Your Dead Girlfriend's Dirty Black Sweatjacket Still Smells Like Her Hair, And Your Dead Girlfriend's Hair Always Smelled Like Fire Day!

You search every morning when you wake up with the jacket in your arms, and you search again most Saturday nights after 2 AM, but there aren't any strands left.

You took them for granted. When you first pulled the jacket from underneath the afghans, it was caked with so many stray strands of her hair you were forced to wonder whether she had had more to worry about than she ever let on to you. You'd pull the strand from the bosom of the jacket and let it coil up in your palm, and you'd set aside a few days at a time to just lay in bed and stroke that lock of your dead girlfriend's hair, but you never made it past a few hours. Hair just disappears. One distracted glance and it either catches a breeze and floats away to the dustbunnies under the bed or it just stops being.

Maybe you and the strand of hair have that in common. Maybe the strand of hair feels that continuing to exist without your dead girlfriend around is just as pointless as you do. But maybe the strand of hair has the power to simply will itself out of the universe, whereas you have to use a gun and/or pills.

No more strands of her hair left. It's been four months of intensely regimented mourning after all. But the scent is still there. The one you used to smell when you pressed your lips down upon the top of that parted-down-the-middle mop of deep deep stringy brown.

You smelled fire. Not smoke, ash, sulphur or the debris of aftermath, but only the fire. Perfect, terrifying flame. The scent it would release if it could ever roam alone. If it could ever wear a belt or drink a glass of whiskey. If a flame could weigh something, that's what her hair stunk of.

And it's what her jacket still stinks of. So stay in bed and hold it over your eyes and your nose and your mouth and your neck and breathe it in. It's perfect.

Happy Your Dead Girlfriend's Dirty Black Sweatjacket Still Smells Like Her Hair, And Your Dead Girlfriend's Hair Always Smelled Like Fire Day!

You've Got The Special Scent Day!

You smell like my ache. You stink of everything I crave, every lonely pant in the middle of my gargantuan twin-sized bed on a Saturday night. My friends all say you're disgusting because your breath stinks of coffee and cigarettes. But when I sit in the path of your exhalation, all I smell is that time I wanted my Dad to say "good job" but he refused. Your hair stinks of snowy walks and your clothes smell like Sundays in bed. Your feet reek from car trips to foliage and your ass indicates you weren't too careful about wiping away the kiss you put to the tip of my nose leaning across the tabletop of a candlit dinner. You smell like what I think about when I drink.

Happy You've Got The Special Scent Day!

If You're Both Attractive, Stay Together For The Sake Of The Rest Of Us Day!

You know couples who hated each other but continued fighting it out for twenty years for the sake of their fucking kids. Who'd that help out?

But you two are a sight for sore eyes. When the metropolitan population sees you two leaning into each other to share a brief peck during a wedding ceremony, or on the sidewalk clutching at each other's jackets and watching grimly as a fleeing shoplifter is tackled to the pavement by an undercover police officer in the middle of the street, or walking down the street holding hands, we are reminded of a few things:

1. I should not wish for that person to be inside of me because such a wish is unrealistic. That person belongs with someone more attractive than myself. I can go about my day now.

2. Beauty can comprehend "beauty." And beauty is fond of itself.

3. If both parties in a relationship are beautiful and each has brown hair, as a couple they will necessarily be far more beautiful than a blonde-haired couple. And they cannot be stopped.

4. Given the opportunity, I would have no choice but to watch them screw, though I would be frightened of how such an experience might affect me in the long run. Kind of like seeing the face of God, right?

5. If you think about it, blonde hair is kind of a birth defect.

6. It is possible for events in this universe to be absolutely appropriate.

7. If two people look good enough together, they should be ordered to walk around a lot in my neighborhood and I'd appreciate it if they'd buy bagels where I buy bagels. I'd like to pick out their sweaters as well.

8. Love is a myth. But physical beauty may be objectively graded on a scale of 1 to 10. Those two in a park in autumn are like a 90,000. Jesus I hate my dad for getting drunk and holding my face over the stove when I was nine, leaving me to live with this miserable scar just below my left eye. I'm sick of meeting people and knowing they're going to call a mutual friend later to ask for an explanation.

9. I was in love once. And the feelings I held for my lover, if I were to imagine those feelings of love taking the form of a little tiny couple in love themselves, that love-couple would look like those two. Except with different shoes. And, oh wait, is that dude wearing an earring? Oh wait, sorry, never mind.

Happy If You're Both Attractive, Stay Together For The Sake Of The Rest Of Us Day!

On Loan From The Museum Of Incredible Asses Day!

It's just a really fucking old chair. This is why all museums suck dick. They name an exhibit "Knights In Shining Armour!" so you show up and you get like two suits of empty chainmail and then about five rooms full of wooden bowls "from which jousters would take their porridge!" Total bullshit. Where are the human heads that have fossilized upon the tips of spears?

Then you saw a banner through your bus window that read "On Loan From The Museum Of Incredible Asses - Through October 12th" so you decided to give museums one more shot. And here you are staring at the indentation in the plush velvet cushion of a bejeweled dining chair that purportedly supported Queen Elizabeth I during her morning Froot Loops. "Yes," you think. "I'm sure the Virgin Queen had an ass that was out of this world. But I didn't pay a 25 cent donation today just to look at a seat cushion that had to endure the Earl Of Leicester dropping to his knees and digging his nose into the fucking upholstery every time the help stepped away to apply a balm to their eczematic scales." Break some glass.

Happy On Loan From The Museum Of Incredible Asses Day!

She's All Fireflies Day!

If she gets up from the grass the world's gonna come to an end. If she breaks the stride of the stroke of her hand through your hair all the babies in the world are gonna start screamin all at once, yes they will. If her pants fall lower on her waist and cover up even one more centimeter of that creamy little ankle the spirit of our troops overseas will fall to an all-time low, nothing but letters home begging for swap meet play-by-plays, yup it'll happen that way. If she doesn't put her lips to your shoulder forty five thousand times before midnight, from now on math will be wrong. If you ever feel unsure about the number of freckles on the back of her baby girl hand, you'll stop drinking.

And if she ever asks a question and her pitch black eyebrows don't frown...fucking hell

But it's all about timing
It's just because it's Indian Summer
You're getting more than your share of something you actually enjoy for once in your life but trust me
Couple more weeks and you're gonna have a coffee with someone who looks better in sweaters
I'm telling you, she's all fireflies

Happy She's All Fireflies Day!

Her Boyfriend's Name Is Rick Day!

Go to the bar again, she'll be there tonight. It's Wednesday.

This is how you know it's right between the two of you. Because she'll be at the bar tonight because it's Wednesday. Normally, you'll see a lady on the train that morning you get up ten minutes earlier and you'll think, "If I just get up ten minutes early every single day, I'll get to look at that lady every morning. And soon she will love me."

But you wake up early for a week and a half without ever seeing her again and you accept that perhaps she woke up late that day you saw her. Or perhaps she was only a visitor in your city. Or perhaps you only imagined her. You do that sometimes, imagine things that never really happened. It's been getting worse lately, btw.

This lady who is at the bar on Wednesdays, however. She is at the bar on Wednesdays. The first time you saw her there, it was a Wednesday. So you naturally made a point of going to the bar the following Wednesday to see if she would be there (your appointment book is pristine). And on that following Wednesday, she was there. Just like all those Wednesdays in August. This has never happened before, a strange lady sticking to the schedule you assume she'll keep.

So go to the bar again. She'll be there and her boyfriend's name is Rick. You heard the bartender (a lady) ask her about "Rick." And when she was on a cellular phone call, you heard her say both "Rick" and "Goddammit Rick." Rick is her boyfriend's name and he doesn't come to the bar on Wednesdays.

But you do. Win her. Tell her the story about how your mother has been in a psychiatric facility for twelve years and you stopped visiting her in 2001. "It got so I couldn't catch my breath for a week after I'd visit. So I've had to pretend that my mother is dead in order to go on living myself." Your story will intrigue her. And the fact that you chose to confide in her so suddenly will trick her into thinking there is a connection between the two of you, and soon she will love you.

Happy Her Boyfriend's Name Is Rick Day!

The Aircraft Carrier Day!

Today, the aircraft carrier is thinking, "It's cool and all, I mean, it's my job, but seriously, FUCK AIRCRAFT! Or, I mean, planes."

Planes, choppers, pilots and those guys with the glowsticks. They're all on the aircraft carrier's back and they act like they're doing it the fucking favor. "I'm fucking huge," thinks the aircraft carrier. "There's a majesty about me. But they don't ever see it."

Just then though, the Aircraft carrier stops its grumbling because it notices Private Nairns alone on the upper deck with a letter clenched in his fist. Nairns is standing still and he's not looking at anything. Just has his eyes open.

"That's Nairns," the aircraft carrier says to people just like you and me. "Looks like he got another shitty letter from his girl. He really loves her, but she does this all the time. She seems real twatty. I mean the guy's at sea."

Looks like Nairns' pain is just what's needed for the aircraft carrier to put things into perspective, because it'll stop bitching until Nairns goes back to his bunk. Then it will think, "Some of these guys are okay I guess. But most of them, God I hope they die."

Happy The Aircraft Carrier Day!

Take A Class In How To Tell The Truth Day!

This is offered at most continuing education centers and some of your more prestigious community colleges. Here's a bit of the syllabus:

9/23: How to say "Yes" when someone asks if you love them and you do. Reading: ch. 6, Aronson.

9/30: How to say "Yes" when someone asks if you want the last piece of french toast and you do. Reading: ch. 8, Aronson.

10/6: How to say "No" when someone asks if you have enough money to buy this boat and you don't. Reading: ch. 3, Aronson.

10/13: How to say "Yes" if you're outside in a rainstorm with someone and that someone asks if it's raining outside. Reading: ch. 10, Aronson.

10/20: How to say "No" if you're dying and someone asks if you're relieved and you're not. Quiz.

The class is usually around $225. Enroll, or we're through.

Happy Take A Class In How To Tell The Truth Day!

Your Guardian Angel Is Loaded Day!

It's been a hard week, what with you all of a sudden deciding that looking both ways when you cross the street is for homos. You're not the only corporeal being he's gotta look out for you know. Your guardian angel has got two others on his roster, and one is a speed freak for God's sake.

Additionally, angels don't line up trying to get on guardian detail. It's a pre-requisite if you've been declared an L9. L9 means you were kind of a cunt on Earth, usually selfish, sometimes just emotionally unavailable. And while it's not a crime in itself, almost of them were abusers of some kind of substance or other. Anyway, if you meet a guardian angel, you can bet your ass he's got a lot of regrets about how he handled his life on Earth. And God doesn't wipe those regrets away neither. Being a guardian is kind of a punishment. The assignment is given to Angels who don't wanna do nothing but brood over themselves and all the mistakes they've made, but they're charged with the responsibility of paying attention to the every movement of others and preventing those mistakes.

And once everyone on his roster is steered clear of uncovered manholes, your guardian angel has no choice but to go home, sit in his recliner, and get fucking blitzed to stop thinking about all the times he said no when he was too much of a pussy to say yes. And to stop thinking about the fact that all he has left is an eternity in the wake of a life just barely lived.

Now why don't you try not to fuck up for a little while? Let him cry in his recliner.

Happy Your Guardian Angel Is Loaded Day!

And Then Laura Walks In Day!

You light some candles and then you go back into the kitchen to check on the roast your mother told you how to cook over the phone (your mom ain't dead like everyone else's and she's very excited about your decision regarding Laura). It's almost done. It looks almost exactly like the picture you saw on that website.

You go into the bedroom to change out of your tee shirt and into your pretty shirt, the blue one you always wear to weddings. Laura always says how proud she is to walk inside weddings with her arm hooked through yours when you're wearing that blue shirt.

You look at yourself in the full-length mirror and you let yourself take a moment to acknowledge that you look older than you did when you were younger. "But so does Laura. In fact, she's gained ten pounds since 1998," you say out loud. Time to take a seat at the empty dining room table and practice sending some pleas over the candlelight.

"Be my wife Laura. C'mon! Laura. Laaaauuuuuuuuraaaaaaaaaaa. Beeeeeee myyyyyyyyy wiiiiiiiiiife."

Take a sip of wine. Then,

"C'mon! We rule."

Now is when your should get down on your knees and take her hands in yours. Until Laura walks in, practice with the cat. Sit Mesopotamia on Laura's chair and take her paws in your hands.

"What do you wanna do, hit me and see if I can take all you got to give? Is that it Mesopotamia?"

Use Laura's name, even though you're talking to Mesopotamia.

"What do you wanna do, Laura? Wanna just hit me in the face and see if I can take all you got to give, Laura? Is that it Laura?"

MMMMMRRRRROOOOOOOW

Okay, let Mesopotamia go. You're ready. So you drink a few glasses of gin, no ice, no mixer, just straight gin, and then Laura walks in and you ask her what then fuck took her so motherfucking long. Storm out.

Happy And Then Laura Walks In Day!

The Winter Day!

Today, the winter is ten miles away. People are running through town with their babies in their arms. I saw a businessman trying to stuff his papers back into his briefcase. And a boy kissed a crying girl, right there in front of my eyes. They both had snowflakes in their hair.

There's a man in our hospital who says he was just lying there on his office floor minding his own business when the winter burst in and accused him of things. He said the winter accused him of unspeakable acts that he won't repeat to anyone except his own wife, who cannot be reached. It is believed that the winter got to her first, The man in the hospital swears the winter is a liar. He has a runny nose, the man in the hospital does.

Have you noticed how much dirtier the bottom halves of cars are? The ones speeding down state street, the only two lane street in town. Dustin said, "That's slush. Dontcha see?!"

Dustin wants to get us out of here. He thinks anyone who stays in town is in for it. I can't tell if Dustin really believes all the rumors he's repeating, or if he's just trying to scare me into packing up and running off with him. But I'm staying.

Happy The Winter Day!

The Clean Woman Day!

Not to be confused with The Cleaning Woman, who is, ironically enough, filthy. No, today The Clean Woman is dead and her body is at The Undertaker's. She has already been washed of the vomit she had expelled down her chest when she died, and her hair is presently being rinsed.

The Undertaker uses an entirely incorrect soap and he scrubs in a most damaging semi-circular motion. This marks the first time The Clean Woman is being washed wrong since she was six, when her mother passed away beside the tub whilst giving her a bath. Just a little girl in a giant clawfoot tub, The Clean Woman had been used to being lifted from the water to the bathmat. But she had to run for help, so she climbed atop the edge of the tub and stepped down upon her dead mother's hip like a little stepstool. But her dead mother's frame adjusted under her weight and The Clean Woman lost her balance and her wet naked body tumbled atop her mother's corpse. Then she picked herself up, found a towel and fetched her father. Since that day, The Clean Woman has been very particular about her washing. And until today, there was never anyone trying to butt in and interfere.

Happy The Clean Woman Day!

16 Year Olds, In Love And Scalding Fucking Hot, Run Off And Get Married Day!

Her dress has got little flowers all over it and she wears it so well it could be the uniform for a comic book superhero called "Super Absolutely Delicious Girl." Jet black hair and eyelashes designed to let a teardrop dangle just a second too long for gravity to be real. Her little knees and her little hands.

He has a long black shadow where his eyes and eyebrows should be. He has the kind of steely fat-free body that looks like he'll soon be on the run for accidentally killing a drunk in a barfight for disrespecting his new bride.

They left last night at one am. He climbed up to her window, yup, and helped her down the awning, yes he did, and then they scaled the trellis, mm hmm, you bet your ass they scaled the trellis.

Now they're on their way to Virginia where he thinks it's legal to get married at 16 without a parent's consent and he might be right. Then they're on their way to Tucson to meet up with his Dad who he thinks will give him work, but who will just ask him for some money and who will make a pass at his new bride. He'll beat the shit out of his dad and they'll go to California where he'll start stealing cars and go to prison and she'll become a world-wide pop music sensation.

Happy 16 Year Olds, In Love And Scalding Fucking Hot, Run Off And Get Married Day!

Crouched And Loaded Day!

You've been drinking all night and it's time to scare your friends before you get in the car (you're driviing, you shouldn't). Walking through the parking lot, you should make a sudden dash around the corner of the bar, pull yourself up against the wall, crouch down and wait for your friends to follow. Wait until they take their first steps around that corner and then spring up from your crouched position to scare them.

Unfortunately, your friends won't come around the corner before you fall asleep there against the wall set atop your bent knees. In fact, your friends won't come around the corner at all. Once you disappear, they'll all keep following for a few paces before Tommy will spread his arms and stop everybody.

"Wait a minute guys," he'll say. "I don't like the looks of this. We have no idea what's around that corner."

"C'mon," Jeff'll counter. "Let's just get to the car."

Tommy'll call to you. "Greg? Greeeeg!?" But you'll be unconscious.

"Oh shit," Jeff'll say.

"Greg's gone, man. Something around that corner got him. And it's probably right there just waiting for us."

Then they'll run and you'll continue to sleep on your crouched knees until 6 AM. You won't be able to walk for three days after you wake up.

Happy Crouched And Loaded Day!

Be The Star Of Your School Play Day!

Today, if you're the star of your school play, you'll get around 38 minutes of stage time, more than everybody else by nearly 14 minutes. Also, you'll get to kiss your co-star, which will happen right there on stage in front of everybody in the room. Even though she has a boyfriend and he's right there in the third row waiting to kick your ass, you get to kiss her. Her breasts developed two years ago.

Don't forget, if you're the star of your school play it will either help you get into college or it will light a spark in your belly that won't be extinguished until you've lived A Life in the Theater. The school play is called "The Music Man."

Happy Be The Star Of Your School Play Day!

The Aunt Your Dad Cut Off Is Dead Day!

That's what that call was this morning at nine. No message, of course. But he'll call back. Your Dad will call and say, "Just want to let you know that, uh, your Aunt Elena. She passed away this week."

You'll say, "Oh God." And then you'll hope your Dad will talk again before you have to concoct some way to react to the death of a blood relative who has been forbidden to contact you since you were six.

Your Dad will say, "Yeah she had a stroke in her sleep. Or, actually just before she got to bed. Your cousin Jimmy found her."

Just wait for a second. Or say something like, "Jesus, Aunt Elena. It's so..." but use a tone that your Dad understands. A tone that says, "What the fuck did she do anyway, that you would cut your own sister off for the last 25 years of her life?" The tone will make your Dad laugh a bit, because your Dad can't believe he pulled it off either.

He'll chuckle a bit more just before he tells you, "So the funeral's tomorrow. I'm paying for it." Here's where he laughs out loud.

He'll tell you you're welcome to come but he understands that you have to work. But he will point out that he's using the caterers from your cousin Michael's wedding, who were awesome.

Happy The Aunt Your Dad Cut Off Is Dead Day!

Do You Like Your Medicine? Day!

If your medicine is keeping you from, as you call it, "Living a scowl," then it might be worth the 30 pounds you've put on. But if your medicine is still leaving you feeling, as you described it, "Dusty. Here. In my sternum." then we can try to find you some different medicine. 30 pounds is a lot.

Happy Do You Like Your Medicine? Day!

Girl Of Fury Day!

Everyone can tell when you're about to stop being plain old Kim and start being Girl Of Fury. It's getting old and by the numbers, frankly.

You stop talking. You stop talking and the person adjacent to you at the table notices you haven't spoken for twenty minutes. That person thinks, "And it begins."

Next, you transmogrify into a beautiful blue light. From the barstools to the pool cues, all are transfixed by the wondrous glow that is you. For a moment at least.

Just as knees begin to weaken, that's when you begin to radiate heat. At first just a creaky throated desert heat. But after a few minutes, the bar is a kiln and the elderly are dead.

Next, the windows shatter, the shelves fall from the walls and the pretzel mix is in everyone's hair. That's when you start to freak out.

No one sees it, but everyone feels it. Everyone, one by one, suddenly feels they have less blood than they just did a second ago. They felt it get tugged out from just below the backs of their necks. Just a yank of blood into the air, but it doesn't splash to the floor. Rather, now a kind of gas, the blood of everyone in the room is intermingled and sucked into each person's lungs. They've lost life, and they have taken life from their neighbors. The people are tainted with each other.

Finally, you freeze time, then take corporeal form again and go behind the bar to down a few free Ketel Ones. And when you return to your seat, we return to our conversations, the memory nowhere to be found, all of us without suspicion.

We get it. Go learn a bar trick.

Happy Girl Of Fury Day!

Cut Off Your Shoes Day!

You can smell your stinky feet from under your desk which means everyone who comes over to ask you a question can too. It's your shoes. You have to get rid of them.

To discard them in a brisk, clean manner, you don't want to touch the laces to untie them again. Every time your skin touches your shoes, that odor seeps a little further into your elemental being. Make today the day you put a stop to the rotting.

Be seated and put your right foot up on the desk, then hack through your ankle with a meat cleaver. This should not take more than ninteen or so swings. Once the cut is clean, get your left foot up on the block and again, slam a cleaver down upon your ankle over and over again until your foot flies from your leg and across your desk. Remember, no matter how sharp your cleaver might be, once you hit the bone all you're really trying to do is shatter it. You might as well be using a hammer really.

Once both your feet and shoes have been cleanly severed from your legs, light a match and get the hell out of there.

Happy Cut Off Your Shoes Day!

Your Boring, Terminally Ill Boyfriend Day!

What. A. Fucking. Ripoff.

Of all the guys you've dated, the architects, the archaeologists, the lifeguards, it had to be Count Yawnsalot that ended up in a deathbed. This kid wouldn't know how to die if he took a Learning Annex class called, "Dying With Such A Flourish That Your Girlfriend Never Screws Another Dude Again."

"Isn't there anything you want to apologize for or anything you don't want to leave unsaid?"

"Um, I love you. Do you think there's anything I need to apologize for? If so, I apologize."

Fucking hell. Of course he has nothing to apologize for. He doesn't even hit. And all these years he said "I love you" more than he farted. "I love you" was the blanket he put you under so as to avoid having to focus on on anything specific about you.

"You must be pretty angry right now. About dying I mean. You must be furious."

"Luck of the draw I guess."

Fucking hell. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, he once said when you brought up the topic of you two trying to fuck differently. To him, presents were always sweaters and gold necklaces. He was a kind, generous man who would've given you anything you asked of him if it was within his grasp. An example of something that's not within his grasp: A refusal of all visitors, including yourself, for 23 days in an effort to say fuck you to the world and everything he ever cherished during his time upon it, before of course making a shaky peace with his fate and welcoming his loved ones to say goodbye, occasionally lashing out at them for not knowing what it's like to spend a night alone in his hospital room.

"I'm sure glad you're here with me. It really makes the time go by faster. Hey did you remember to put my baseball cards up on Ebay?"

"Mm hmm."

Fucking hell. To think, when he first told you he would be spending the rest of his life in the hospital, you imagined climbing atop his cancer-ravaged body in the dark, working for hours, days even to arouse an erection from him and guiding his body into yours for one final moment of utmost love. But some douche gave him Scattergories and now he's hooked. You love him to death but Christ almighty can't he give you some kind of drama that'll keep you locked up in bed for a few weeks after he's gone? Most girls don't get to watch a boyfriend die more than two or three times in a lifetime, and look how this one's being squandered away with a bunch of slightly tender moments and...fuck...is he fucking laughing at Will and Grace? Pretend to cry again and get the hell out of there for a little while.

"Are you okay honey?"

"I think I need some air. I'm just gonna miss you is all."

"Aww."

Aww fuck off.

Happy Your Boring, Terminally Ill Boyfriend Day!

Love Of Your Life Like A Deer In Your Headlights Day!

You stopped saying her name a long time ago. When you talk of leaving her, you refer to it as, "When I left Los Angeles." Your friends understand.

Your old friends at least. The ones who used to surround the two of you, who seemed to celebrate the love you shared. Dinner parties felt like ring around the rosie, everyone hopping out of their chairs, joining hands and revolving around the two of you at the first sign of you spooning some sorbet onto her outstretched tongue.

And your fights were like a long-awaited summer blockbuster. You would show up alone to the bar and brood by the payphone all night. Or someone would spot her having coffee with Alan, her ex-husband. Word would spread, anticipation would be at a fever-pitch. Until opening night, when your old friends would pull into a rain-swept parking lot and spot you with your hair drenched in spikes down your forehead, arms wild and wide, clearly sobbing, her in a floral-print dress hugging her frame, responding with black eyeballs and a wailing squeal of a scream. All plans would be cancelled, your old friends would park their cars in a circle, headlights pointed at the main event, they'd sit back in their seats and recline their necks and prepare to be awestruck and ask each other, "Hey how'd they do that?"

Your old friends saw it all so you necessarily cut them off and moved to Tempe. Where tonight, out with your new friends, somewhere around your sixth drink you'll bring up "Around the time I left Los Angeles" and the table will go quiet. No one will ask you, "What happened back there?" They'll just wait in silence to find out how much you're willing to offer them tonight. Whether you care to share more than the usual, "Guess sometimes things just stop being the way they oughta." Or whether you'll just down your last sips and pack up and go.

You'll down your last sips and pack up and go out to your car and pull out of your space too drunk to drive on an Arizona night. But you're good at it and you'll ass the Chevy out onto the highway. And you'll pause to search the crack of the seat for a cigarette, and you'll find one and light it and the lighter will haze your eyes to the flash of white that just ran across the concrete. Probably a coyote.

In gear, you'll spin the wheels left and edge out onto your way home, getting 14 feet down the road and no more than four miles per hour before she's back. Standing there in the middle of the lane, no blink, no smile, no tears. Just a suitcase and a floral print dress pulled south with the wind. She's back, staring straight at you, eight and half years after the fact. It's either nighttime or she's dead because she hasn't aged a minute. And she won't move an inch. Oh wait, here she comes.

"Can you take me home?"

Yes. She's leaning inside the open passenger door, her suitcase by her feet on the road. The lamp from the parking lot shining a halo on her head. Both of you must be dead. You always said the day you two share a smile again will be the day you shake hands in hell. Yes. You can take her home.

Happy Love Of Your Life Like A Deer In Your Headlights Day!

In Some Nightmares You Said Day!

Because last night was special, you were a featured character in five different nightmares. In your friend Jeff's nightmare you said, "I'm leaving town. You were right, we never really touch anything in our lives Jeff. You shouldn't have thrown Beverly away." In your Mom's nightmare you said, "Stop it! I can't get dressed." In the nightmare of Moira, a girl you met at a pizza dinner three days ago, you said, "Moira, you're too weak for me. Are we really gonna get married? It's good I guess." In your friend Kara's nightmare you said, "Just keep the bees away! They're getting into my shirt!" And in your very own nightmare, you said, "I'm sorry that I broke into your apartment and spent the night in your bed while you were at your boyfriend's. I was just dropping off some things and I got tired. You taking the train in?"

Happy In Some Nightmares You Said Day!

Lay Back, Nice Wind Day!

In a field. In a park. In almost Autumn. In almost love. In the line of sight of bikeriders and baseball players and boys and girls on blankets cuddling. In bikini tops some of them. In sweatpants, shirts and ties, mesh tanks and spandex, all the others. In debt and hock and line for unemployment benefits. In the sun. In line with his lap, your head. Lay back.

Your long brown hair, half your neck, your smile now pointed straight up at the sky, your eyes now squinting to make out his nose, the conversation you're continuing to have as if this is the position from which conversations should continue to be had, all of it in his lap. Nice wind.

Happy Lay Back, Nice Wind Day!

The Kind Of Guy Every Girl Dreams About Day!

He's got long, sharp fangs dripping with menstrual blood and clotted with chunks of uterine lining. He's drunker than he's ever been before in his life and he's proud of it. He owes you nine hundred dollars and he has a court date for a desk appearance ticket for public-- Correction: He had a court date for a desk appearance ticket for public urination last Thursday (no one, including him, knows where he was that day). He hits and once kicked. He often falls asleep sobbing into your breasts begging you to never ever leave him alone because he'll kill himself if you go, and then he wakes up and disappears for six days. Your roommate moved out to get away from him and you haven't been able to replace her yet so you've been paying double your rent. He sometimes smells like trash.

The dream every girl dreams, and the one you should dream today when you nap, is the one where you throw him out and he comes back and he says he's changed and you believe him, but this time you believe him because it's true. Then your dream should flash forward to later that night, to a fuck that lasts about 100 months, the kind where your physical form fades to dotted lines. Then your dream should flash forward about twenty years, to you sitting on a lawn in a park feeling wonderful about having the guy who is the opposite of everything that attracted you to him in the first place, a guy who is suddenly responsible, attentive, can fuck hard yet still be tender, employed, sober, doesn't say "cunt," showered, likes women, doesn't wear leather pants anymore, paroled, but who is still as attractive as the first night you saw him fall down and drool on something. When you wake up, change the locks because he's out of money.

Happy The Kind Of Guy Every Girl Dreams About Day!

A Nine Year Old Turns In A Poem About His Dad Beating The Shit Out Of His Mom Day!

The first line is, "It always happens at nighttime." The sixth line is, "Please mommy don't cry." Halfway down the page, the kid's hiding under his bed and near the end he's remembering a trip to the beach they all took when everyone was happy. The end is of course the kid pleading for mommy to wake up. Anyway, Mrs. Thompson will drop it into the assistant prinicipal's box before she leaves at 2:30 and family services should be on campus by next Wednesday to ensure that every step towards protecting the mother and child is ridiculously bungled, pretty much handing the father a handgun with two* live rounds in the clip, both of which will be discharged within six months.

Happy A Nine Year Old Turns In A Poem About His Dad Beating The Shit Out Of His Mom Day!

*Three live rounds should the father choose to turn the gun on himself after.

A Popularity Contest Day!

You can win this because people love seeing love work out.

Janice and Frank were meant to be together. But Janice married young to Laurence, a miserable alcoholic who always made her show up alone to Scattergories night at your house. That's where she met Frank and that's where their love affair began. But they couldn't be together as long as Laurence was alive. Your entire circle of friends felt the frustration of seeing a love that is in every way correct being forced to hide behind closed doors. Every time someone got her alone, Janice was given the same advice: Kill Laurence but don't go to jail or anything. And if you were around, Janice would always invite your opinion with her eyes. And you could only shrug and say, "They're right Janice. Laurence has to die."

So after she bludgeoned Laurence in his chair with a lamp, she knocked her bloody fist upon your door and asked to use your shower. The police showed up not soon after and asked if anyone had anything to say about anything. You replied, "Yes." And you've been in jail ever since. And Janice and Frank are free and doing pretty well, though they're having a little money trouble of late.

You would say that your sacrifice was mere responsibility. Not just because they met at your Scattergories party. No. It was a responsibility to Love itself. And people who demonstrate responsibility in the presence of true love are very popular amongst friends and coworkers. You should enter the contest.

Happy A Popularity Contest Day!

This Is A Kiss Day!

When you kiss her at the train stop, when you give her a kiss to send her on her way, when you give her the first kiss you'll ever give her for as long as you both manage to keep from fucking this up, say something first. Say.

"This is a kiss."

She was in position, her chin up high and her eyes waiting for something perfect to happen. And then you, as your head leaned in, as her eyes began to close, as your lips had just a few seconds traveltime before collision, you said.

"This is a kiss."

Your eyelids are parted just barely enough to make out the furrowing of a brow, the slackening of a mouth, the clenching of all the facial muscles that define the face of a person who is thinking, Did he just fucking say "This is a kiss?" Did he really? Did he? Seriously. Really? Did he say?

"This is a kiss."

When you pull your lips from hers, she will be in love with you. Yours will be the love that will not fade.

Happy This Is A Kiss Day!

Will We Win The War? Day!

Today, as you sit in darkness in the depths of your underground bunker listening to the planes strafe your hometown in a thunderstorm of bullets and shells, your wife will try to comfort your crying child. She will say to the baby, "It's okay, it will be over soon."

Then she'll look at you as if you were responsible for all of this. She'll ask, "Will we win this war? Or are we just patiently waiting to die?" Shrug your shoulders without bothering to look at her and just continue eating your beans.

She'll shake your baby with a little more vigor and mutter to herself, "At least you could get out there and fight them like the rest of the husbands."

Say to her, "But I don't have any legs." It's true, you don't, and she'll buy it.

Happy Will We Win The War? Day!

Drive Slow Day!

There's someone in your passenger seat and she's marveling at how gray and autumn it is outside and she's marvelous. You're there, don't worry, she'd be lost if you weren't there with her. But lately, she's no longer scared you're gonna run off somewhere. So she's able to just stare out the window for a while and not moon over at you from behind her seatbelt every five minutes to let you know how wonderful she thinks it all is.

It's all wonderful. But now, wonderful is just another day. She knows it's going to stay that way, so she can stop trying to suck the marrow out of every single second of you and occasionally take in a sky that's all pretty and gray, a sky that's up above your head too.

Drive slow. Point at horses.

Happy Drive Slow Day!

(The following is what you were supposed to do yesterday and the day before that. Prettygirl hopes that you had a lovely yesterday and the day before that. If, by coincidence, your yesterday or the day before that adhered to the personal regression assignments below, write to prettygirl@girlsarepretty.com and tell Prettygirl how your day(s) went. The content of your email will not be reprinted on this or any other website, and your email will be deleted unread.)

Sunday, August 31, 2003

Go To His Rock And Roll Show Day!

He's a small boy with unpocked skin and adorably tousled, stringy black hair. He has an 8 1/2 by 11 inch flyer in his left hand and a scotch tape dispenser in his right. He's two back in line. You've already smiled at him. You recognize him.

A bagel sandwich has been paid for and the boy is now one back in line. He's not looking at you. He's making a concerted effort to stare deep into the case of muffins because he has something to ask you when it's his turn at the counter and he doesn't want to appear too eager. You're steaming a cappucino now and from around the corner of the machine you're able to make out a deep brown mole on his earlobe, looks like an earring, and you want it in your mouth.

A cappucino has been served and directions to the sugar counter have been given, and now it's the boy's turn. With the countertop between you, you're looking each other in the eye. But the floor behind the counter is raised three inches, which makes him three inches taller than you. Just enough. Hi.

"Hi. Can I put this flyer in your window?"

"What's it for?"

"It's for a rock and roll show. Tonight. My rock and roll band is in it."

"Go ahead," you say. He waits for an awkward millennium, and finally remembers how to walk away when you giggle a little.

He takes nine minutes to find a space in the window by the door, carefully tape the flyer to the glass, go outside to check that the placement is ideal, then step back in to catch your eye and shout from across the floor, "So, thanks."

"What's your band called?"

"The Evelyns. We're really good and I play guitar you should come tonight."

"Where is it?"

He doesn't answer. He just turns to the window and rips his flyer down, leaving four small triangles of white paper taped to the glass, and brings it to your counter before anyone can get in line for another bialy. He puts the sheet of paper in your hands. You make sure to never let your smile fade because he looks like he could easily be frightened away by a chance to second-guess. It's all written in rock and roll flyer sharpie scribble so you don't really read it. You'll read it later.

"You should come."

"I might."

He says okay and walks away with the flyer still in your hands. You should come.

Happy Go To His Rock And Roll Show Day!

Saturday, August 30, 2003

Put The Word "Love" On A Postcard And Mail It Day!

Tell her where you are, what's pretty about the trees and her, then put the word "love" at the bottom, just above your name. Then a "ps:" and something funny to dilute the terror caused by the "love" just a few centimeters up.

You won't have to worry about owning up to it for three more weeks. But you've still got four more cities to float through, and the next three weeks will be a lot less lonely if the word "love" is sitting in your handwriting on a bureau back home, a bureau that's held your wallet and keys and ripped up condom wrappers on more than a few wonderful nights.

A few wonderful nights when you kept her awake. When you and her watched dawn. And this way, from a distance of 1200 miles, you'll keep her awake at least that first night after the day she gets the postcard, and maybe a few nights after. She'll stay up all night, listening to that "love" hum from where it sits across the room on her bureau, and she'll argue with herself over whether or not to hum along or fuck Joe (he's been by while you've been away).

Put The Word "Love" On A Postcard And Mail It Day!

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Why Don't You All Try To Make Your Own Fucking Choices For A Few Days Instead Of Relying On Some Website That Yammers On And On About Drinking And Fisting All The Time?" Weekend!

Dear Readers of Girls Are Pretty,

Prettygirl finds you all decidedly loathesome and is certain that every last one of you is living with AIDS. Additionally, Prettygirl is going on a little "trip." And by "trip," I do mean "busride to bang-bang town." Normally, when things of this nature occur, your daily personal regression assignments are posted in advance. This time however, you can all go fuck yourselves. For those of you who have not already fallen into a corner to rock back and forth with your knees pulled up to your chin, it's going to be an exciting time of personal discovery. Because you never learn more about yourself than when you make the sort of undeniably horrible decisions you'll all be making for yourselves without much-needed guidance. On Monday, you can come back and find out what you should have done, if you are still alive or have eyes still. For now, here's today and today only. Remember, you matter to no one.

Love,

-Prettygirl

Friday, August 29, 2003

Hug A Puppy And Love It Day!

Go to the pet store and find the bin full of puppies and just pick up every last adorable wittle wuvvy dovey puppydog and hug it to your neck and your chest and kiss it and tell it how much you wuv the wittle baby puppydoggy.

Happy Hug A Puppy And Love It Day!

Chicago, IL Day!

You think you're attractive, yes you do. You think you are so irresistably pretty that all you have to do is take off your pants and there'll be a line around the block offering to paint your vestibule. You think that you can spend and spend and spend but don't worry because if you run out of money you can just shit some. You think that no matter what miserably boring thought you might have, if it's spawned in your head it's gotta be just the most brilliant idea since they decided to spell Froot Loops with two O's instead of a "UI" in the middle. You think that your the one who isn't going to have to die. You'll be the one who won't have to experience the heartbreak of watching someone you love walk out the door, waking up in the morning and finding out the one you love isn't going to be around anymore. You think that if you had two balls bouncing around inside your mouth you'd be able to just keep on winning at Boggle and making the best margarita your roommate's ever tasted because apparently when you were six you got touched the wrong way but just because you're you the wrong way turned out to be just right and so you can understand the plight of the black man and the frustration of being judged by your wardrobe and so what if there's a big brown growth under your armpit because you don't have the time to call your destitute sister and

Happy Chicago, IL Day!

Fuck Till You're Taller Day!

Three inches. It may seem impossible, and it probably is, but as long as you're going at it the way you have been this week, why not shoot for a goal.

Smarter seems way too out of reach and prettier is way too easy. Fatter, well, I just don't understand how that would work really. And richer implies whores.

So just keep it up for the next 18 to 96 hours, taking breaks to get up and put a line on the doorframe of course. If the line never moves, it's okay. You two are new to this and you both dig when one of you gets up and shows the other how you walk around and touch items around the room. Just tell her:

"Let's do this, you and me, till I'm six foot three."

"But I have to go back to work tomorrow."

"Let's do this, you and me, till I'm six foot three, or until one of us has to go back to work."

"Fine," she'll say. "That's fine," she'll say. She'll say, "Okay."

Happy Fuck Till You're Taller Day!

Jumper (Long Lunchbreak) Day!

Coming back from Subway today, you're going to find the street surrounding your building barricaded and a crowd of heads tilted back and eyes up high. Someone's on the ledge of your building, maybe 19 floors up. She's got her hand on one of the abutments just behind her. She looks like she's afraid if she lets go she'll fall.

Your department pays you for the time you're kept out of the building due to bomb threats and fire drills, and you're certain you'll get no argument when you submit your hours for this afternoon. So you're perfectly fine with this lady (you might have ridden the elevator with her once or twice, you can't tell) staying up there as long as she wants. Perhaps she has an ex-husband in Connecticut that's being driven in to talk her down. You might get to stay out in the sunshine for the rest of the--

Whoops there she goes.

Happy Jumper (Long Lunchbreak) Day! Back to work, baby.

Wish It Were Three Months From Now, But Only If The Next Three Months End Up Being Fucking Awesome Day!

Now sucks dick. Three months from now has got to be way fucking better than now. But if you've learned one thing, it's this: No matter how bad things get, not only can they always get worse, but while they get worse you'll probably get kicked out of your apartment or something. Which might just count as things getting worse, but when it happens, you'll see, you'll be thinking, "This is totally unrelated though! This is just a random kick to the nuts!"

So, it's okay to wish it was three months from now while ceremonially burying kittens alive, then stomping on the mound of dirt until the kittens stop their muffled shrieking, as Wicca dictates. But make sure you also wish that the next three months are way bitchin'. Because if you only wish it were three months from now and your wish comes true, you might find yourself in prison (you'll have finally wigged out and killed some hookers).

But what you're hoping for is that, if the next three months rule, you'll wake up and feel all better because you'll have just finished up three good months and you'll be on top of the world. Sounds good, but if you wish it were three months from now and that the next three months uniformly rule, there's nothing to say that those bitch-goddesses up in Wicca Heaven won't decide to let the three months you skip be the last three months of happiness you'll ever get to see and have you just wake up in a tub full o' pee with a rifle pointed at your head and some lady yellin' "Now splash around!"

I know you're just trying to get through something difficult, that you just wanna get it over with. But be careful when you make a wish. Wicca really works.

Happy Wish It Were Three Months From Now, But Only If The Next Three Months End Up Being Fucking Awesome Day!

Brother Alcoholic Calls Sister Alcoholic Day!

It's been 18 months since Jenny called Dave, 18 months of really good drinking.

"I used to call my brother every night just crying and threatening to kill myself. Drinking really sucked for me back then, I think it started after our dad died. It was just that kind of drinking where you drink until you can't feel anything anymore. Then you drink some more to try and feel something."

What changed?

"Not sure. One day, drinking just turned real good again. I met a guy, and I was afraid it all hinged on him being around. But that fell through not soon after we met and I came out fine. Just kept drinking most nights, and feeling pretty okay most days. Have a lotta friends now too."

What about your brother?

"I keep meaning to call him. I should, you know. Because I only called him at my worst hour of the night and I know he got so sick of it. It'd be nice to talk to Dave when I'm feeling okay. I can't this afternoon though. I'm away on a canoeing weekend."

It's been 3 weeks since Dave slept more than four and a half hours in a night.










Dave?

"What."

You don't look so good.

"I don't sleep lately. I'll drink enough to pass out right away, but then it's like after three and a half or four hours, my body's sober and my eyes just pop open."

Maybe you should take a break for a while.

"I need to. But the sleeplessness just leaves me feeling like I'm made of ashes. And I end up drinking at night just to end the day feeling a little different than I felt all day. But then I just feel like I'm made of wet ashes."

Any idea why it all started?

"No. Well, some friends, this couple that I was really close to. They split up and they're both moving out of town. So there's been a lot of goodbye things for them over the past few weeks, lotta staying out till 4. But I do that all the time. Just sometimes, I'll have a bad week for a while. It's like there's a switch that gets flicked and all of a sudden, drinking blows. And then one day, I accidentally flick the switch the other way and drinking's okay again."

Mmm.

"But a little lost sleep. This is nothing. My sister's the one who needs to quit. She used to call every night threatening to eat a bunch of pills. Haven't heard from her in a while though. I called her up the last few nights, just to see if she's doing okay, but there was no answer at her house. I was always there when she'd call me at 3 in the morning."

She's away on a conoeing weekend.

Happy Brother Alcoholic Calls Sister Alcoholic Day!

Impatiently Partying Day!

Soon the party will end and we can all go home and be with our wives and husbands, you're thinking. There's no reason to look at my watch again. I looked at it five minutes ago, and I know we've only been partying for five minutes since then because I've been watching every single second pass like a turtle through a yellow light, you're thinking. As long as I have to stand here and party, I might as well try to make the most of it, you're thinking. Look on the bright side, I may have to party all night, but there is free alcohol everywhere. And I can shout and dance, which are activities I might not have been able to catch up on had I not ended up getting stuck partying tonight, you're thinking. Why can't I ever accept the limitless possibility of every new moment in time, every word spoken to an unfamiliar face? Tonight, I might meet a man who needs my assistance in the murder of his wife, or a woman who wishes for me to cheat on my wife, or a 26 year old who doesn't know how to avoid making his girlfriend his wife, or a 34 year old who's just decided to make his wife his ex-wife, you're thinking. God, I hate my wife, you're thinking.

You're thinking of looking at your watch again, but you know what time it is. You just want to lift your arm from your side and look down at your wrist so that you can have something to do besides trying to muddle through all of this endless, tedious partying.

Happy Impatiently Partying Day!

Wanna Hear Me Sing? Day!

Drunk? Bitchin'.

Sitting next to somebody who's known you for more than eleven weeks but less than three hundred and eight? Cool.

Upset about not feelin' nothin' no more (couple years running now)? Sorry to hear it, but let's get started.

Say to your neighbor now, "Wanna hear me sing?" When he says Motherfuck Yeah! get up from your chair, pick up the ketchup bottle and hold it up to your mouth like it's a microphone, open your mouth as if you were about to belt out Moon River, then let all the muscles in your face go limp and bug open your eyes in terror.

Everyone at the table will understand. Even though they were really hoping to hear you sing, you saw yourself in the 3'X6' promotional Harp mirror spread across the back wall of the bar. You saw yourself looking 30 years older than you are, dressed in clothing you find unappealing, your nose different than you remember it, your hands someone else's, clearly, anyone would say so.

Your chest hair, showing. The air surrounding you, gray-green. The retarded blind dwarf a few feet to your right, talking shit about you. Your shoes, stupid and boring. The way you would look holding a first place trophy, incorrect. What you ordered, not what you craved. Everything you settled for, causing more pain than trying to get what you longed for probably ever would have. Everything you've ever kissed in love, amounting to a total of three. Everything that smells, including you. Everything that fails, claiming you. Everything that swells with pride over the achievements of a relative on the road to greatness, avoiding your eye contact. All that you don't want, staring back at you baby.

They'll understand if you just wanna sit back down. Don't. It'll ruin the next five minutes and the next five minutes are as important as those five minutes that started five minutes ago were. Blink your eyes and wipe away the gray that's clouding up your vision and sing the first thirty nine words of that Billy and the Beaters song. Everyone will love you for it and you'll be allowed to clench your eyes shut tight while you sing.

Happy Wanna Hear Me Sing? Day!

Know Anything For Certain, Anything At All Day!

Getting out of bed? Doubt it! Not unless you can say that you know a single thing to be true about your empirical universe. Get started!

"I see feet. I see them, right there at the end of those legs. Those legs that I am almost positively certain are mine. And the hips, the belly button, the big orange birthmark next to the nipple on the left. I can see it all. Those feet, they must be mine. But...but um..."

Good effort baby! Sadly, you still never once existed even for a second as far as you're concerned. So either get out of bed or don't. No matter what you choose, at the end of the day it didn't happen.

Happy Know Anything For Certain, Anything At All Day!

Fuck The Moon Day!

This evening, no matter how beautiful the moon may turn out to be, just keep fucking walking.

Whether your companion is a blind date going very very well or an ailing grandparent trying to get a last glimpse of things, when you hear the footsteps slow and the crimple of shoulder fabric bunching together as an arm is raised to point at the sky, just keep fucking walking.

Big, crescent, blue, white, bad and rising or lighting up a mile, tonight it's just a fucking moon. So when you hear someone say, "Check it out. Moon, ya'll," you are not only not obligated to stop, but you may actually sprint in your current direction of stride. If the little moon-freak shouts, "What up?" Slow yourself enough to say, "No time, Sagan. They ditch the reservations if we're fifteen minutes late."

Your companion will look at you as if you just said you're way into Hitler. Walk back and explain yourself.

"Look, motherFUCK the moon. It was there last night and it'll be there tomorrow. I'll look at it when I'm dead because when we die we all go to the moon." We do. That's where Jesus lives.

Happy Fuck The Moon Day!

Grandfather Clock Time Ya'll Day!

Pendulum swinging to and fro, just like your adoration. You know Leopold is the wrong boy for you. He's rich, angry, and gay.

But Wallingford, who always appears to be uncomfortable in his own skin, actually has a very contageous, irritable and incurable rash that covers his body from head to toe.

Why so fickle, little countess? You have only two to choose from. They are the only boys in town without syphillis (Wallingford hasn't had his stats updated, but he gives his word).

Countess, make it happen. Put on the blindfold, pick up the stick and hit one of the boys in the head. Him who is beaten will father your rich, angry, gay/lesioned, itchy, ill-at-ease babies.

Hit a boy, little girl.

Happy Grandfather Clock Time Ya'll Day!

I Am The Chief Of Police Day!

Today, if you are in an office, whenever you see someone with a blue tie, the first person who shouts "I am the Chief of Police!" gets to be the Chief of Police and he can walk around and demand that everyone give him a dollar pretending that he's getting a cut of their weekly take and he can also demand a little bit of everyone's cocaine. This will continue until someone jumps up and shouts "I am the wife of the Chief of Police!" and shoots herself because she can't take all the cheating anymore and she can't stop blaming herself for their son's suicide.

Happy I Am The Chief Of Police Day!

The University Of Florida Volleyball Massacre Day!

At 5 PM this evening, a group of 8 University Of Florida students (3 boys, 5 girls) will be killed. Their names are Jeff Borden, Nundanee Saba, Michelle Crawford, Kim Watts, Terence McCormick, Ann Park, Ahmad Atiq, and Laura Padilla. These 8 are winding down a week and a half of doing nothing but getting high, watching DVDs in air conditioning, and drinking vodka, tequila and MGD bottles. These 8 are Resident Assistants who volunteered to stay through the summer term, which ended a week and a half ago. At 4:10 PM, Kim Watts will suggest that they pack bottles into a cooler of ice and everybody head out to one of the sand courts across from the arts complex and play a few games of volleyball. Though the heat outside is oppressive, everyone will immediately agree, unaware that they are each about to be hit in the head with a hammer.

Once across the highway, they will begin their trek through the great lawn surrounding the complex. A hill will be climbed, and a wooden fence will have to be ducked under, but before they get to either obstacle, Laura Padilla will run up behind Jeff Borden and jump atop his back, demanding an impromptu piggyback ride. Jeff Borden will attain a precarious grab underneath her thighs and run a few paces before she starts to slide off. When she does, Laura Padilla will move her grip from around Jeff Borden's neck to around his midsection, holding his back close against her front. The two will walk like that for twenty paces, in a negative embrace and surprised. Jeff Borden has never kissed Laura Padilla and he never knew she wanted to kiss him. But Laura Padilla has wanted to kiss Jeff Borden for a few days now, and she will kiss him just before she lets go of him. Laura Padilla will kiss Jeff Borden between his shoulder blades, through his tee shirt, twice. Two very aggressive pecks to the shallow of his back, and she'll let him go and run ahead. Jeff Borden will be very excited for later that evening after the volleyball game. He'll already be thinking about people calling them "Jeff and Laura."

The killer will hear the laughter and he'll crawl out from underneath the fire stairs where he slept last night. His name is Clarke Watson and he'll never be captured. He was hired (illegally, the college is of course very union) for two days work putting up drywall for the "Dragons Great And Small" exhibit in the Zoology wing of the Natural Science Center. The hammer is his, he didn't steal it.

The sand courts are fenced in and the gates are padlocked. Ahmad Atiq will have the key, and he'll drape the chain and padlock in the fence by the gate. Then they will all crowd in and immediately start hitting the ball over the net like a bunch of klutzes. The ball will stay on the ground for a bit as everybody opens another bottle and takes a few sips before stubbing them into the sand on the outskirts of the court. Nundanee Saba will suggest they come up with a drinking game where whoever drops the ball has to down his bottle. The other seven will agree that it is a good idea but it will be clear that the drinking game will be forgotten before it hits its stride.

After a few volleys the 8 will already be feeling too beaten down by the heat to go for much longer. It will be in the middle of a volley that Clarke Watson will approach the court. The ball will be headed straight for Terence McCormick when he catches sight of Clarke a few steps from the gate. Terence will catch the ball and just stare at Clarke without saying anything. The other seven will turn and watch Clarke step through the gate, put his hammer in his pocket so that he can shut and padlock the gate behind him, then pull his hammer from his pocket, take three steps onto the sand court and swing the hammer down into Kim Watts' right ear.

In the middle of the first chorus of screams, Clarke will swing down once to open the right side of Kim's head. Nundanee Saba will be just four steps away from Clarke and she won't have run yet. She'll just be staring at Kim and shouting out sobs without quite crying. She'll jolt upright and bend her knees to run backwards when she sees Clarke turn toward her, but she won't have lifted a foot before he lands the hammer in her stomach. She'll double over and Clarke will just keep swinging the hammer into that area, into her arms crossed over her midsection, he'll hit her in the right shoulder twice, and once in the right cheek. When she falls, he'll hit her in the back three times and twice in the top of her skull. There won't be any blood.

Terence McCormick at this point will have run up behind Clarke and bear hugged him. Clarke will hit him in the forehead with the pronged end of the hammer but Terence won't lose his grip. Clarke will then swing down into Terence's right thigh five times, and once in the right knee. Terence will fall and Clarke will leap towards him, swinging the hammer down into Terence's stomach, then his ribcage (two blows), and then over and over again into his throat. Terence will stop moving before Clarke finishes crushing his throat with the hammer.

The remaining five will be at the far end of the court. Laura Padilla, Ahmad Atiq, and Ann Park will be trying to begin the climb up the fence, but will keep slipping to the ground or just stopping to check where Clarke is at the moment. Michelle Crawford will be at the base of the fence, hiding behind Jeff Borden, who will be holding his arms out from his sides, facing Clarke.

Clarke will take quick steps towards Jeff, then when he's just a few paces away he'll run up and duck low, taking quick hard swings at Jeff's shins. Most of the blows will come off of the hammer's wooden handle. And Jeff will swing his clasped fists down into Clarke's back, trying to pummel him low into the sand.

Clarke will land one direct blow of the meat of the hammer into the upper plain of Jeff's bare foot. Jeff will retract the foot and fall backwards on top of Michelle. Clarke will throw himself on top of Jeff and pound the hammer into his face seven times, mostly in and around the eyes.

Some of the wild swings will bruise Michelle's face. She will do all she can to kick and shriek herself out from under Jeff's stilled frame. But Clarke will land several clumsy side-swipes of the hammer down into Michelle's left arm. Then he'll roll Jeff off of her and crack into her teeth with the pronged end of the hammer. And he'll keep hitting her in the face, below the eyes, like with Jeff.

Laura Padilla and Ann Park will by then be halfway up the fence and making progress. Ahmad Atiq will be near the top when Clarke grabs the base of the fence below the girls and begins to shake. The girls will stop where they are and just scream with all they've got. Ahmad will drop all the way down the length of the fence, hurting his ankle. But he'll pull himself up and fling himself at Clarke, who will have already begun a swing at Ahmad's cheek. The blow will send Ahmad to the ground with a twirl. But he'll immediately pull himself back up and launch at Clarke. His shoulders will take Clarke by the midsection into the sand. Ahmad will rise up in position to punch down into Clarke's face, but Clarke's hammer will land on Ahmad's temple before he gets the chance. Then Clarke will swing once into Ahmad's mouth. The hammer will get stuck inside there for a second. Clarke will have to wriggle the hammer out from Ahmad's broken teeth and torn gums.

The girls won't have moved from where they were on the fence, but their screams will have grown louder and more heartbreaking. Clarke will begin shaking the fence with a fury. There will be no one left to stop him, so he'll just put all his strength into trying to rip the fence from its posts. The girls will hold tight for two minutes. And Clarke will grow impatient and climb the fence, first toward Ann.

She'll see him coming and try to scurry fast to the top of the fence, but her footing will be too unconfident. Clarke will get close enough and he'll land one blow on Ann's left buttock. She won't have fallen yet, so he'll hit her in the center of her back. Laura will have dropped to the ground and run for the padlocked gate, but Ann still won't have fallen from under her blows. Not before Clarke slams a diatribe of swings into her back and shoulderblades as if he were Whacking-a-Mole.

When Ann finally falls, she'll just lay there with her arms up over her face. Clarke will drop next to her and swing three times into her face. The third will land directly on her forehead. It will leave a clean, wet red mark. Ann will shiver for a moment before dying.

With just Laura left, Clarke will not pause to savor the moment or march menacingly to her. Instead he'll sprint to where she is rattling the chained gate. He'll run across the sand and Laura will immediately recoil into the corner of the fence, bent into herself behind her forearms. When Clarke reaches her, the top of her head will be completely unguarded. Clarke will hit her once in the top of the head. In the center. Laura will grab the spot of the blow with her hands. Clarke will swing into the same spot, this time smashing into her clumped fingers. Her hands will drop and Clarke will hit the same spot, the top of her head, in the center, again. Laura will fall face forward and Clarke will open the back of her skull with five swings of his hammer.

After Laura is dead, Clarke will dip his hammer in the sand and pick some of the blood and tissue from the steel before slipping it back into his pocket. Then he'll try the gate and remember he'd padlocked it. So he'll climb the fence because he unfortunately will not have seen Ahmad unlock the gate, so he won't know to root through Ahmad's pockets for the key.

Happy The University Of Florida Volleyball Massacre Day!

Record For You Day!

There's a boy in his little tiny bedroom burning two compact discs on Hugh Street in downtown Milwaukee.

There's a girl who hasn't given a moment of thought to the boy in the previous sentence in about twenty four weeks. She lives on Wendyl Rd in downtown Milwaukee.

There's a boy who's in love with the girl on Wendyl Rd who can't wait to finish burning those two compact discs that he's burning and give them to the girl on Wendyl Rd. with an explanation.

"I know you'll love these as much as I do," he'll say. "They were kind of recorded for you, in my opinion," he'll add.

The girl on Wendyl Rd will scan the handwriting on the Maxell card and say, "For me."

"For you," the boy will confirm, and his voice will crack, though he's 28.

"And have you ever given these same recordings to another girl?" she'll ask.

"Nineteen others," he'll say.

Spit on the CDs is what she does then.

The boy is fine, relax. He'll say, "I wanted to give them to you ever since I heard the first note. But you were gone. So I spent my time proving that everyone but you isn't you. I'd give each one CDs and watch her react incorrectly. Then I'd get real high for, like, days. And eventually she'd say, Why are you so constantly stoned? And I'd just be like what do you care? Go listen to music wrong. Then I'd imagine you lying awake in bed waiting for me to send you compact discs and wondering what was taking so long. Then I'd lock myself in the bathroom until whoever I was living with would have a breakdown and move back to live with her parents. Then I'd think about calling you, but would get real drunk and fuck shit then move in with someone else before I got the chance. But I'd always be thinking, shit, I never sent those CDs did I?

Then the boy on Hugh Street and the girl from Wendyl Rd love each other until Thanksgiving of this year.

Happy Record For You Day!

A Dress Lands On The Floor Day!

It might be lighter than air, he'll think. You might be wearing it not only to make him believe in Jesus Christ, but because if you didn't have your arms hooked into the little sleeves it would just float away like a page of newspaper in autumn. He'll not really be certain. He'll think it looks like it's made of nothing, and he'll be about ready to put five dollars down on that. Take the bet and step out of the dress.

When it lands on his floor, you will be five dollars in the black, little baby naked baby.

Happy A Dress Lands On The Floor Day!

Give A Boy A Box Of Hearts Day!

You can make hearts out of anything. You can carve a heart out of soap, fat candles, apples, a sponge, a rubber ball, a block of wood, and a book. You can build a heart from paper, clay, lots of rubber, melted plastic if you're fast, cardboard, pills glued to a Chutes and Ladders playing board, human tissue, and human hair. You can steal a heart from a girl, a boy, a man or a woman. You can surgically remove a heart from pigs and kangaroos only. You can buy shirts with hearts on them in New York City. In February, you can buy hearts made out of chocolate. In January, you can draw a heart on the wall behind your pillow, lay down in bed below the heart pretending to sleep, and have a friend take a polaroid. In March, you cannot.

Take all the hearts you can build, buy, steal or lift from a chest cavity, put them all in a box and give them to the boy you think is cute. He'll think you're cute too.

Happy Give A Boy A Box Of Hearts Day!

Terrible Men Day!

Terrible men are outside, they're in love with you and they're outside. There's four of them. They're not dressed the same.

Terrible men hold letters promising their ashen hearts. Terrible men practiced all day in front of mirrors, practiced how far to drop their eyelids when the time is right to ask for your forgiveness. Terrible men are inebriated and they're sharing a bottle of liquor and they're swaying and yelling at your window. There's four of them.

Terrible men think most find them absolutely irresistable (many do). They are mean to female bartenders and they have secretaries (sometimes two). In a week of nights, terrible men will spend five alone, two with a woman, every week, without fail (it's true). Terrible men just threw a bottle of liquor at the wall next to your window (go to them).

When you open the door, terrible men, all four, they're fighting in the street. Then one of the four, he sees you (your nightshirt, your knees, the pee yellow light behind your hair) and he grabs at the others, tugging them into formation.

Terrible men brush the damp of the street from their suits and stand in a zig-zag. You look in their eyes and you know terrible men will die if you don't bring them in tonight. They say, four voices, in unison: Leigh. Please Leigh. I'm not gonna make it Leigh.

You wait just a moment, look away just a moment, just long enough to make terrible men boys. Then you lift your head to them. You warn them with your sigh that it can't turn out the way it will, not again. You step aside to allow the single file line of terrible men to climb the flights to your apartment. And you follow, shushing them when they raise their voices (the neighbors).

Happy Terrible Men Day!

Some Girls Are More Amenable To Committing Suicide Than Others Day!

You really really really want your girlfriend to kill herself. You've had the big day for your own suicide circled on your calendar for six months now. All that time, all you had to do is look up at that circle around September 20th, 2003, and think "Few more weeks and good bye to my heartache and misery and always having to pee at movies."

But then you went and fell in love and grew conflicted. You still want to die, no question. But this chick, she's way fucking hot and when she speaks it's like she's reading the story written on your soul and shit. When it comes down to it, you don't want to be without her. If you kill yourself and she keeps on living, she'll probably start seeing someone else and you can't handle that. But suicide is your lifelong dream. You can't stay alive just because someone else wants to. Follow. Your. Bliss.

What has to happen is you just have to come right out and ask her if she wants to kill herself with you. A lot of girls are into things you never would have guessed they'd be into. Approach the question with some caution, and if she says yes, don't act like she's some kind of a slut all of a sudden. But if she says no, take the circle off the calendar. No one who's in love ever kills himself unless he's in love with someone who doesn't love him back, or his parents are dicks about it. If she says no, you're just going to have to wait until you don't love her anymore 11 months from now.

Happy Some Girls Are More Amenable To Committing Suicide Than Others Day!

Zoo Date Day!

He's the boy with the wallet full of American currency, the one with a bottomless bucket of compliments to bestow upon your dresses, the kid with the sloppy lidded eyes and the smile that's always asking, "you still wanna hang out then?" He's the boy you've been waiting for, and today he's your clean pretty Zoo Date.

No boy before him has ever thought to invite you to the zoo before. Because no boy before him has ever been an absolute genius. At the zoo you will hold hands. He'll hold your right, you'll hold his left, and you'll each use your free hand to pet the snouts of ponies, zebras and perhaps even a rhinoceros. You'll pet the snouts and share a smile and move on down the path, never once letting your hands go free, except when you sit down to eat your six dollar personal pan pizzas.

This boy, this groundbreaking boy, this Zoo Date will appear to glow after a bit of time. His warmth, his sincere desire to keep you liking him, his magnificent ideas in the field of heterosexual courtship, so much good will all just billow up from his frame like an odor in a comic strip. You'll see the glow, it will be red and yellow.

Staring at the penguin pool, you'll wrap your arms around your Zoo Date's torso. You'll hold him tight and necessary to you, and he'll kiss the top of your head seventeen times.

Happy Zoo Date Day!

Oh Dear God, The Pain, The Pain, I Am Doubled Over With Pain, What Did You Ask me Just Now? Day!

You are clearly about to die. Use that. When someone for whom you care deeply asks if you care deeply for them, grab your belly and double over shouting, "Oh dear God, the pain, the pain, I am doubled over with pain, what did you just ask me?" Then fall to the ground and writhe. Then die.

Happy Oh Dear God, The Pain, The Pain, I Am Doubled Over With Pain, What Did You Ask me Just Now? Day! I think you just got away scott free again, baby.

Room For Rent Day!

Now that you've saved enough money, you can finally afford to move out of your Dad's apartment. It was fun for a while, him just recently freed from his marriage to your mom and coming up to the city to live the life he wished he'd lived. But then he just got really really depressed and didn't leave his room all that much. It sucks to have to pay rent again, but you just can't take it anymore.

Don't feel guilty. If you spend enough time around a Dad whose been broken, you're really gonna have problems erection-wise.

So go ahead and grab a number off one of the signs in the laundromat but don't call quite yet. Instead, go get drunk and just let your mind slow-dance with all the possibilities.

I wonder if my roommate will be a boy or a girl? Or a banker. An architect. A stripper whose trying to save enough money to fly her mother in from Caracas. What if my roommate dies and I get blamed for the murder. My, wouldn't that be an exciting turn of events! Or maybe my roommate will be the girl I fall in love with and marry! Or the girl who teaches me just how painful a broken heart can be! Or maybe my roommate will at least have sex with me for a while.

If my roommate offered me heroin, would I try it? I don't know. I've always been curious. And what if my roommate catches AIDS? Would it be my responsibility to care after him or would he understand when I decide to find another place. It was really depressing living with my broken father. I really don't wanna live with someone who has AIDS. I hope my roommate would sometimes ride bikes with me.

Roommate, roommate, roommate, what stories will we write together? What late night journeys will we embark upon just because we're feeling nutty. I hope my roommate gets broken up with so I can stay up and comfort him. And I hope my roommate likes late 80's industrial music just as much as me. Roommate, roommate, roommate. Roommates forever and ever, till the very, very end. Shower schedules and chore wheels and "Hey, who ate all my ice cream!" Hee hee.

Jesus.

Happy Room For Rent Day!

Claustrophobia Clint Day!

Today the building you work in will catch fire and many will be killed. You will be in an elevator when the fire reaches its peak, and the elevator will fail to drop directly to the lobby as it is supposed to do. Instead it will stop between the 22nd and 23rd floors. You will bang at the buttons and sound the alarm and try to pry the doors open with the bottle opener on your key ring, but to no avail. The car will fill with smoke and you will drop to the ground and think of pretty faces you're never going to see again. Then you will hear something.

A scratch of metal on metal. A pop and a racket. And then a shout.

"Take my hand!"

From the escape hatch in the roof of the car, an arm will wriggle down towards you. The arm of Claustrophobia Clint, a mythical urban hero who is overcome with a severe panic anytime he finds himself in small, enclosed spaces, but who for some annoying reason always seems to have to save people caught in small, enclosed spaces.

"I can't reach you!" You'll jump and fling your hand towards his but you'll never get closer than a foot below. "Come down and help me!"

"Fuck no! Jump higher!"

The smoke pouring in from the escape hatch will have completely filled your lungs. Your vision will grow faint and you'll fall to the corner with a cough that might never end.

"Oh fuck! I fucking hate this! Every fucking time!"

Claustrophobia Clint, who has tried behavioral therapy but never felt like he was making any progress, will shimmy through the hatch and drop to the ground. He'll grab your spastic frame from the floor of the elevator and sling you atop his shoulder, and then with one quick squat and a bounce the two of you will launch through the hatch and land on the roof of the car (he's a hero who can jump real high).

"Jesus that was terrible," Cluastrophobia Clint will say. "It really felt like the walls were closing in on me. God! Fuck! Fucking hell that was horrible."

Claustrophobia Clint will pry open the doors to the 23rd floor above you, and you will both climb out and find a stairwell to take you down to the ground. You will die on the 9th floor. Claustrophobia Clint will make it all the way to the ground and he'll live to keep on rescuing people from small, enclosed spaces. And every time he does, he'll wish he were dead.

Happy Claustrophobia Clint Day!

You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To Day!

Today, whether you want to quit drinking, quit smoking, quit daydreaming about pee, quit washing your 13 year old sister's hair, quit biting your fingernails, quit drinking, or quit drinking, you can do it. No matter what your goal is, all you have to do is set your mind to it and it's as good as done. At midnight tonight, this goal will be as unattainable as it was yesterday so make sure you have some beer, some cigarettes, some time to daydream about pee, a 13 year old sister waiting in the tub, some fingernails, some beer, and some beer lying around because after midnight you'll see no reason to abstain since you know you're gonna give in eventually because you're weak and most things are impossible.

Happy You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To Day!

Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

You must be naked from the waist down but clothed from the waist up. He can be inside you or not, your choice. There is one thing that is not your choice however.

You must make his nose bleed.

Again, your cunt must be absolutely free of anything remotely close to clothing. Even if it's mere decoration, such as a little elastic belt with a few swaths of gauze that might flutter up above your belly button should they be caught in the gust of the air conditioner. You can, and should, wear a top. Whatever you like. A windbreaker even. And once more, whether the boy is inside you or not is irrelevant.

But you must slap the dead center of the palm of your hand down onto the poke of his nose with all the force you would use to murder a fly. And if his nose does not immediately gush with blood, you are no woman.

Recommended: The boy underneath you, the two of you stretched across the length of a bed, yours, the boy inside you (still irrelevant, simply recommended).

Also recommended: The boy with his back against a wall, you up against him, attacking the fool like a chunk of his cheek in your belly might offer you the secret to how some humans manage to love each other, the boy shirtless, the boy with defined pectoral muscles and untoned belly, the boy unfuckingcertain.

Non-Negotiable: Whether he's inside you or not, you must both be at the point whereupon it doesn't even matter anymore. Whereupon no one would even notice. Whereupon orgasms are for faggots. Whereupon you both are wondering if the other thinks your face is funny looking, like you're acting or something, because you both feel like you're making that fake fuck face but it's real, you both swear it.

Ultimately: Your little tiny baby girl hand will free itself of whatever it was digging its nails underneath, and your arm like a catapult will flip above your scalp and slam down fast like a rubber band in class and slap crisp, clean and stunning, dead center on the dent at the foremost tip of prettyboy's cave full o'boogie-snot. You will flatten his face. You will make him bleed from his face. You will blacken his eyes and fatten his upper lip and you will smother that boy in a puddle of blood and ugly.

If he doesn't like it, you did something wrong. Skipped a step or something.

Happy Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

Steve Day!

Our apologies. Today is a special day. One year ago today, a promise was made and in keeping with that promise, today will be devoted solely to Steve, a dear, dear friend of Girls Are Pretty.

Steve, two of your friends have given birth to babies. One a boy, the other, a boy also. Steve, Kim is back living with her parents now. She's been gone six months and in six months more she'll be off to someplace else, probably San Francisco. Kim has an invitation to live there with your and our friend John and his new wife Alma until she gets settled (we all met Alma at Christmas. She's fantastic). Guess you figured Kim wouldn't be staying on in the apartment you two shared in Park Slope, Steve. Steve, the three of your friends who suddenly feel like they can do anything because they don't care about anything anymore are Lem, Christina, and Josephine. Steve, the two of your friends who feel like they can't get out of bed because they don't care about anything anymore are Lisa and Maureen. Don't worry Steve, we're all looking after them. Steve, Mark got another cat. It's a pretty little long-hair named Hilda. Steve, too many nights end with everyone just shaking their heads so crazily amazed at what a great fucking summer this is turning out to be. Steve, Sam and Moo are fucking again. And Leo and Beverly broke up, Steve, and Leo's seeing someone none of us have met yet, and Beverly is just coasting and coming out a lot more. Steve, Martha has a lot of money now. A ton of money. She said it was an inheritance from when her Dad died (Martha's Dad died, Steve). It's weird, Steve, having a friend who's all of a sudden rich. Martha doesn't buy drinks though, Steve.

Everyone went and had dinner at an outdoor mexican place last night and everyone had margaritas in their hands but no one toasted you Steve. In June a few of us got in Ray's car to drive to Philadelphia and Carrie was rooting through Ray's glove compartment for some cigarettes and she pulled out a picture of you. She held it up, we all looked at it, then she put it back in the glove compartment and continued looking for some cigarettes. Your birthday passed, and the anniversary of the day you and Kim met, the day you always threw a party, both those days passed without anyone saying a word. In the past year, I don't remember anyone ever saying out loud, God I wish Steve was here to see this, Steve. Steve, Jeff got a letter from your sister in March. He wrote back saying only that he hadn't heard anything either.

In short, Steve, everyone, every single one of us is absolutely beautiful in every single way. Whether we're smiling, fucking, crying, screaming, fighting, loving or drunk as God, we're all just the most beautiful people you ever did see. And you're nothing. You're not mourned, missed or reminisced over. You're just gone. As promised, today's Steve Day. Happy Steve Day, Steve.

Be One Of The Final Three Day!

There will be twelve to nineteen at the start. By around eleven, there will remain seven (three unemployed). By around 1:30, just four (two unemployed). At 2:30 AM, the final three will remain (one unemployed, two irresponsible). You three, you heroic, fearless fools with livers composed of layer upon layer of most glorious solid gold. You, the final three will tell each other secrets about your childhoods, your past and present loves, what you think is going to be the thing that breaks you in the end. You'll share secrets not so deep and not very dark, but secrets you're good enough to share at the end of the evening to do justice to a slurred conversation at such a horribly late hour. You'll stay till closing, proudly. You'll leave feeling there's something between the three of you that you can lord over the rest of the twelve to nineteen who're as settled into their good night's sleep as they are in their sedentary (read: Happy) lives. And the three of you will stumble from the curb with arms raised and shout at cabs that sail past without breaking stride. One will stop and either two of you or all three of you will share the cab but only two of you will get out together and screw. Try to be one of those two, too.

Happy Be One Of The Final Three Day!

Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Today, Grandpa feels like it can't get much worse, but he feels that way every day. Your Grandma died in her sleep a year and seven months ago and he's had no problem filling the hours. He's got money and he's been spending it (why leave it all for you?). But he just cannot stand not having Grandma with him. He keeps looking to his right. She's been dead almost two years but he keeps looking to his right to crack a joke.

And he sometimes gets really, really pissed off. That's why he got so wasted at your son's fifth birthday. He was literally angry at everyone in the family crowding together and running up to hug him and acting like they had a right to his attention. "Mona isn't here," the words kept running through his head. "Mona isn't here. I'm hers and I'll give nothing of myself to anyone but her." Then he stood up from the picnic table and fell down on the ground.

There's really no helping him out. When you're as old as he is, the cliche "time heals all wounds" only draws attention to the day you're gonna die. Just let him miss her, he wants to.

Happy Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Things The Song Did Day!

Today the song was played on a jukebox at a bar at 4:33 PM. The boy who played it didn't think it was a good idea to be in a bar alone at such an early hour, but the boy often acts on such ideas. He knows the bar well and the jukebox even better, but the boy had never known the song was in there, and he'd never before thought to look for it on that or any other jukebox. He found the song before he'd selected any others, but he didn't choose it immediately. He went looking for two other songs to play before it so that he'd have enough time to get back to his table and stare out the window and sigh a bit before the song came on. (He hated when his songs were wasted on him scrambling to pick out other songs). So the song played third and the boy had his legs crossed when it came on. The song made him play with his hair a bit, then he shook his head and laughed at himself a bit. Then he made a phone call to someone he thought it a bad idea to make a phone call to. The boy often acts on such ideas, but this time it wasn't his fault. The song did it.

Today the song woke her up at 9:43 AM. He asked if the music was too loud, and she didn't say "of course it is, it just woke me up." She didn't ask, "why are you playing music so early when your guest is clearly still asleep in your bed?" And she didn't ask if he was glad he'd brought her home with him last night (she knew he wasn't, they had that in common at least). Instead she said no, and laid back and listened to the song and decided to not move out of New York City. She would have to get ahold of her roommate and tell her she wasn't leaving, and she would have to wait until he went to take a shower before she could reach the few feet off the bed and push the button on the stereo that made the song play again. She knows choosing not to move means a lot more pain to come, but if it ever gets too hard she can always blame the song.

Today he hunted for the song like there was a bounty on its head. He looked in the pile of shit in the storage space above the closet but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he keeps meaning to sort out from underneath his bed but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he calls his CD collection but the disc wasn't there. So he got dressed and got in his car and drove (high, he'd smoked a half hour before) to Virgin and bought it. On the drive home (the song wasn't playing yet, stereo stolen nineteen months prior) he remembered who he gave the disc to (Clara). The song played at exactly 9:20 PM. It made him sing along in the mirror for the first minute and a half, then he had to go to the bathroom (not the song's fault). When he got back to his bedroom, he started the disc at the beginning because he felt there was something criminal in putting on a disc and listening out of sequence or skipping songs you don't like (Clara did that). The song played again at around 9:45 PM. It didn't make him sing again, though. He didn't notice it playing in fact. He was thinking about something else by then (Clara).

Happy Things The Song Did Day!

Assume You Dreamt It Day!

Today, if you stumble upon a horrible memory, whether it be having said the word "forever" in bed, or a man you hit with a car and left for dead when you were 17 and drunk, or the time you farted and got caught, or the time you got pregnant and had an abortionist suck the living, pain-experiencing, shrieking baby from inside your (God's) womb, or that whole "going to live with your uncle after your parents died and being forced to fellate him" phase you went through, or yesterday, in its entirety, assume you dreamt it.

But stay in bed. And don't answer the phone or check email or ever leave your bed. You dreamt it, it wasn't real, you'll be fine. (Don't go outside)

Happy Assume You Dreamt It Day!