Your New Boyfriend Has A Laser Target On His Chest At All Times Day!

He didn’t mention it in his profile. You’re glad he didn’t. It might have deterred you from meeting him, and though it’s early, you’re starting to think meeting him is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

“You don’t know who it is?” you asked on your second date, when you finally started discussing the elephant in the room.

“Nor do I know why,” he said.

You stared at the red dot as it flickered ever so slightly closer to his heart.

“How long has it—”

“Eleven years.”

“And he’s never once fired?”

Just once. It was late. He was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. He heard the shot and turned around to find a man with a knife in his hand dead on the ground. A mugger.

“He protected you,” you said.

“He wanted me to know my life is his to end. Not some mugger’s. His alone.”

You watched the red light flicker some more then you demanded he take you home.

That’s been the pattern. You stare at the dot on his chest until you’re so certain there’s about to be a gunshot that you can’t even breathe, and you need to be brought someplace and made love to as quickly as possible. It’s better with the dot. It makes you want to be as close to him as you can, so intertwined that you can feel the dot wander onto your skin too.

“I want to be with you to the end,” you tell him tonight, after.

“To the end?” he asks. “Or at the end?”

Both. One and the other. You need to be there when the shot is finally fired, when the dot finally turns into a bullet hole, when the gunman is (hopefully) finally identified. If that’s the main reason why you’re willing to spend the next fifty years with him, so be it. People have stayed together for a lot less.

Happy Your New Boyfriend Has A Laser Target On His Chest At All Times Day!

Drop The Act, Kevin Day!

It’s time to ditch the whole “Say hello to the new Kevin, world” thing and accept the you that you are. We’d all like to think that with a single epiphany or a determined vow to break old habits we can suddenly change the course of our lives and start living the contented, drug-and-disease-free, not-having-to-sleep-with-a-flare-gun-under-our-pillows existence that we always dreamed we could live. But after a certain point you just have to face facts. You are where you are because you are who you are.

“But I already introduced the new Kevin to the world,” you say. “The world already said, ‘Hello New Kevin,’ back. And the world heard me promise to get a job, stop selling my mother’s prescription pills, and to always consider all of my options before making hasty decisions. How can I make it up to the world?”

You have to make the world an offering as penance for making a promise in vain. Either chop off your right hand…

“Done!” you say, wrapping the bloody stump in a bread bag as you dial an ambulance with your left hand.

…Or if that doesn’t appeal to you you can just do a few hours of community service and the world will be satisfied.

“Fuck!” you shout.

Hey world, Old Kevin’s back!

Happy Drop The Act, Kevin Day!

Secret Admirer Hunter Day!

You didn’t make it as a cop so you became a private dick. But tracking cheating husbands for rich wives was making you way too cynical for your taste. So you pared down your agency to focus solely on helping young girls and, to a lesser extent, boys, determine the authors of the secret admirer letters they receive from classmates.

“The thing you want to be sure of is, do you wanna know,” you tell the girls (and occasionally boys) who show up in your office. “Getting that anonymous love letter is big boost to the spirit. No one can blame you for hoping, even assuming, it was written by the hottie who’s filling up the pages of your diary. But invariably, the kind of person who won’t sign their name is the kind of person who assumes their name won’t be welcome at the bottom of a love letter.”

Their response is usually the same. “I need to know for sure, in order to know how to proceed.”

Today’s the day you meet a client on the field hockey field with an envelope full of pictures, handwriting samples, and covert audio recordings.

“Here’s your guy,” you’ll say.

She’ll pull out the photo and say what they always say: “Ew.”

“Give him a shot?” you’ll say. “Maybe read the letter again.”

“You didn’t mention your retainer included relationship advice,” she’ll say, forging her mother’s name onto a check.

Stuff the payment in your coat and get back in your car. You can’t make them give these anons a chance. All you can do is introduce them and hope they’ll give their lovers from afar a closer glance.

Happy Secret Admirer Hunter Day!

Need Friendship Day!

He saw your flyer at the coffee shop with the words “Need Friendship” in 24 point font at the top, and a photo of you holding a wiffle ball bat just above a trim of tear away phone numbers.

“I choose my friends very carefully,” he’s saying. His name’s Jenkins.

You insist that you’re the same way. Which is why the flyer.

“For me it’s all about your survival abilities,” he says, letting you know that this is another human hunting situation.

“Makes sense,” you say. You know it’s just a guy who wants to shoot paintballs at you while you run through a cemetery, but you’re really lonely.

“Meet you behind the Dairy Queen then,” he says. “My shift ends at 1 AM.”

You’ll be there. They always go for the eyes, and they never want to hang out after, but you’ve gotten so few responses that you don’t want to be choosey.

Happy Need Friendship Day!

Can’t Crack The Rock Day!

Your foreman wants to know what the holdup is.

“Just can’t do it Jeff,” say. “Just can’t crack the rock.”

Jeff will walk away from you to the sidewalk. You’ll shout at his back that you’re sorry but you just can’t do it. He’ll keep walking, not hearing a word. Lug your jackhammer after him.

He’ll be positioned right over the heart, staring down at it, his hard hat in his hands.

“Reverence,” he’ll say. “Take your hard hat off. Even if it was your love you show some respect.”

Take off your hard hat and hang it on the handle of your jackhammer.

“BT,” he’ll say, reading the initials that aren’t yours. “What’s that stand for?”

“Beth Turner,” you tell him. You were thirteen. She had red hair. This sidewalk was outside her house.

“Until she moved away,” you say.

“First love lost,” he’ll say. You’ll nod.

Your foreman will get down on all fours and scream at her initials, “WHERE ARE YOU BETH TURNER?!”

He’ll demand you join him. The two of you will scream at the initials you carved into wet cement twenty years ago, “WHERE ARE YOU BETH TURNER?!” You’ll scream until you’re in tears, until you don’t have anything to scream anymore.

“Thanks,” you’ll say as you ready your jackhammer.

“All part of the job,” your foreman will say. He’ll pat you on the back as you ready your jackhammer to bust up that heart containing yours and Beth Turner’s initials forever.

Happy Can’t Crack The Rock Day!

He’s In Love With A Liar Day!

He’s got you blindfolded and won’t let you peek because it’s a big surprise. When he finally lets you peek you’ll see he bought you a rare, early edition of Villette by Charlotte Bronte because one of the lies you told was that your senior thesis at the college you claimed to have attended was on Charlotte Bronte.

“Read me some,” he says. “Read me your favorite part. I love you, but that’s not enough. I also want to love what you love.”

You flip through the book looking for a section that looks like it might have some good lines and you luckily end up on a description of some snow which works pretty okay in the making it seem like you’re not completely faking it department.

This is getting harder. He stares into your eyes like his life depends on it. He doesn’t caress your skin so much as celebrate it. He has become one hundred percent convinced that loving you is the reason he was put on this planet, and he intends to make sure he lives up to his destiny. You’re ashamed to admit it, but the sex is some of the best you’ve had, and you think the thrill of knowing his passion for you is founded on utter lies is doing something special for you.

Or, you’re falling for him too.

That can’t be, though. If it is, you’d better give up everything right now. Don’t even leave a note, just discard the whole plan and disappear without explaining why. The deception felt like it was reasonable means to an end before you realized just how much he’d come to cherish you, and how much you enjoyed being cherished. Falling for him wasn’t part of the plan, and if that’s what’s happening you should probably walk away.

“My father’s coming back to the states in October,” he says, fiddling with the book in your lap. “I can’t wait for him to meet you.”

“He’s coming back?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice level. “He’s coming here to America?”

He nods. You close the book and you kiss him. You make love to him convincingly. You thank him for your birthday present with your body. You use all of your talents to make him believe he should go on loving you, and he should introduce you to his father, the assassin who murdered your father eleven years ago in Belgrade. You will avenge your father’s death by making his assassin’s son love you until you can take that assassin’s life and, reluctantly now, break his son’s heart.

“I can’t wait to meet your dad,” you tell the assassin’s son when you’re resting your head on his chest once the sex has ended. “I hope he likes me.”

Happy He’s In Love With A Liar Day!

Forest Bitches Day!

You formed a club called the Forest Bitches. You and your friends run into the forest and strip to your underwear and roll around on the soil chanting bullshit, usually high. You like to think you’re bonding with nature.

“This dirt is so fucking cleansing,” Georgette says, rubbing clumps of dirt on her bra and stomach.

“I’m eating a leaf,” Shannon says, spitting bits of the leaf out while she talks. “So gross.”

“Let’s spin around and shout ‘Praise Mother,’” you say. Then you and the other two Forest Bitches spin around until a man stumbles on the path in between the three of you.

“Help me,” he rasps. He’s covered in leather from the waist up only. From the waist down he’s bruised the color of a plum. His wrists are bound and he’s got a sweatband around his eyes.

You cut the ropes around his wrists and uncover his eyes. He tells you he’s a prostitute who’s been kept captive by a wealthy John for the past three weeks. He finally escaped, but not very successfully.

“Him and his thugs are coming,” he says. “We have to run.”

Just then the rich John and his thugs arrive in your clearing. They tell you to let the hooker go.

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

“Forest Bitches, spin!” you shout.

The three of you start spinning as fast as you can. After eleven spins the ground opens up and swallows the John and his thugs. The hooker is saved.

“Forest Bitches undefeated!” the three of you shout while high fiving.

The hooker falls face forward and starts muttering unintelligibly. You get him to the hospital where he’s treated for dehydration. You want to stay with him while he recovers, but Georgette gets a phone call. She hands the cell phone to you.

“It’s the president,” she says. “There’s a new Al Qaida leader even more powerful than Bin Laden and he says Seal Team Six is busy.”

You take the call, then you look at Georgette and Shannon.

“Time to let nature run its course,” you say.

Happy Forest Bitches Day!

They Want You To Present Scenarios In Which Terrorists Could Infiltrate Private Functions To Conduct Suicide Bombings Day!

“We need someone who spends all day scheming about how security teams can be evaded,” the General says. “How guarded entrances can be breached. How one might blend in with the service staff or delivery personnel to enter a private function. That’s why we called you.”

“But I just write Mentos commercials,” you tell them.

The General smiles. “Exactly. By our count you have concocted several hundred different plans for infiltration of an invite-only private function. You know who else is doing that?”

You both say it at the same time. “Al Qaeda.”

The General comes to your side and places his hand on your shoulder. “The country is vulnerable. Our tactics have gone stale. We need a freshmaker.”

Your entire life has been leading up to this moment. Tell him you’ll do it and get to work on imagining Al Qaeda agents carrying trays of glasses or pushing racks of dresses into posh surroundings while there’s still time.

Happy They Want You To Present Scenarios In Which Terrorists Could Infiltrate Private Functions To Conduct Suicide Bombings Day!