My dental hygienist is always giving me crap for not flossing well enough. Every time she’s scraping away with her instruments, she’ll comment that my gums are bleeding and that I should be making a better effort to floss. Well Debbie, did it ever occur to you that I might be bleeding because you’re tickling my gums with a vibrating metal hook? Some people just aren’t immune to sharp objects, you know.
Would you call me twisted if I told you that I sing “When You Wish Upon a Star” every time I feed my frog a cricket?
It took some searching, but I finally found her. That’s one less regret I have to worry about in life. Whether this will lead to a renewed friendship, nobody can know for sure. But at the very least, I’ve been given my second chance, and I’m thankful for that much.
I met her at a high school mixer at the age of sixteen. She was far too shy to approach me herself, so her friends stepped in (ignoring her pleas to let it be) and asked if I’d dance with her. I accepted, and they introduced me to Wendy. She was soft-spoken, yet insightful—sweet, but not overly saccharine—lovely, and yet so reserved—witty, and altogether charming. You’d better believe we exchanged numbers that night.
Over the next few weeks, feelings flickered, and we had a less than interesting romantic fling, but we eventually decided that we were better off as friends. We’d spend hours on the phone, talking about things I wish I’d remembered, even though the things we had to say to each other at such a tender age probably weren’t worth remembering anyway. But regardless, there was something special about that girl. I knew it even back then.
A year after we met, Wendy’s father had a job transfer that required him to move to London. The family followed, and my good friend was whisked away to some rainy European island without ever having a say. We would email each other to fill the silences with comforting words, and we’d stage brilliant exchanges that left us both breathless and amazed at all of the profundity that we’d stumble upon through our silly little ponderings. I felt as though I was at my best when I was “speaking” to Wendy, and I often suspected she felt the same.
But as time passed and obligations got the better of both of us, our letters flowed less frequently. Eventually, after a year and a half of email correspondence, the letters stopped altogether. If anybody’s really to blame, it’s me. I was the one that didn’t write back, and I’ve always regretted it. It’s been about three years now since we’ve contacted each other. I tried writing an email to her old address a few days ago, but an automated response politely informed me that the account I was trying to contact no longer existed. I wasn’t too surprised.
I wonder what that girl has been up to these days. The last I heard of her, she was attending Brown University. That’s as much as I know, though. I wonder if she’s finally learned what it means to be in love. I wonder if she still speaks with a hint of an English accent. I wonder who her friends are. I wonder if she’s happy. Wendy, wherever you are, I hope life is treating you well. Maybe I’ll see you around someday, by chance. That would be something, wouldn’t it? Take care, dear friend.
The human skull is s a sight to behold, with its hollowed eyes and the curious arrangement of teeth that lock it into a perpetual grin. When most people see a skull, their thoughts immediately turn to death and to an intangible feeling of loss. But whenever I see one, I feel a renewed sense of hope for humanity and for life itself. No matter how awful the state of this world can become, I’ve always found some comfort in thinking that, deep down, beneath the layers of skin, cartilage, muscles, and the coils of our anxieties and grievances, we’re all actually smiling.
A few minutes before my audit class began, I heard, above the chattering classroom banter, one of my female classmates proudly exclaim, “I hate poetry.” I glanced over once she said it, saw her sincere little grin, and I could tell she really meant it. It’s moments like this one that remind me why I haven’t made many friends in the business school.
Today, during a conversation with my classmate, Juan, I discovered that he and I met a while back through a mutual friend named Mike Chang. Juan seemed so sure of his story, and he insisted so convincingly, that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d never met this Mike Chang. It’s no use fighting the tides of confusion anymore.
This kind of thing happens without fail. Every month, I’m approached by at least one person who’s mistaken me for somebody else. That’s no exaggeration, either. It really happens that often. I came to the conclusion years ago that I have a very generic look. I might as well take down that cartoon caricature of me at the top of my blogger and replace it with a yellow smiley face. Maybe I should move to China and make a living by stealing television sets. If I ever got caught, nobody would ever single me out from a lineup.
There’s a possum loose in my backyard. Normally I wouldn’t really stress about that kind of thing; but lately, the pest has really been getting to me. It sucks having to clean up the messes it makes. It raids my trashcans and smears everything across the ground—and scooping up its droppings isn’t all that fun either. Whenever I clean up after the selfish ball of filth, I like to run revenge fantasies through my mind to keep me going. I’ve thought about sniping it from my rooftop, but that would require me to waste an excessive amount of time waiting for the possum to pop its head out. Then I thought about waiting in the bushes with a baseball bat and popping out to clock the possum while it had its back to me. But again, I lack the time and the patience for that kind of thing. Then I thought about setting a huge mousetrap, but that stunt could likely kill a neighborhood cat that might wander into my yard. It’s messy, this possum-assassination business.
But as some of you might already know, I’m all talk. If it took me twenty-something years to stop feeling guilty about crushing spiders, then imagine how effective I’d be at killing a furry marsupial. I can imagine how I’d fare in a showdown with the pest. I’d somehow manage to pin the possum to the ground, and then I’d draw my katana and point the tip into its neck. The possum would never seem scared. In fact, he’d look up at me with an expression that seemed more sad than fearful. Then to my surprise, music would start to play from a hidden, yet ubiquitous orchestra led by an earnest flute. My grip on my foe would loosen, and he’d slowly come to his hind feet and start singing “Colors of the Wind” the way Pocahontas did in that Disney movie. My scowl would turn into a knowing gaze, and the possum would finish his song. I’d extend a hand to shake one of its forepaws, and from that day forward, I’d never have the heart to harm another wild animal again.
But seriously, in the end, I won’t care how good a singer that thing really is. That possum is so going down.
Jack: If a guy ever attempts to turn your attention to his exposed scrotum, you should kick him… and kick him hard. There’s no excuse for that.
Kevin: what if it’s a chick with exposed breasts?
Jack: Then you express your sincere gratitude and do your thing.
Kevin: ah yes, the double standard
Jack: No, it’s not a double standard
Jack: Unless you’re attracted to guys
Kevin: suppose the guy thought you were gay
Jack: I see your point.
Jack: Then to maintain my dignity from a moral standpoint…
Jack: You should kick her breasts and kick them hard.
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