You’re The Town Breakup Memorialist Day!

You get people to tell you their stories about when and where they break up and what the major malfunction was that sent their relationship into a tailspin, and then you go to those locations and install little plaques without permission. The people of your town love looking under the tables at their diners to find a plaque that reads, “Jeffrey and Chitra. Broken up on these grounds December 5th, 2006. Jeffrey wanted kids. Chitra was looking for more of a cowboy type.” A lot of your plaques get removed, especially when you put them on park benches or other stuff owned by the town, but for the most part people are cool with it. Your town doesn’t really have any kind of historical society, so your obsession with relationship wreckage is the closest they get to a record of the life that’s being lived in your little hamlet.

Today you’re going to attach a plaque to a bus shelter that reads, “Alan and Olivia, May 16th, 2012. Alan cheated. Olivia inherited some money and it gave her a new perspective on what was available to her.” Alan will appear behind you and tap you on the shoulder and say, “You might not want to put that there. I’m going to get her back.”

Tell Alan, “You still broke up here. Even if you get back together.”

Alan will take a swing at you. Let him hit you. They always hit you. When they’re the ones who wish their name wasn’t on the plaque, they always hit you.

“Why do you do this?” Alan will shout down at you as you test the flow of blood from your nose.

Point to the plaque on the fence by the community garden. The one with your name on it, and the name Sylvia. The one dated October 12, 1991. “Thought he could do better. Not a day goes by when he isn’t stunned by how wrong he was,” it says.

“It’s important to me,” tell Alan. “These breakups can’t just be lost to time.”

“Some of us want to forget,” Alan will say.

Tell him he can forget what he wants. The town needs to remember.

“Love died in this town. Love died in this bus shelter. We can’t just sweep that under the rug.”

Alan will read his plaque, touching a finger to it and staining it with your blood. He’ll help you up and hand you your screwdriver. Then he’ll open his car door for you. You have three more plaques to put up before dinner. You’d better let him give you a ride.

Happy You’re The Town Breakup Memorialist Day!

Alan Goes To Jail Tomorrow Day!

Alan goes to jail for involuntary manslaughter and you totally ruined his goodbye party. A going-to-jail goodbye party is supposed to be a wild night full of drinks, prostitutes, running around under bridges shouting retorts at the traffic noise above, maybe a gay moment depending on the mood/weather, a big dinner followed by a separate trip to one of those new out of the way bakeries for dessert, a violent confrontation with the convicted’s accomplice who made a deal with the DA, the exchange of gifts and then bedtime. But your going-away-to-jail party was at a restaurant known for their slow service for large parties, which made the prostitutes sleepy from waiting for you, the dessert place was closed, and the accomplice ended up throwing himself off the back of a ferry before he could be confronted. All you were left with was the gay moment (which was really lovely, but does not a good going-away-to-jail party make).

“I’m sorry I ruined your party,” you tell Alan while he holds you in his arms. “I wanted it to be perfect and overthought things.”

“The fact that you tried to throw me a party,” Alan says. “That you tried to celebrate me, that’s all the party I need.”

Fall asleep for as long as the bridge traffic up above allows, then take Alan for some French Toast. Don’t try to make it perfect by going to a hard-to-get-into brunch place. It’s his last French Toast on the outside with his best friend, so no matter what it tastes like, it’s going to be delicious.

Happy Alan Goes To Jail Tomorrow Day!

Get Out Of Having To Pay Your Speeding Ticket Day!

You got a speeding ticket for doing 87 in a 15 MPH school zone but don’t worry, getting out of paying a speeding ticket is easy. All you have to do is challenge it in court and if the ticketing officer doesn’t show up, it gets thrown out. The key is making sure he doesn’t show up. So on the day of your court appearance, call the police station a half hour before the hearing time and tell them the officer’s wife has been in a horrible accident and she’s in the hospital. The officer will rush to the hospital while you have your hearing. By the time he finds out it was all a hoax, you’ll be watching your ticket get thrown in the garbage!

If you get a lot of speeding tickets, your local police might catch on to the hoaxes so you’ll have to start kidnapping and taking photographs of the policemen’s wives wearing ornate bear-trap looking contraptions like in the Saw movies and send the photos to the police with notes saying they have 15 minutes to solve a puzzle to get the bear trap off or something. The police will rush to wherever you tell them to go and they’ll find they’re able to just pull the bear trap off without any big to-do, but you’ll have already gotten your speeding ticket ripped up so problem solved.

If you really love speeding and you hate paying tickets, you’ll have to start abducting the ticketing policemen themselves. They’ll eventually get wise to you and start hiding their wives every time you get a ticket, so you’ll have to just snatch up the policemen and bury them alive while you’re at your court date, then come back and set them free and ask them if there’s no hard feelings.

Tune in next year to find out how to get points removed from your license using nothing more than a blow torch and an inability to be affected by the sound of human screams.

Happy Get Out Of Having To Pay Your Speeding Ticket Day!

Water Your Downstairs Neighbor’s Plants Day!

While watering your downstairs neighbor’s plants you’ll find a photograph on one of his shelves of your downstairs neighbor with his arms around your shoulders. The memories will come flooding back. Your downstairs neighbor will come out of the closet where he was hiding.

“I thought you were on vacation!”

“I wasn’t. And I’m not your downstairs neighbor. I’m–”

“My husband,” tell him.

“Yes,” he’ll say, smiling. “I got you the apartment above me after you started having spontaneous amnesia not long after our wedding.”

“Because I was so certain it was a mistake that we got married!” you’ll say, crying now because your memories have returned and you finally know who you are again.

“That’s right,” he’ll say, also crying because he’s so glad to have you back, if only briefly.

You and your husband will use your brief window of lucidity to talk about the old times, how he pressured you into marriage, how you agreed to settle for him but soon found it all too disappointing a reality to tolerate so your mind began tricking you into thinking your husband doesn’t even exist.

“I thought about just granting you a divorce,” he’ll say. “If that would cure you. But you didn’t remember ever having been married so no court would grant us one unless you could agree you that were in a marriage that you wanted to dissolve. So I bought the apartment above us. So you could lead your own life until the amnesia has set you free, and I could continue to keep an eye on you and care for you.”

“You did all that for me?” ask him. “You went through all that trouble for me?”

“Yes my sweet,” he’ll say. “Does knowing how much I’ve cared for you make you more accepting of the fact that I’m the man you married? Is it any more tolerable a reality knowing all of this? Do you think your memory might stick around for a while?”

Say to him, “I thought you were on vacation. Why are we sitting on the floor. You’re gross. I’m going back upstairs to my apartment.”

Happy Water Your Downstairs Neighbor’s Plants Day!

Find The Right Porn Day!

Keep searching until you find the right porn clip. The clip should feature two to five participants, it should be obviously consensual yet playfully violent, there should be a political message about economic inequity and also a dustbuster should work its way into the sex pile at some point, the photos on the walls of the set should be mysterious and they should call to mind your own grandparents in that picture taken just after they disembarked at Ellis Island and someone should drink semen from a juice glass, and also it should have Batman in it. Actually skip all the rest just put Batman in it.

Happy Find The Right Porn Day!

Look Out The Window Of Your 60th Floor Corner Office And Wonder If There’s Someone Out There Who’ll Love You For Your Money Day!

You’re sick of dating guys who only want women who are sexually present and emotionally open. You’ve worked hard to amass the kind of assets you have. It’s about time you met a man who will stop caring about trust and spiritual connections and mutually erotic understanding and who’ll realize that you being loaded is enough.

“Are you out there?” you whisper to your God’s eye view of Central Park. “Do you exist, my Prince?”

You decided long ago to stop working on your personality so you could work on climbing the corporate ladder. Dammit, you destroyed a lot of promising careers to get where you are today, and you should be able to celebrate with a man who doesn’t expect you to make conversation with him at dinner or remember what his cat’s name is.

You deserve a man who loves you for what you can buy, not who you are.

“Are you out there?”

“Ma'am, will you need anything else?”

You didn’t realize your pregnant assistant was in the room. She observed you in a moment of weakness so you’ll have to fire her immediately.

“Pack your things, Grace,” tell her.

As your assistant sobs into a cardboard box, try to squint to make out the men on the streets below. Any one of them could be the one who doesn’t care what kind of person you are inside. It could be Grace’s husband even.

“Leave the picture of your husband, Grace,” tell Grace.

When Grace is gone, masturbate to the picture of her husband, then call HR and ask for her spouse’s number so you can call and ask him if he’d like to hear about a way he can support his soon-to-be-born child now that his wife is unemployed. You deserve a man like Grace’s husband.

Happy Look Out The Window Of Your 60th Floor Corner Office And Wonder If There’s Someone Out There Who’ll Love You For Your Money Day!

Win A Husband And Some Kids Day!

Go on a game show called Wife And Mother for your chance to win a husband and some kids as well as a lifetime wardrobe for each provided by Kohl’s. The husband is guaranteed to be moderately giving in bed, mildly expressive emotionally, and he’ll only hit you twice over your thirty plus years of marriage, the second time sending him into AA. Your kids are guaranteed to be B students with manageable depression, though the genetic trail shows there is a small chance that one of them could grow up to be a serial killer. If you don’t like your husband or any of your kids, just whisper the word “disemploy” into the offending family member’s ear and he or she will take their own life in as sanitary a manner possible (not chargeable as murder in every state but Georgia). If any of your kids shows signs of being a serial killer do not go to the police. Call Dr. Sohlzenyetzn immediately and leave a recording of all warning signs currently being exhibited. Your husband will be guaranteed to be faithful under penalty of termination. If the sensors under his skin detect his presence inside another woman or man, his heartbeat will slow, gradually depriving blood to his brain, sending him into a coma, then death. Your children will not have gluten allergies, peanut allergies, nor will they have any strong leanings politically. One finger on the left hand of each child will be a weapon prototype in beta testing. Your husband and children will not be robots. They will be real humans according to the definition agreed upon by eleven scientists. Their modifications are minor improvements and no one will be able to deny them the equal rights afforded to all humans under American law.

“Do you understand your potential prize as I’ve explained it to you?” host Jack Slacks will ask you when the wheel stops spinning.

“Yes I do, Jack,” tell him. “And I’m ready to go for ALL THE MARBLES!”

Happy Win A Husband And Some Kids Day!

Your Ropes Are Loose Enough For You Two To Kiss Day!

You can hear the screams of the man who gave you the ride in his truck being hacked to death upstairs. You only have a few minutes before the men in the burlap masks come downstairs for you.

“These ropes have some give,” you’ll say.

“But not enough for us to wriggle free,” Jeff will say.

But they do have enough give for you two to kiss, and you both know it. You and Jeff came out to these woods for a camping trip before you move away to the west coast. You’ve been platonic friends since college and everyone has been waiting for the two of you to finally just do it already to see whether you two doing it is the right thing to do.

“Maybe if we shimmy around under these ropes we’ll loosen them in time to make a run for it,” Jeff will say.

“But what if we don’t loosen them in time?”

Just kiss for God’s sake. The inbred backwoods killers who abducted you when you asked for directions could come downstairs and chop you up for soup any second now. If you spend all your time trying to escape and you’re not successful, you could end up dying a will-they won’t-they couple who never bothered to find out whether you will or won’t. Use what little wiggle room you have in those ropes to kiss and you’ll at least die knowing whether you found the one.

“Wait,” Jeff will say. “There’s something I think we should do.”

“I think we should too,” tell him.

Bend your neck around the pole and stretch against the ropes and put your lips on Jeff’s. You’ll feel a dim current pulse through your chest, and when you both begin moving your lips for a second kiss, and a third, that dim current will turn to a lightning bolt.

It was him all along.

It was you all along.

Your friend was your love and your love is your friend. The ropes won’t let you embrace, but you don’t need to hold each other. The grip of your newly-discovered love is stronger than any embrace you could create with your bodies.

“Now we know,” Jeff will say.

You’ll kiss away a tear that fell from your eye onto his lip.

“Now we know,” you’ll say.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jeff will say.

With the strength of your love, you and Jeff will wriggle and push at the ropes for a few seconds, but you’ll be interrupted when the killers come downstairs and untie you both to bring you upstairs and lay you down on their butcher table so you can be hacked to death, side-by-side, both of you screaming in agony and delirious in the throes of magical, wonderful, brand new love.

Happy Your Ropes Are Loose Enough For You Two To Kiss Day!

Sick Buddy Day!

Got a sick buddy? Go to his sick bed and tell him about you and his wife. Tell him about the cheating, the sneaking around, the hiding in his closet when he came home early. Even if nothing happened, tell him what you wish would have happened had his wife been attracted to you in the slightest. Tell him about the fantasies, the Facebook pictures you’d print out and tape up in your shower, the undergarments you stole from her dresser when you slipped away during his dinner parties. Your buddy will appreciate your honesty, and if he survives this mild cold, your friendship will be the better for it.

Happy Sick Buddy Day!

Sleeping In The Same Bed As Another Person Day!

Get nude then go under the covers feet first.

Put your hands on your favorite part of the other person. If you are okay with kissing (most aren’t) kiss.

Ask each other about each other’s tattoos. Say one of yours has something to do with a friend who died. Cry a little.

Yank or punch your least favorite part of the other person. They should be doing the same to you. Tell each other what disgusts you about each other. It’s time to break out the smoothies.

Smoothies are a treat for people who are performing well in bed so if your partner isn’t performing satisfactorily, withhold their smoothie.

Turn on an action movie at full volume then penetrate each other in some fashion (Google the ways) screaming as loud as you like because of the action movie.

When you both stop screaming, pull yourselves apart and turn off the action movie unless it’s “Heat.”

Load and cock your handguns and stuff them under your respective pillows. Turn on the video camera and turn off the light. Tell each other something nice so you each dream about nice things (kittens, health insurance).

Fall asleep. When you wake up review the video recording to see if any wraiths entered the room to try and steal your fingernails while you were asleep again. Don’t speak to each other in the morning. You’ll only give voice to your shame.

Happy Sleeping In The Same Bed As Another Person Day!

What To Do At Your Boyfriend’s Funeral Day!

1. Arrive late so everyone’s wondering if it was just too much for you. Not so late that they start without you, but late enough that the church is full enough for people to start talking.

2. What you wear is important. If you plan to make a big, shocking announcement about how you never loved him and the honest thing to do would have been to break up with him but you didn’t so he died loving a liar, wear jeans and a tee shirt and make sure you show up wet from the rain. If it’s nice out, walk through a car wash. But don’t tell anyone you walked through a car wash if they ask why you’re all wet. Tell them, “I felt dirty so I stood under the shower for a while.” If you did love him and you don’t plan to make a big shocking announcement, black dress?

3. Who you show up with is important too. If he and your Dad fought a lot, show up on your Dad’s arm. If you slept with his best friend last night because you wanted to be close to someone who loved him just as much as you did, show up on your Dad’s arm anyway. His best friend will be upset that you didn’t want to show up to the funeral with him. At the reception, his best friend will tell you last night was very important to him because he always secretly loved you and he wants you two to try to make it happen. Tell him, “You’re not [DEAD BOYFRIEND’S NAME].”

4. Where to sit in the church: Pew 6, stage left, three seats from the aisle. No one will see it coming.

5. You need to decide ahead of time are you a big cryer, a medium cryer, or are you one of those girls who just sits there like a rock as everyone in the church keeps glancing over at you wondering when the fuck is she going to cry already? “I took a sick day! Cry!” We suggest just below medium if you want to make his colleagues and not-very-close friends feel less excluded. If you’re crying really hard they might think it’s a funeral for longtime fans of the deceased only and it’s weird that they showed.

6. You should show up sober unless you think you could have prevented his death. Alcohol’s fine if this was your fault. Why didn’t you do something?

7. Not sure what to do with the holy water basin by the entrance, but no one is. Maybe just dip the tip of your index finger then suck the water off it.

8. At the burial, don’t jump into the grave onto the casket. You’re better than this.

9. As the coffin is being lowered into the ground, kiss your fingertips and touch them to the wood. You’ll feel something kiss back. It’s not him. You’re just letting it hit you now. No matter how horrible you are, he touched your life and you just touched his coffin. You’re feeling it now.

10. You’re not horrible. Or at least you’re no more horrible than anyone else riding in the cars back to the reception. Nothing you feel is incorrect. Hopefully you made him happy sometimes while he was alive. Don’t play with the moon roof.

Happy What To Do At Your Boyfriend’s Funeral Day!

Jeff Day!

Jeff masturbated with you for most of eighth grade and he’s got some insurance he’d like to sell you.

“Jeff, come on, I don’t need any insurance.

Jeff says that’s not how it works. Jeff says same-sex heterosexual sex exploration like that is a bond you take to the grave. You owe it to Jeff to at least buy a flood policy

"Look Jeff, I value what we had. You’re tainting it.”

Jeff says he understands but these years are tough.

“Come on, that one time I even rubbed you out.”

“No,” tell him. “I took care of you.”

Jeff will try to think back. Then he’ll remember.

“I begged you,” tell him. “You hit me afterwards.”

Jeff will remember. And he’ll stop trying to sell you his stupid flood insurance.

Happy Jeff Day!

He’s A Musician Day!

“Write a song about me,” tell him. “Write a song about my eyes. About how you only want to see what they see. It should be about my skin too and about a question I asked you that made you afraid. You should address my ass but make it vague, but not so vague that people won’t know you’re talking about my ass. Remember the dress I wore to brunch two weeks ago. The song should include a verse about how the dress made you feel. We’ve never talked about spirituality, and I’m not spiritual but I’d like you to be just for the sake of this one verse in the song where we sing the words of the ancients or some shit which is another way of saying we come at the same time. Other topics that need to be addressed include my hair, my brown boots with the laces, your car, my pussy, and my bedroom window. No rain, no politics.”

He’ll get it all down, put it to a catchy beat and play it for you.

“It’s called ‘Mop Up That Booty (With A Dishrag),’” he’ll say.

You love it already.

Happy He’s A Musician Day!

You’re Really Good At Getting Women Golfers To Mail You Their Golf Caps Day!

They respect your honesty. While others would go on and on about being a big fan who just wants something personal from their favorite golfer, you make clear that you don’t even like golf.

“I just like the way the cap makes your skull so perfectly ovoid. I like watching your sweat leak out from under the rim. And I like masturbating into the cap, mixing your sweat with my semen, and then rubbing the mixture on my torso, leaving it to dry while I watch television (not golf).”

Today you’re going to receive a gray Top Flite cap worn by Jenna Daniels. She’ll include a note that reads, “Get Messy! Jenna Daniels."

After you go to Wikipedia to remind yourself who Jenna Daniels is, you’ll finish the soup you were eating and then retire to your garage to sit in the backseat of your Datsun (it’s where it has to happen for you) and masturbate into her sweat-stained cap. It’ll be just okay, and when you’re done coating yourself you’ll toss her cap into the trash and spend your evening drying in front of a Sons Of Anarchy marathon you Netflixed.

Happy You’re Really Good At Getting Women Golfers To Mail You Their Golf Caps Day!

You Once Had Sex In An Abandoned Refrigerator Day!

You had to keep your sex hidden from your families and friends because it was interracial sex and back then no one would approve so you found a refrigerator and crawled inside. The people who had thrown out the refrigerator hadn’t taken the door off its hinges, which was irresponsible and dangerous but lucky for you since the door provided privacy. You pulled it shut, making sure to prop the latch so it didn’t lock, and then you proceeded to have an afternoon of ribald, interracial, inside-a-refrigerator sex. It was magical, forbidden, and cramped. The passion unfortunately got the better of you because upon finishing, when you went to open the door, you discovered the latch had slipped shut and you were locked in.

“We’ll die in here,” you said.

“Because the world wouldn’t let us love,” he said.

You decided that if you were going to die, you might as well die having all the sex you’ll never be able to have again. So you used the remaining oxygen and what little space you had at your disposal to have interracial sex in as many positions as you could bend yourselves into. When neither of you had another orgasm left to enjoy and the last of the oxygen was almost gone, some delinquent kids who were setting cats on fire in the area wandered by and pulled the refrigerator door open. They then laughed and hit you with sticks while you scurried out of the fridge and back into your clothes.

You never saw each other again. The connection you made in that refrigerator, pretzeled together in the throes of death, was too strong, the intimacy too deep. You knew if you continued your relationship together you’d just race to the nearest abandoned refrigerator to try and recapture that feeling, risking your lives all over again. So you parted ways, for your own safety.

“And that’s why you should always take the doors off refrigerators before you throw them away,” you conclude at the end of your seventeen-minute TEDTalk, Sex, Racial Politics, and the Looming Threat of Discarded Appliances.

Happy You Once Had Sex In An Abandoned Refrigerator Day!

Back For Hannah Day!

You told her you’d come right back for her once you were settled in the big city and you had a place for you and her to stay. That was seventeen years ago.

“So you just think you can waltz right back in here and throw all your rotten money around and all those years will disappear?” Hannah will ask.

Hannah’s bouncing a four-year-old on her knee. Her seven and nine-year-old are tugging at the hem of her dress.

Tell her you know it was wrong of you to wait this long. But you fell into a bad crowd in New York City.

“Performance art was still kind of big when I got into town,” explain. “Lots of onstage nudity, lots of dance studies, lots of poems rattled off in poetry slam cadence.”

You didn’t want Hannah to see how you’d fallen prey to them. You didn’t want her to be corrupted by their questionable artistic focus the way you had been.

“The shows were just insufferable,” tell her.

“Did you do stuff with your penis onstage then?” Hannah will ask.

“I’m not proud to say that I did,” tell her. “Penis puppetry, glow-in-the-dark light sabering, and I did one entire solo show where I delivered a 45 minute scolding to my naked junk. Won an Obie for that one.”

And now that you’re big and famous, a monologist who’s crossed over into supporting roles in films, she’s just supposed to pick up and follow you to the city? What’s to stop you from veering off again into some new scene like Storytelling?

“I can’t promise anything,” tell her.

Hannah will tell you how her husband Johnny nursed her back from heartbreak after you never returned for her. He convinced her to accept his love even if she couldn’t love him back, and he filled her with the children you never gave her. And now that things are convenient for you to come back for her, she’s just supposed to toss him aside?

“Pretty much,” tell her. Then show her the apartment you bought for you and her and her kids with all your rotten money.

“Let me just write him a note,” Hannah will say, before packing a few things from her ramshackle home and following you back to the big time.

Happy Back For Hannah Day!

Lose Everything Day!

Whether it’s in a high stakes poker game, a mudslide, or a gaslight situation where for some reason everyone you love and all of your colleagues pretend they’ve never met you before, today’s the day you lose everything and start over from scratch. Maybe you could finally be a fireman like you’ve always wanted? Or one of those guys who rubs the new billboards over the old ones? Just whatever you do, don’t gravitate right back into your career as a child psychologist because puke!

Happy Lose Everything Day!

You Have Four And A Half Hours Until You Reach Your Destination Day!

He’ll say, “This is going to sound weird but–” and you’ll cut him off and say, “I was thinking the same thing.” He’ll say, “So you remember?” Say, “I think we’re even in the same row.”

It was a flight from New York to Los Angeles. It was around ten years ago. And you never forgot him.

“I never forgot you, you know,” he’ll say.

Tell him on that flight you were on your way to move in with your boyfriend, now husband, following him for his job, and you remember he was moving closer to his new wife’s parents who had fallen ill.

“They’ve since died,” he’ll say.

“I remember all of it,” tell him. “Because whenever I’m feeling unsure about things I remember how well you and I got along, how I felt sitting next to you.”

You remember his smell. You remember your forearm against his on the armrest. You remember his Leon Uris book.

He’ll say that sometimes he sees your face when he makes love to his wife. You’ll say you once drove to the airport, just to think, but also to watch the people walking out of arrivals, just to see.

“And now we’re on a plane together again ten years on,” say.

“I don’t believe in signs,” he’ll say. “But if I did, I’d assume this was one.”

“I’m dying,” tell him.

You are. You have four months. And this is cruel because putting you back in this seat next to him it’s like you’re being given proof that you haven’t lived the life you wanted, that you should never have said goodbye when the plane landed that day.

“It’s rotten,” he’ll say. “We could–”

“I have a daughter,” tell him. “I could be selfish and leave my husband to cram as much of you into my last four months as possible, but I couldn’t do that to my little girl.”

“Then what do we have?” he’ll ask.

“We have four and a half hours until we reach our destination…” the Captain will say over the loudspeaker.

Happy You Have Four And A Half Hours Until You Reach Your Destination Day!

You Miss Larry Day!

Call his widow. Tell her you dug him too. She’ll be into it. He talked about you. Enough for it to upset her.

“Hated you from 1995 to 1998,” she’ll laugh.

Tell her about when Larry got you pregnant. You aborted without discussing it with him and when you told him you aborted he cried.

“He was smart,” say. “It got him out of any kind of discussion of whether he wanted a say or was glad to not have a say. He cried and we got naked and that was the end.”

His widow (Carol) will say that Larry cried a lot to get out of stuff. “I stopped picking fights because it was so hard to watch.”

Carol will cry now. Cry with her. Tell her there’ve been many since Larry, sweeter men, better men, but he’s the one you miss.

Carol will whisper, “I know what you mean. I love my husband, but since Larry killed himself I just…”

Ask her if she has any of Larry’s clothes and if she makes her current husband wear them.

“I tell him I bought them new for him,” she’ll confess. She’ll ask you about the CK One.

“I still have the bottle he left here,” tell her. “I sprinkle it on the pillow every couple days.”

Ask her about the Yosemite Sam tattoo.

“I made my husband get one,” Carol will say. “He doesn’t know why. But I couldn’t sleep with him if Larry’s tattoo wasn’t on his chest.”

Tell her about the bodies. The parts that you’ve hacked from abducted men and sewn together to try to make the perfect Larry replica. She’ll be into it. Tell her you need a neck and a left calf and foot. You’re so close. Ask her if she knows any men who would make a perfect involuntary donor.

“I’ll share it with you,” tell her. “We can have something approximating Larry again.”

“How soon?” Carol will ask.

Let her hear the smile in your voice as you stare at the accumulated man on the slab before you.

“Soon,” tell her. “Very soon.”

Happy You Miss Larry Day!

This Is How You Beg Someone To Take You Back Day!

You show up all sweaty from all the running you did because that shows his taking you back is so imperative that you just had to sprint to make sure it goes down as soon as possible, then you burst through the big doors into the fancy event (either his wedding or a wedding for his sister or some kind of Christening or something) and then you pull out your assault rifle and you kill every last son of a bitch who might be able to convince him that he’s better off without you. Then you go to him and take his hands in yours.

“I’ve changed,” tell him.

“You just murdered my whole family,” he’ll say.

“Because that’s how much I need you,” tell him. “I couldn’t risk their influencing you against taking a second chance on our love.”

“And my friends. You murdered my friends. And a couple of my coworkers.”

Look him in his eyes. “Don’t you see how important you are? I will take the life of anyone who might try to tell you that I'm—”

You stop talking and open fire when you see his cousin walk out of the men’s room. His cousin’s head explodes like a popped balloon.

“I’m the girl for you,” tell him. “You know it. And you know that no amount of bloodshed is too much if it means you and I being together again.”

He’ll look around at the puddles of red on the floor, then he’ll smile and his face will turn even redder with a blush.

“No one’s ever killed for me before,” he’ll say.

Drop your assault rifle so you can grab him around the neck and kiss him. He’s yours again. Don’t do anything to make him remember why he left. Just get the hell outside without slipping in the blood and you two better book it to your apartment because you’re about to have the kind of makeup sex that only a love-fueled mass murder could inspire.

Happy This Is How You Beg Someone To Take You Back Day!

The Waitress’s Waiter Day!

In the middle of taking your order your waitress will drop her pad and pen on the table then she’ll scream, “Fuck no.”

“Fuck yes,” the waiter by the door will scream back.

The waitress will take three steps to her left, trying to put some tables between her and the waiter by the door.

“Thought you were dead,” the waitress will say.

“Faked it,” the waiter will say back. “Bills.”

The waitress will untie the apron from her waist. The waiter will kick off both his shoes.

“You been true?” the waiter will ask.

“Truth’s subjective,” the waitress will answer, tugging her stockings down from under her skirt.

“I ain’t had nobody else but you,” he’ll say, tearing his tuxedo shirt off his body. “Since my last shift here, when we did it in the walk-in, I might as well have not even existed sexually. That’s truth.”

“Then I been a little false,” the waitress will say, down to her bra and skirt now, panties already down and still wrapped around one ankle. “But it was in mourning. I let Pat pump you outta me a little.”

The waiter will nod in the busboy’s direction. “I thank you for taking care of my girl, Pat,” the waiter will say, fully-nude now. “But she’s off-limits again.”

Pat will put down his tray of glasses and hold up his hands, waving them palms out, as if to say, “Yup, hands off.”

Your waitress will apologize to you for the wait for your drink order, but she has to make love briefly.

“It’ll just be ten minutes,” she’ll say, fully naked, not even looking at you. Not looking anywhere but at the naked waiter by the door.

No one breathes while the waitress and the waiter size up each other’s naked bodies like two feral cats waiting to let loose with the hair-trigger pounce. The people sitting at the tables between them get up and move to the walls.

“Danny.”

“Betty.”

They leap through the air and land on the four-top in the middle of the room sending water glasses and silverware crashing to the floor. It’s like they didn’t even have to move, like the universe suddenly contracted and eliminated the space separating their genitals. They embrace each other, race in and out of each other, consume each other in a wild hurry. Your waitress is taken and your waitress takes.

When they are finished, they fall asleep in each other’s arms, stretched out on the tables in the middle of the room. The hostess tiptoes around the room and in a whisper encourages you and the other diners to go to the kitchen and tell the chefs what you’d like to eat, but please do it quietly so as not to disturb Danny and Betty. They need their rest.

Happy The Waitress’s Waiter Day!