Tell Seamless To Leave Your Food And Beverages In The Bucket You Lower To The Sidewalk On A Rope Day!

The delivery guys are used to it. They know when a couple starts fucking, sometimes they get scared to put clothes back on and go back outside because outside is where people make them do stuff like work or have conversations, basically do things other than fuck or lay around grazing each other’s skin with the backs of their fingertips.

You brought this guy into your bedroom like 5 weeks ago and you’re hoping to get at least 4 more weeks of uninterrupted nudity on the books before you rejoin society. To keep from having to even go to the front door to get your food, just use the special delivery instructions field to tell the delivery guys how you want it done: “A bucket will be dangling from a rope outside my building. Please leave the burritos and Jarritos sodas in the bucket, then yank on the rope to ring the bell affixed to it so we know you’ve arrived. If you hear me screaming ‘Holy shit! Holy shit!’ it means we’re still fucking and you’ll need to ring the bell a few more times to be heard over the sound of this dude rocking my shit hard enough to shatter the wood of my futon frame. Please hurry we’re starving and need burritos in order to keep up our current pace.”

Before technology like Seamless, acquiring food and drink was one of the only reasons couples had to interrupt a fuck sesh and interact with non-naked people. Those days are over so stay where you are as long as you need. Though your roommates are starting to complain about the smell so maybe turn on a fan.

Happy Tell Seamless To Leave Your Food And Beverages In The Bucket You Lower To The Sidewalk On A Rope Day!

They’re Vacuuming Around You Now Day!

The air conditioning turned off hours ago.

It’s Friday evening and the only employees still in the office are currently sitting on this two-seater lobby couch.

The maintenance guy needs you to lift your feet so he can vacuum under them. You both laugh as you do it, your legs up in the air like you’re on an invisible amusement park ride or like you’re both fucking a ghost. The man pushing the vacuum runs it back and forth eight times, making you keep your legs up in the air long enough that he hopes your abs will give in and you’ll go home to your respective spouses.

Forever.

“You have anything lined up?” you ask him.

“I might take some time off for a bit,” he says. “But I’m bad at time off.”

You nod, staring at his fucking wedding ring.

“If I hear my consulting firm has any spots to fill, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” he says, staring at your fucking wedding ring.

It was six months ago that you got assigned to work alongside him on a data migration, and for the last four you’ve been unable to think of anything but him. You’re pretty sure he feels the same but you’ve never said a word, choosing only to hang on every one of his.

“It’s not fair,” you say.

He looks at you, very interested in what you’ll say next.

“It’s not fair that full time staff gets cut to save money. Soon the workforce will be nothing but us consultants.”

His shoulders fall. He looks away.

“We should stay in touch,” you say, your voice reduced to a whisper. You’re having trouble speaking at an audible pitch, like you know you’re going to say goodbye soon and your voicebox is powering down to prevent you from saying it.

“We should,” he says.

You won’t.

All you’d have to do is say “Let’s go” and you’d be in a hotel room within the half hour but you won’t. This isn’t someone you can be casual about. This is someone you would destroy everything for if you let yourself but you won’t.

The maintenance man is buffing the floors now.

He says something that you can’t hear. He leans closer to you on the couch and says it again but you still can’t hear.

He yells, “Maybe we should get going.”

You scream, “No!” You scream it loud enough that the maintenance man turns off the buffer to find out what’s wrong. He shoots you an irritated look.

“I’m not fucking leaving this couch,” you tell the maintenance man.

The maintenance man drops the handle of his floor buffer and stomps away.

It’s quiet now. He’s staring at your face from his end of the couch but you look straight ahead. If you turn and look him in the eye, even for a second, you’ll burn your whole life to the ground. So you just sit there next to him and look straight ahead, and you stay there, keeping one eye on the clock to make sure you don’t miss the last MetroNorth train home.

Happy They’re Vacuuming Around You Now Day!

Ex-Wife On The Roof Again Day!

“Dana,” you say. “Come down. You woke Pam.”

“Tell Pam to pop her tenth Ativan for the day and shut her hole. I need to think.”

You lean back in the window and assure Pam you’re taking care of it. Then you climb out onto the roof with your ex-wife.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you say.

“When you used to piss me off I’d climb out here and figure it out,” she says. “It’s how I decided to leave you. When I said you could keep the house I didn’t realize Stephen would start fucking up worse than you ever did.”

You ask her why she just doesn’t climb out on Stephen’s roof.

“Stephen doesn’t have roof access,” she says. “All we have is a shared yard but the douche who lives below us is constantly throwing meat into his smoker. Like in the middle of the night even.”

You puff up a little. “Guess leaving me wasn’t the fix-it-all move you thought it was.”

“Please,” she says. “You sucked.”

You sit in silence for a bit before telling her, “We’re re-shingling next week.”

“I just need a couple more nights.”

You climb back into the bedroom and fall asleep. In the morning when you go to your car you look up at the roof and Dana’s gone. Chalked into the shingles is a long list of pros and cons of leaving Stephen. The neighbors will probably complain about the profanity but you’re late for work. You’ll wash it off later.

Happy Ex-Wife On The Roof Again Day!

Your Dead Sisters Wrote You A Letter Day!

All your dead sisters wrote you a letter to tell you it’s your fault they’re dead. “You’re absolutely right to feel guilty that we died,” the letter reads. “We’ve been rooting for you to destroy yourself with booze and drugs and to convince others you don’t deserve an ounce of their respect. The way you’ve been lashing out at those who care for you until they turn their backs and split, great fucking work, shitstain. You’ve been doing a fantastic job. Keep it up, fuckdick.”

The letter is written on the inside of your eyelids and it’s only readable in that split-second of darkness when you’ve regained consciousness in the morning but you haven’t opened your eyes yet.

Happy Your Dead Sisters Wrote You A Letter Day!

Everyone At The Car Crash Just Fell In Love Day!

The drunk teen who was behind the wheel fell in love with the paramedic bandaging his head but the paramedic fell in love with the lady cop directing traffic and the lady cop fell in love with the dad who rolled down his window and asked “Hey what happened?” The dad fell in love with the college girl crying because her boyfriend’s cut in half on the guard rail. The crying college girl, now single, fell in love with the highway patrolman who gave her a blanket. The highway patrolman fell in love with both ambulance drivers and the Good Samaritan. Ambo Driver #1 fell in love with the bottom half of the kid cut in half on the guard rail and Ambo Driver #2 fell in love with the top half. The Good Samaritan fell in love with his wife all over again. He sees her in the passenger seat with the traffic lights sliding over her face and he wonders if it’s too late for them to rescue what they have. The Good Samaritan’s wife fell in love with the guy operating the jaws of life because who wouldn’t? No one will ever know who the dead kid cut in half on the guard rail fell in love with, which is why car crashes are sad and you should drive more carefully. Ten and two.

Everyone At The Car Crash Just Fell In Love Day!

Demolition At The Fuck Motel Day!

Last night they all checked in. They signed the waivers. They visited the ice machine and walked around the drained pool and stared out the window at the wrecking ball sitting dormant under the moon.

“You all have sixty seconds,” you say through a bullhorn. “Step outside and shout your joys.”

The doors all fly open and men and women shout over each other. They shout the names of the lovers they met there. The dates on which they occupied those rooms in an erotic quarantine, walled off from their children and temporarily delinquent from the promises they made to their spouses, spouses whose names they also shout. It’s a messy chorus, and when it ends, they one by one step back into their rooms and wait.

It’s a ritual dating back to the Intimacy Laws of the late 1800s. When a Fuck Motel is slated for demolition, former guests may volunteer to spend one last night in the room where they once experienced pleasure that proved elusive for the rest of their lives. Now, they sit on the edge of their beds awaiting the wrecking ball. It will forever bond them to the walls and ceiling and bedside tables that bore witness to their happiest hours.

Happy Demolition At The Fuck Motel Day!

You’re The Governor Of A Whole Goddamned State Day!

“Fuck!” you shout. “I wanted to date more. Put myself out there. I can’t do that if a whole Goddamned state is looking to me every goddamned time they need shit.”

Your assistant gets up from her chair and slaps you across the face.

“I am sick of hearing you make excuses for why you’re still single!” she says. “So you’re the Governor. Big fucking deal. Everyone has a job. If you want to meet someone you have to make time to get out there and meet them! I won’t hear any of this ‘I’m too busy thwarting a public employee strike’ or whatever the fuck.”

You look deep into your assistant’s eyes.

“Maybe I don’t need to date,” you say. “Maybe the one I’m supposed to be with is right here under my nose, but I’ve just been too blind to–”

She slaps you again.

“You’re not going to pussy out of this,” she says. “You need to put in the work. Quit looking for the quick fix!”

“Fiiiiine!” you moan.

Your assistant clears your schedule and commands you to spend the next hour Tindering.

Happy You’re The Governor Of A Whole Goddamned State Day!

Cremains Day!

Everyone in your family is fighting over who gets to keep your dad’s cremains. Your sisters are grabbing at the urn and then it spills and the ashes land on the prayer card you were given at the church service.

“It’s sizzling,” one of your sisters says.

The prayer card turns black and floats up to the ceiling.

“Did Dad sell his soul to Satan?” you ask.

Your sisters remind you of all the get rich quick schemes your dad was into.

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” your sister Janet says.

Then the blood pouring from the light fixtures drowns you all and you die wishing you had a dad with better business sense.

Happy Cremains Day!

Just The Mattress Now Day!

His stuff’s all been put into storage. He moves into his roommate situation in two days.

Your stuff’s in the middle of the floor at Harold’s. You’ve yet to begin blending your things together.

It’s just the mattress now. That’s all that’s left from your three years in this one bedroom together.

“Nowhere else to sit,” you say as you take your place on what’s always been your side of the bed.

“Harold excited to have you all to himself now?” he asks.

“Don’t,” you say.

He says no. He says it’s okay. He says he’s curious.

“Harold’s happy I’m moving in,” you say.

“You’re still moving in?” he says. “I thought you were already fully in there.”

“He’s in Singapore until Thursday,” you say. “And you and I still have two days on this lease.”

“So for the next two days…”

“Technically, yes.”

“We still live together.”

“Technically,” you say again. “Yes.”

He pulls a beer from the six pack sitting on the floor by his side of the bed. Hands it to you.

“So,” you say. “What should we talk about?”

“How this was?” he suggests. “How we did? Three years living together. Five years dating. Lot of ground to cover.”

“Like a post-mortem?”

“If you’ve got the time.”

You take a sip of your beer. Two days later you finish talking and head off to the rest of your lives.

Happy Just The Mattress Now Day!

Hitchhike To Work Day!

Today you’re going to hitchhike to work. It will take you three different rides and two fended off assaults, but you’re going to experience the open road of your commute for once. Let those other suckers take the subway six stops, huddling underground like rats for the 20 minutes it usually takes you to ride in. You’re a dweller of the land and it’s time to see that land, to hear the stories of the people roving between your apartment and your office. When you finally make it in 90 minutes late and the other board members ask where you’ve been, you tell them, “America, man. America.”

Happy Hitchhike To Work Day!

Stay Up And Listen To His Voicemail A Hundred More Times Day!

“I’m turning in,” your husband says.

 "I have some work to do,“ you tell him.

 He kisses you on the lips. It’s a sweet, happy kiss. He loves you and he never fails to let you know how lucky he feels to have you. You love him too. You know you hit the jackpot with him. And you can’t imagine a better way to live your life than to grow old with your husband by your side.

 But he’s going to bed right now. So it’s time to stay up and listen to the voicemail from Steven, who you haven’t stopped thinking about since he became your office-mate four months ago. He left you a message on Monday morning telling you he’d be in late. An email would have sufficed, in fact it would have been more practical. But there was no real reason for him to have your phone number when you gave it to him on his third week on the job, so why should he have a real reason to dial it?

 You’d never do anything to hurt your marriage. But you’ve listened to Steven’s voicemail about a thousand times since he first left it, and you’re just going to listen to it a hundred more times before bed.

Happy Stay Up And Listen To His Voicemail A Hundred More Times Day!

Tell Your Mom You Just Got Your Heart Broke Day!

“Good,” she’ll say. “Sounds like you fell in love with the wrong guy.”

Ask her to have some sympathy for you.

“The girls I have sympathy for are the ones who slide into a marriage like it was a pair of flannel lined pants. So easy and comfy. No one remembers being comfy. On your death bed you’ll remember this pain, and you’ll know you loved, little girl.”

You remember the phone call during which he told you he was lying to himself when he thought he could be with you, and you double over on the couch.

“Goddammit, Harold!”

Your mom’s soap opera has been interrupted by a freeway chase. The cops are chasing after her new boyfriend, Harold, who’s driving your mom’s car.

“I really thought he might be the one,” she says.

You both eat ice cream while she watches the chase, yelling at the screen every time Harold sideswipes another motorist in her car.

Happy Tell Your Mom You Just Got Your Heart Broke Day!

You Wouldn’t Have To Negotiate With Hostage-Takers If Larry Listened To You At Home Day!

You used to be a hostage negotiator just to pay the bills and to have a good spot for yourself in the department. Over the years, you’ve ascended the ranks to become known as the finest hostage negotiator in the city. Anytime someone gets a gun pointed at their head, you get called in. And you owe all your success to Larry losing all interest in hearing a single word you say at home.

“Listen,” you tell the bank robber. “There’s no rush here. No need to start throwing out bodies, and no ticking clock on the demands. I can sit here on this megaphone all day.”

“But these people’s lives are in danger,” the bank robber shouts back. “And you’re wasting the department’s resources.”

“Forget those people and forget the department,” you say. “It’s just you and me, Larry.”

“Why’d you call me Larry?” he shouts.

“Larry’s my husband’s name,” you say, with a little feedback on the megaphone. “And since you won’t tell me your name, I’ma a call you Larry, since it’s nice to talk to a Larry who’ll hang on my every word. For once.”

The bank robber’s silent. So is everyone on the street.

“Oh you used to,” you say. “You used to cherish what I had to say, Larry. In those early days, it was like every single word that fell off my tongue held the secret of the universe for you. But those days are long gone.”

One of the snipers gasps audibly.

“I mean, did I change, Larry?” you ask. “Or did you just explore every nook and cranny of me and decide this mystery’s been solved? I come home every night telling stories about saving the day from desperate gunman threatening innocent lives, and for all the attention you pay me, I might as well have just asked you to remember to pick up a gallon of milk.”

Gusts of wind rattle through the police tape.

“Have you told him that?” the bank robber asks. “Have you demanded more from him?”

You chuckle into the megaphone. “My career has made me way more suited to listening to demands than making them, Larry.”

Everyone laughs. The bank robber, the bystanders. Even one of the hostages shouts “Good one!” before getting a rifle butt to the forehead.

“Besides,” you say. “What if he tells me why he stopped listening?”

“Leave him!” the bank robber shouts. The front door to the bank opens and as he steps out into the plaza, he shouts again, “Leave him and find someone you des–”

He’s tackled by police before he can finish giving you relationship advice. You drop your megaphone to the street, and you accept the pats on the back from your colleagues. Then you get in your car to drive around for a few hours before heading home to your husband.

Happy You Wouldn’t Have To Negotiate With Hostage-Takers If Larry Listened To You At Home Day!

Bottom Day!

Tell your man, “This won’t get any worse.”

He’ll say he doesn’t think it’ll get any better either.

“But if we are cool with this,” say, “At least we know we can count on it. Like, we can know that tomorrow will be like today. It won’t be worse than today. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“And it won’t be better,” he’ll say.

Ask him what his fascination with things getting better is.

“I just feel like I have potential for better,” he’ll say. “And this won’t fulfill that potential.”

Ooooooooh. Nooooow you realize the problem.

“I feel like i have potential for worse. Much…much worse!” you explain. “And this doesn’t feel like it will fill that potential.”

Tell him your potentials aren’t compatible.Tell him you need to go find someone who believes, like you, that everything could go crashing through the floor at any moment, then ask if you can borrow his Vespa.

“I just need to drive until I find him,” say.

He’ll give you the Vespa key and a last kiss.

Happy Bottom Day!

There’s No One At Your Office Anymore Day!

“Guess you didn’t get invited either,” the maintenance guy says to you.

“Invited to what?”

“Yesterday they were all like, ‘Let’s work somewhere else.’” he says. “They invited everyone they thought was cool.”

You ask him where the new cool office is.

“Dunno,” he says. “All I know is they think this office is played and for lame-o’s.”

The elevator door opens. Harold, the smelly guy in HR, steps onto the floor and looks around at the empty desks.

“Goddammit!” he says. “This happens at every place I work!”

You and Harold marry.

Happy There’s No One At Your Office Anymore Day!

Bloodstains Day!

“Are you killing again?” you ask her.

She shakes her head no, her eyes fixed on the TV.

“There’s bloodstains on the carpet,” you say.

She shrugs.

“And on the basement floor.”

“Maybe some kids got down there. Drank? Fought?”

“And on top of the refrigerator.”

“When did we last clean up there?”

“And under the bedsheets on my side of the bed.”

“Maybe your skin is dry.”

“I opened your dresser drawers. Nothing but damp bloody rags.”

“Hey,” she shouts. “You knew I was sloppy when you asked me to move in!”

“You’re covered in blood. Right now. Head to toe.”

She looks at the clock. “Oh jeez you’re right. And it’s already 8. I’m late for work!”

She gets up and runs to the shower. You get on your knees and start sopping up the puddle of blood she left on the couch.

Maybe she’ll quit tomorrow. Cleaning up after her kills might make you an enabler, but wanting her to quit shouldn’t mean you have to live in a messy house.

Happy Bloodstains Day!

All Your Hostages Are In Love With You Day!

Your partner hangs up the phone with the FBI.

“They need three hostages.”

You pretend to not be listening.

“You go tell them or I will! Ask some of them to leave. You’ve got like nineteen guys back there.”

As you step into the vault you see their eyes light up.

“I need volunteers,” you say.

No one raises their hand.

“In honor of what we shared together?”

One raises his hand. “I’ll go. If the way to show my love for you is to leave you behind, then I’ll–”

“Fine, get your coat. Who else?”

Another raises his hand.

“We’ve only just gotten to know each other, yet it feels like we’ve known each other for years. So yes, I will honor our–”

“Great. One more. Come on. I promise to date you when I’m out of prison.”

Five hands go up. You pick the hottest one. Then you send the three volunteers out to where the police are waiting.

Back in the vault you can hear the racket. They’re writing songs about you, composing poems, screaming at God for making them meet you under such impossible circumstances.

“I might just go shoot them,” your partner says.

“Wait,” you say. “This one guy’s song about me sounds pretty good.”

Happy All Your Hostages Are In Love With You Day!

Ask Your Mom What Made Her Fall For Your Dad Day!

“He blackmailed me,” she’ll say. “I did a hit and run. Thought I got away clean. But then there was a note on my door that read ‘I saw.’ We met and he gave me my options. Marry him or go to jail.”

You ask her why she didn’t just kill him.

“I planned to,” she says. “But he had a fail-safe. If anything bad ever happens to him a letter gets sent to the police telling them everything.”

She still doesn’t know where that letter is. You offer to go looking for it but she says no.

“I don’t want to kill him anymore,” she says. “I’ve seen what you’re going through on that dating scene and no way do I want a taste of that. Besides, people get married for far worse reasons than avoiding prosecution for vehicular manslaughter and fleeing the scene of a crime.”

You both look outside and watch your Dad shoveling snow.

“You’ll see, sweetie,” she says. “You get used to people.”

Happy Ask Your Mom What Made Her Fall For Your Dad Day!

Terrible Mistake Day!

“Hi,” he says, letting you in.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you say.

He nods and lets you in. You sit at his kitchen table. His roommates pass in and out of the kitchen, saying hello, gathering their coats, preparing to leave. There seems to be an understanding that sometimes they have to go when an important encounter is afoot.

“I remember this,” you tell him. “When I was your age. My roommates would vacate when I had a boy over.”

“And tonight I have a girl over,” he says.

You nod. Your eyes are on the one bottle of liquor on display in his kitchen. He grabs it and pours it and puts a glass in your hands. You down it while he opens a beer.

“So you’re here,” he says.

You nod, holding your already empty glass out to him. He pours.

“Can I just be a fun thing you did?” you ask. “A story you tell everyone? The older married lady you banged? You can even make fun of me. How old I am. If you just let it be nothing more than that?”

He lowers himself to his knees. His blue eyes are close enough to yours you have to down your glass to keep from looking away.

“I’ll tell this story,” he says. “I’ll tell it to you when we’re growing old together.”

“Oh fuck, man, come on,” you say. But his hands are already on you and you slip out of your clothes so fast you wonder if you were ever wearing any at all.

Happy Terrible Mistake Day!

Don’t Sleep Day!

“Why do you love me?” he asks.

You don’t have an answer.

“You can split or you can explain.”

You sit down on the floor, bundling up your coat under you for a cushion since he doesn’t have any furniture in his apartment.

“I’ll explain,” you say. “Just give me a minute.”

You drove a thousand miles to this tiny one-room apartment where he hoped to start his life again, alone, resigned to not building a life with you. And now here you are, and you should be able to come up with a reason why.

“Maybe I need five minutes,” tell him.

He pours some bourbon into glasses and he gets comfortable. It’s going to be a long night for the both of you.

“Just because I don’t know why I’m here doesn’t mean I don’t want to spend every single second of my life with you until you die first or I die first,” you tell him.

“I want a reason,” he says.

He hands you some paper and pens and you start drawing diagrams.

Happy Don’t Sleep Day!