining table and decency laws.
It’s almost too late. Get up, Emma. Get up and put your legs underneath you and get swallowed by the night before this feeling swallows you whole.
You’re kissing. It’s too late. Talk to you again in three and a half years.
Happy Emma, Get Up From That Table And Run Day!
Friday, January 09, 2015
Someone’s Been Having Sex With Wax Patrick Stewart Day!
Freddy, the museum director, is pacing the front of the staff room, clearly trying to contain his anger.
“These wax figures trust us,” Freddy says. “They trust us to care for them, just as the public figures who lent their likeness to these wax figures trust us to not use their likeness for anything but to give the public an afternoon of diverting, slightly eerie entertainment.”
Freddy has his hands behind his back, shaking his head woefully.
“Do you know what nearly every celebrity asks before giving their consent to add their wax replica to our museum? They ask, ‘How do I know you’re not just going to have sex with it?’”
Some of the staffers drop their heads in shame. It doesn’t feel good to know you’ve confirmed a celebrity’s worst fears. That a celebrity put his or her trust in you and you dropped the ball.
Someone raises his hand and asks how Freddy knows that Wax Patrick Stewart was fornicated with.
“I don’t want to get into it,” he says. “Suffice to say, there were stains. Stains we can use to get DNA. Now I don’t want to have to ask everyone to provide me with a DNA sample. We’re a family here and we’re supposed to trust each other. So instead, I’m just going to turn my back for 30 seconds. If you did it, simply walk up here, lay your museum-issued vest and cummerbund on the table here, and walk out the door. No further questions, no prosecution.“
Freddy turns his back. For thirty seconds, everyone on staff looks to each other, trying to see if the culprit will come forward. No one stands up. When Freddy turns back around, his disappointment is palpable.
You raise your hand with a question.
“Why would anyone have sex with the figures anyway?” you ask. “When you take off their clothes there aren’t even any holes.”
Before Freddy can ask how you know there aren’t any holes, you realize your mistake and take off running. You drop your vest and cummerbund in a dumpster, then you hide in a park for a few days to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that your dream of being a wax museum guard has been shattered by one night of erotic bliss.
Happy Someone’s Been Having Sex With Wax Patrick Stewart Day!
“These wax figures trust us,” Freddy says. “They trust us to care for them, just as the public figures who lent their likeness to these wax figures trust us to not use their likeness for anything but to give the public an afternoon of diverting, slightly eerie entertainment.”
Freddy has his hands behind his back, shaking his head woefully.
“Do you know what nearly every celebrity asks before giving their consent to add their wax replica to our museum? They ask, ‘How do I know you’re not just going to have sex with it?’”
Some of the staffers drop their heads in shame. It doesn’t feel good to know you’ve confirmed a celebrity’s worst fears. That a celebrity put his or her trust in you and you dropped the ball.
Someone raises his hand and asks how Freddy knows that Wax Patrick Stewart was fornicated with.
“I don’t want to get into it,” he says. “Suffice to say, there were stains. Stains we can use to get DNA. Now I don’t want to have to ask everyone to provide me with a DNA sample. We’re a family here and we’re supposed to trust each other. So instead, I’m just going to turn my back for 30 seconds. If you did it, simply walk up here, lay your museum-issued vest and cummerbund on the table here, and walk out the door. No further questions, no prosecution.“
Freddy turns his back. For thirty seconds, everyone on staff looks to each other, trying to see if the culprit will come forward. No one stands up. When Freddy turns back around, his disappointment is palpable.
You raise your hand with a question.
“Why would anyone have sex with the figures anyway?” you ask. “When you take off their clothes there aren’t even any holes.”
Before Freddy can ask how you know there aren’t any holes, you realize your mistake and take off running. You drop your vest and cummerbund in a dumpster, then you hide in a park for a few days to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that your dream of being a wax museum guard has been shattered by one night of erotic bliss.
Happy Someone’s Been Having Sex With Wax Patrick Stewart Day!
Thursday, January 08, 2015
Your Wife’s Been Murdering Teens Without You Day!
Ask her how long this has been going on.
“Since the summer,” she says. “You were at your mother’s. I hiked up the canyon and found a cabin full of teens. Spent three days picking them off one by one, different weapons, different lures, different screams. And it was all for me. And it was exhilarating.”
Tell her you and she always killed together. That’s the way it’s been and you don’t see why she needs to murder without you.
“You killed that hitchhiker when you were coming back from your high school reunion,” she says.
Tell her that’s different. You were out of state and you didn’t go chasing him down. Tell her if a meat piece falls into her lap like that she’s welcome to slice it up like it deserves to be sliced, but to go chasing the meat on her own, that’s a betrayal.
“Killing with you is wonderful,” she says. “But so is killing on my own. I feel like I’ve lost my individuality, like I’ve stopped killing for myself and I only kill for us.”
Ask her if that’s so bad.
“I just don’t see why I can’t have both,” she says. “My kills. And our kills. I think we should keep our murdering open.”
Tell her you don’t want to kill without her.
“You don’t have to,” she says. “But you have to let me have something to myself. I want to remember what it’s like to kill just for me again.”
Don’t tell her the truth. Don’t tell her you’re worried that if she goes it alone often enough, she’ll never want to murder a teen with you again. Just tell her you’ll try to be understanding of her journey back to herself, and hope for the best. If you’re going to lose her, you already have.
Happy Your Wife’s Been Murdering Teens Without You Day!
“Since the summer,” she says. “You were at your mother’s. I hiked up the canyon and found a cabin full of teens. Spent three days picking them off one by one, different weapons, different lures, different screams. And it was all for me. And it was exhilarating.”
Tell her you and she always killed together. That’s the way it’s been and you don’t see why she needs to murder without you.
“You killed that hitchhiker when you were coming back from your high school reunion,” she says.
Tell her that’s different. You were out of state and you didn’t go chasing him down. Tell her if a meat piece falls into her lap like that she’s welcome to slice it up like it deserves to be sliced, but to go chasing the meat on her own, that’s a betrayal.
“Killing with you is wonderful,” she says. “But so is killing on my own. I feel like I’ve lost my individuality, like I’ve stopped killing for myself and I only kill for us.”
Ask her if that’s so bad.
“I just don’t see why I can’t have both,” she says. “My kills. And our kills. I think we should keep our murdering open.”
Tell her you don’t want to kill without her.
“You don’t have to,” she says. “But you have to let me have something to myself. I want to remember what it’s like to kill just for me again.”
Don’t tell her the truth. Don’t tell her you’re worried that if she goes it alone often enough, she’ll never want to murder a teen with you again. Just tell her you’ll try to be understanding of her journey back to herself, and hope for the best. If you’re going to lose her, you already have.
Happy Your Wife’s Been Murdering Teens Without You Day!
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
Your Magic Potions Don’t Do Shit Anymore Day!
Everyone’s been drinking energy drinks for too long. The stuff in those drinks is way weirder than newt eyes and possum tails.
“That was supposed to turn you into a half-bull, half-fish,” you say, your head in your hands after another failure.
“Don’t feel bad,” the kids you kidnapped tell you as they polish off the pitcher of your newest, “strongest” potion. “Homeopathic remedies worked on us for a little while but at this point we need the real stuff. We need science.”
“What now,” you say. “Being a witch is all I know. These potions were my bread and butter.”
And that’s how you’ll embark on a career as the most exciting new mixologist in Brooklyn’s exploding artisan cocktail scene.
Happy Your Magic Potions Don’t Do Shit Anymore Day!
“That was supposed to turn you into a half-bull, half-fish,” you say, your head in your hands after another failure.
“Don’t feel bad,” the kids you kidnapped tell you as they polish off the pitcher of your newest, “strongest” potion. “Homeopathic remedies worked on us for a little while but at this point we need the real stuff. We need science.”
“What now,” you say. “Being a witch is all I know. These potions were my bread and butter.”
And that’s how you’ll embark on a career as the most exciting new mixologist in Brooklyn’s exploding artisan cocktail scene.
Happy Your Magic Potions Don’t Do Shit Anymore Day!
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
Preferred Customer Rewards Day!
“Him,” the counterperson says, pointing to you. “I want him.”
You point to yourself to make sure you’re the one to whom he’s referring.
“Go away,” the counterperson says to the guy standing before him with his credit card out. “You’re not in the program. Get!”
The guy standing before him with his credit card out asks what the big idea is and where does this counterperson get off. Two men in masks take him by his armpits and drag him through a doorway.
“You!” the counterperson shouts, pointing to you. “Get your butt up here. You’re the reason I showed up to work today!”
You go to the counter and tell him you’d like to return the space heater you’re holding in your arms. You present your preferred customer card which gives you no-hassle returns.
“You don’t like it?” he asks. “Do you see the guy who sold it to you?”
You look around and locate the employee you bought the space heater from helping another customer near electronics.
“Hang on.”
Your counterperson approaches the other employee and sucker punches him across the nose. The employee who sold you the space heater goes down and the counterperson starts kicking him in the kidneys. Other employees gather around him and stomp on his chest and face.
“If he ever gives you any trouble again,” the counterperson pants upon returning to you, “You say the word. I’ll handle it.”
The counterperson hands you a trophy. It reads, “Best Customer.”
“You did it,” the counterperson says.
Tell him thanks. Once your return is processed, the counterperson will begin a slow clap. Make your way to the door as other sales personnel join in the slow clap until it reaches a crescendo and the entire sales staff is clapping for you, even the manager outside by the ambulance where the beaten-down employee is being loaded in. The manager claps for you and gives you a “Nice one!” Then she leans down and drags her palm over the beaten-down employee’s face to gently close his eyelids.
Happy Preferred Customer Rewards Day!
You point to yourself to make sure you’re the one to whom he’s referring.
“Go away,” the counterperson says to the guy standing before him with his credit card out. “You’re not in the program. Get!”
The guy standing before him with his credit card out asks what the big idea is and where does this counterperson get off. Two men in masks take him by his armpits and drag him through a doorway.
“You!” the counterperson shouts, pointing to you. “Get your butt up here. You’re the reason I showed up to work today!”
You go to the counter and tell him you’d like to return the space heater you’re holding in your arms. You present your preferred customer card which gives you no-hassle returns.
“You don’t like it?” he asks. “Do you see the guy who sold it to you?”
You look around and locate the employee you bought the space heater from helping another customer near electronics.
“Hang on.”
Your counterperson approaches the other employee and sucker punches him across the nose. The employee who sold you the space heater goes down and the counterperson starts kicking him in the kidneys. Other employees gather around him and stomp on his chest and face.
“If he ever gives you any trouble again,” the counterperson pants upon returning to you, “You say the word. I’ll handle it.”
The counterperson hands you a trophy. It reads, “Best Customer.”
“You did it,” the counterperson says.
Tell him thanks. Once your return is processed, the counterperson will begin a slow clap. Make your way to the door as other sales personnel join in the slow clap until it reaches a crescendo and the entire sales staff is clapping for you, even the manager outside by the ambulance where the beaten-down employee is being loaded in. The manager claps for you and gives you a “Nice one!” Then she leans down and drags her palm over the beaten-down employee’s face to gently close his eyelids.
Happy Preferred Customer Rewards Day!
Monday, January 05, 2015
Degift Day!
The gift is sitting on your dining room table again. It’s still wrapped, just as you wrapped it. You check the windows, the door. There’s no sign of anyone having entered in the night.
“Happy Late Christmas,” you say to her when you see her at the bar after work. “I could’ve sworn I already gave this to you, but I guess it slipped my mind.”
You watch her unwrap it to reveal the Christopher Nolan boxset you bought for her, the one she unwrapped two nights before Christmas at the potluck, then again two nights after Christmas, then again the night after that, and again the night after that. You swear it. You fucking swear you saw this happen over and over again.
“Oh wow!” she says, exactly as you remember it. “Nolan! You know I love Nolan!”
The room is spinning. This moment is an echo. You search her eyes for some hint that she knows it, that she’s responsible for it. You grip the edge of the table to keep from grabbing her by the collar of her blouse and demanding that she tell you what she’s up to, why she’s doing this to you.
“If you don’t like it you can just regift it if you want,” you offer, your voice sounding louder than you intended.
“Oh I never regift,” she says.
You mutter an excuse me before leaping from the booth to run to the bathroom to vomit.
Tonight you won’t sleep. You’ll sit at the dining room table, the lights on, your eyes never moving from the spot on the table where it’s appeared over and over again. You need to stop the reset. You need the gift to remain in her possession. She has to have a key to your apartment, and perhaps a camera to figure out when you’re in the shower or on the toilet, occupied long enough for her to sneak in and give the gift back to you. You’ve taken up smoking again, you’re drinking coffee, anything to keep you awake and present at that dining room table. She’s going to keep her gift tonight.
The waiting is the hardest. You know that no matter how vigilant you are, that wrapped gift is going to be on your table by morning. No explanation, no merciful clue as to what’s happening to you. The only thing between now and then is the waiting.
Happy Degift Day!
“Happy Late Christmas,” you say to her when you see her at the bar after work. “I could’ve sworn I already gave this to you, but I guess it slipped my mind.”
You watch her unwrap it to reveal the Christopher Nolan boxset you bought for her, the one she unwrapped two nights before Christmas at the potluck, then again two nights after Christmas, then again the night after that, and again the night after that. You swear it. You fucking swear you saw this happen over and over again.
“Oh wow!” she says, exactly as you remember it. “Nolan! You know I love Nolan!”
The room is spinning. This moment is an echo. You search her eyes for some hint that she knows it, that she’s responsible for it. You grip the edge of the table to keep from grabbing her by the collar of her blouse and demanding that she tell you what she’s up to, why she’s doing this to you.
“If you don’t like it you can just regift it if you want,” you offer, your voice sounding louder than you intended.
“Oh I never regift,” she says.
You mutter an excuse me before leaping from the booth to run to the bathroom to vomit.
Tonight you won’t sleep. You’ll sit at the dining room table, the lights on, your eyes never moving from the spot on the table where it’s appeared over and over again. You need to stop the reset. You need the gift to remain in her possession. She has to have a key to your apartment, and perhaps a camera to figure out when you’re in the shower or on the toilet, occupied long enough for her to sneak in and give the gift back to you. You’ve taken up smoking again, you’re drinking coffee, anything to keep you awake and present at that dining room table. She’s going to keep her gift tonight.
The waiting is the hardest. You know that no matter how vigilant you are, that wrapped gift is going to be on your table by morning. No explanation, no merciful clue as to what’s happening to you. The only thing between now and then is the waiting.
Happy Degift Day!
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