You’re In Love With Your Driving School Instructor Day!

He says it’s not real. It’s just a common pitfall of the driving lesson.

“I’m teaching you how to maneuver your way through the world,” he says. “I’m helping you to see that something you thought was scary really isn’t scary at all. I’m making sure you can go wherever you want to go without getting hurt. How are you supposed to not fall in love with a man who’s giving you that?”

Tell him he’s wrong, it’s more than that. It’s the hair on his wrists. The way every time you successfully parallel park he shouts, “Blammo, that’s a keeper.” The way he always offers you an altoid when he takes one from the six tins he keeps in his glove compartment.

“I think we were made for each other,” tell him. “I think I want to marry you.”

He says he’s been hurt before. He’s had girls tell him while they were behind the wheel that he was the one they always wanted. Then when it comes time to step out of the car, maybe introduce him to their friends, suddenly they aren’t so excited to date a 56-year-old driving instructor when he’s not in the passenger seat reminding them when to signal.

“Then maybe we’ll never leave the car,” tell him. “When we’re here, in this car, we’re married.”

It’s a wonderful marriage. You pay attention to each other and understand each other. You look out for each other. You’re a team. The sex is dizzying, if a little cramped. If only it wasn’t all poisoned by the growing dread of that driving test on the horizon.

You cry on the morning of the test.  “I don’t want a license!” you shout. “I want us.”

He says the license is “us.” That little laminated card represents everything the two of you have built over the last twelve weeks.

“Get your license, or we might as well have been nothing,” he says.

As you drive along the route with the DMV grader in the passenger seat, everything feels wrong. You feel like you’re betraying him with every correct turn. You want to crash over the pylon cone then run to the parking lot and into his arms again.

But you don’t. You pass the test. You honor your time together with a perfect grade. When you look for him in the parking lot, he’s gone.

You still look for him when you’re out on the road. You search the cars ahead for his rooftop Student Driver sign. You worry you’ll find him one day, giving instruction to another young girl. You don’t know if you could bear it.

Your license feels warm in your wallet. It’s an heirloom. A sweet memory. And every time you take it out to flash it at the doorman of a bar, you feel like you’re making a declaration. “I loved once,” you’re telling him as he checks your date of birth. “Look at the face in the picture. That’s the face of a girl who loved.”

Happy You’re In Love With Your Driving School Instructor Day!

Time To Get Your Buddy Greg Laid Day!

Satanists want your buddy Greg.

“We want to sacrifice him,” the HSIC (head Satanist in charge) will tell you.

You’ll try to shake Greg awake. He fell asleep on the bar an hour ago.

“Why Greg?” you ask.

“The Dark Lord demands the sacrifice of someone pure,” the HSIC answers. “If you catch my drift.“

"A virgin?” you ask. “Are you crazy? Greg’s 25. He’s bragged about banging wads of chicks.“

"Apparently, your friend doesn’t trust you enough to be honest with you,” he says. “We will take him one week from tonight when the red moon burns bright.”

When Greg wakes up you relate what the satanists told you, expecting him to laugh.

He doesn’t.

“I just never got around to it,” Greg says.

“Well now look what your laziness got you. We have one week to get you laid or you’re going to be sacrificed to the devil!”

“Shit,” Greg says.

So begins a madcap week in which you try to hook Greg up with various women hoping for an erotic connection (Greg won’t go to prostitutes as he doesn’t want to contribute to the human trafficking economy), and the satanists constantly show up to cock-block Greg right when it looks like he’s about to get some.

Don’t give up. Don’t slow down. Get your friend Greg laid. The Dark Lord craves him.

Happy Time To Get Your Buddy Greg Laid Day!

Teen Date Day!

Parents pay you to chaperone their teenage kids on their dates. It’s usually a pretty easy gig. Parents give you cash to drive their kids around, let them make out in the backseat, and you just have to pry them apart if they go to third or higher.

Tonight you’re chapping two rich kids, Wallace Edmonds and Ashley Van London. A couple blocks from the house, Wallace leans over the front seat with a wad of bills.

“We’re not going to the movies,” Wallace says. “We’re going into Pottersville.”

You tell him he’s mistaken. “That’s the wrong side of the tracks.”

“And it happens to be the hometown of the girl I love.”

“And the boy I love,” Ashley says.

Wallace and Ashley going out is their parents’ idea. Because Wallace’s parents know he’s in love with Betty June, a girl well below his station in life, just as Adam Wilkes is below Ashley’s.

“Our parents won’t let us love the boy and girl we want to love,” Ashley pleads.

“There’s a thousand dollars in that wad,” Wallace says, dropping the bills in the front seat.

You don’t say anything.

“Give him another grand!” Ashley shouts.

“Wait,” Wallace says. “Sir, have you never been in our situation? On either end?”

You’re back there again. Prom night. Standing on Georgiana Turner’s front step, her father yanking your boutonnière off your jacket to stuff a hundred dollars in your breast pocket, telling you he found his daughter an appropriate prom date and you should find yourself someone else to dance with.

“Someone from where you come from.”

You accepted the money. You were respectful to Georgiana’s father and walked away. Georgiana never spoke to you again.

“Keep your money,” you tell Wallace. “I’ll take you to Betty and Adam.“

Wallace and Ashley cheer for you from the back seat. You might be making a very bad move, business-wise, but poor kids deserve a fair shake at winning a rich kid’s heart.

Happy Teen Date Day!

The World Without Your Cubicle Mate Day!

Today you’re going to buy a magic lamp from an antiques shop. When you get home you’ll rub it and a genie will pop out. He’ll invite you to name one person you don’t like, and he’ll make it so that that person never existed.

 “You’d kill anyone I say?”

“I’ll just make it so they never existed,“ the genie will say. ”Give me a name, and they’re gone.”

You name Ron, your cubicle mate who sneezes weird.

“He sneezes a lot, too,” you tell the genie. “It’s really annoying.”

“I don’t need a reason,” the genie will say. “Okay, your cubicle mate never existed.”

He didn’t even leave your sight. You ask him how he did it and the genie explains that he has the power to travel through time, so he went back in time to before your cubicle mate was born and murdered his mother.

“So you are a killer,” you say.

The genie explains that he does what has to be done to prevent people from existing. Sometimes he prevents their mothers from falling for their fathers. Sometimes he frames their mothers for crimes they didn’t commit to keep them from ever meeting their fathers. Sometimes he’ll cause nearby nuclear plants to have meltdowns and mess with their mothers’ ovaries.

“Today I was feeling lazy, so I killed her.”

You tell the genie to go back in time and reverse it. You never wanted anyone murdered.

“Fine, it’s done,” the genie says. “She’s alive again. But as genie code dictates, that’s your only do-over. ”

Ask him what he did this time.

“I kept her from falling in love with your cubicle mate’s dad by making her fall in love with your dad,” he says.

“So wait, is my cubicle mate’s mom now my mom?” you ask.

The genie explains that you still have the same mom and dad. Your dad simply had a long-running affair with your cubicle mate’s mom. Your mom eventually found out and divorced him. So now your dad and your cubicle mate’s mom are married.

“I guess it’s cool since I don’t have him as a cubicle mate anymore,” you say.

The genie says, “Even better than that, you don’t have a cubicle! Because you don’t have a job. You’re a child of divorce and children of broken homes are pretty much unhireable. Everyone assumes that they must have caused their parents divorce by being bad kids, so they figure they’ll probably be bad employees too.”

You look around and see that your apartment is now an abandoned Krispy Kreme. You share the space with a family of opossums. Both of your arms are gone. The genie explains you tried to steal some bread from a bakery and the baker’s sons took you into the alley and cut off your arms.

“But I didn’t ask to be a child of a broken home!” you cry. “I just wanted my cubicle mate to not exist.”

The genie says, “Welcome to the world without your cubicle mate!”

Happy The World Without Your Cubicle Mate Day!

Parents Weekend Day!

You paid models to come to your boarding school’s Parents Weekend and pretend to be your parents so you could impress the other kids with how attractive your parents are.

Unfortunately, your real (gross) parents found out about the weekend and showed up, so you’re trying to keep them from meeting the models portraying your parents. Things will come to a head when both your real and fake parents come to a parent-teacher conference.

“Jacqueline?” your real dad will say to your fake mom.

“Edward,” your fake mom will respond, her face alight with surprise.

They grew up together, fell in love, and when Jacqueline’s father moved Jacqueline’s family away, they promised each other to not let their love die.

“I kept my promise,” Jacqueline will say.

“So did I,” your real father will say before grabbing Jacqueline’s hand and running away from your real mom to find a divorce lawyer and initiate proceedings immediately.

“Want to get some coffee?” your fake dad will ask your real mom. They’ll date so it’s cool, your real mom won’t be lonely. Parents weekend is going to work out for everybody involved.

Happy Parents Weekend Day!

Steal Your Son’s Poems Day!

Your son is deep in love with a girl in his middle school and he’s been writing poems about her day and night.

Your wife moved out of the house last month and you don’t know what to say to get her back. You need your wife, but more importantly, your son needs his mom. He needs her way more than he needs some middle school girlfriend. The solution is simple.

Steal your son’s poems.

Change the name. The girl he likes is Sarah. Change all instances of “Sarah” to “Lauren” (your wife’s name).

Update all the references so they’re age-appropriate. Where he compares Sarah to Mila Kunis, you should compare Lauren to Cameron Diaz. And where he says being with Sarah makes perfect sense, like when one finally figures out the right sequence of moves to complete a level in Portal 2, you should say being with Lauren is like solving a Rubiks Cube or whatever bullshit you do to amuse yourself.

Cut out all the parts where he describes what he’d like to do with Sarah sexually. Your son doesn’t quite understand how sex works yet and you need to have a talk with him. He thinks the crook of the elbow is involved.

Finally, replace his references to “The Notebook” with references to “An Officer And A Gentleman.”

Mail the poem off to your wife at her mother’s. In a few weeks, you’ll receive divorce papers that include, among the many reasons for divorce, you having violated her online privacy. You have no idea what that could mean.

You’ll have to go into your son’s room and tell him about the divorce.

“I tried to get her back,” tell him. “I tried so hard, in fact, that I even enlisted your help, without you knowing.”

Explain about the stolen poems. Tell him you understand if he hates you, but you were doing it for him. For the both of you, but for him especially. He’s just better at communicating his feelings than you are.

“Actually Dad,” he’ll say. “I stole those poems from Mom.”

After she moved out, your son wanted answers, so he hacked into her email (her password is his name so it was easy).

“She was writing all these poems to some guy named Evan. They seemed to be pretty good, so I stole them and changed the references to make it sound more like they were from me to this girl Sarah.”

That’s why the poems didn’t win her back. Your wife thinks you hacked into her email and stole her poems, then rewrote them and sent them back to her.

“So I guess I’m the reason you and Mom are divorcing,” your son will say. “If I had stolen poems from someone else, they might have worked on Mom when you stole them from me.”

Tousle your son’s hair. “Don’t be ridiculous,” tell him. “The reason those poems didn’t work is because your Mom’s a lousy poet.”

You and your son will laugh together. You’ll laugh at your mother. Then you’ll read her poems out loud to each other in a high pitched dumb person’s voice. You’ve never felt closer.

Steal Your Son’s Poems Day!

8 Moments When You Should Take A Break, Look At Your Life, And Wonder What Happened To The Man You Hoped To Be Day!

1. When you first wake up in the morning! Stay in bed and listen to the alarm. Listen to it blare, over and over. Sounds like a child sobbing, doesn’t it? Is that child you, crying in mourning for the person that child hoped you’d be? Maybe. Okay! Time to start your day!

2. In the shower! Plant your palms against the tile, lower your head, and watch the water circle the drain. Those are your dreams disappearing into those pipes, your dreams of being a good person, of accepting honest love, of hanging on to those strands of hair that just fell off your scalp. Okay, now towel off!

3. On your commute! You used to laugh at all these people in their cars. You used to say, “That’ll never be me in that herd. I’ll die first.” Now you compare your BMW to the cars of neighboring drivers. Most of the time, you think you’re a better person than they are. That’s the kind of man you are now. But hey, look at that guy in the old Buick. Least you didn’t turn out like that guy!

4. While laying off massive numbers of your workforce! During the conference call broadcast to seven floors of employees being let go today, put your end on mute and say to yourself, “These people have families. Some of them used to be my friends. Is this how I treat my friends now? I used to value friendship.” Now get back to those layoffs. You have racquetball in an hour.

5. While listening to your daughter’s voicemail OGM! Is this the kind of parent you thought you’d be? The kind whose daughter stopped speaking to him nine years ago, putting herself through college because she refused to accept anything from you? Now your relationship consists of listening to her voice on her OGM and never leaving a message, the only message she needs to hear, the one where you say, “I’m sorry.” Man, kids are a chore!

6. While buying a sex slave from a secret, high-end human trafficking ring! After you raise your bid to $250,000, reflect on what you just did. Back in college, if you thought you’d turn into the kind of person who’d buy and sell human beings like they were stereo equipment, you’d have been really disappointed in yourself. Wait a minute, that asshole from Dubai just bid $275K. Don’t let him beat you again!

7. While gathering old photos of yourself into a pile, setting the pile on fire, then putting the fire out with your own urine! You’re starting to worry that this nightly ritual is a reflection of you being slightly disappointed in yourself. But hey, you’re no shrink! Almost bedtime!

8. While having a glass of milk just before bed! Taste the milk and remember when you used to drink milk as a child. Get inside that little kid’s head. Hey, wait a minute! That little kid used to dream about growing up to be an evil, immoral sociopath! All your dreams really did come true! You did it!

Happy 8 Moments When You Should Take A Break, Look At Your Life, And Wonder What Happened To The Man You Hoped To Be Day!

Best Man Day!

You’re the best man at your best friend’s wedding, and last night at the rehearsal dinner his bride pulled you into the ladies room and told you she’s really in love with you. She fell in love with you the minute your best friend introduced you when you came back to the states (you were working in your office’s Hong Kong branch for 18 months), but they were already engaged.

“I’m going to marry him still,” she said. “Because I know if I told him the truth, that I really love you, you would never destroy your friendship by being with me. So the only way I can still have you in my life is to marry your best friend and enjoy every moment when we have you over the house. If that’s as close as I can get to you, I’ll take it.”

Your buddy just asked you for the ring. You could refuse, you could break his heart, and maybe lose him as a friend forever. Or you could hand him the ring and let him live a lie for the rest of his life. Everyone’s waiting.

Good luck. His fate is in your hands.

Happy Best Man Day!

I Want My Boobs Inside You Day!

You’ve had enough of keeping your feelings a secret. Every day you see him across the teacher’s lounge, with that delicious smile of his, those giant hands of his, that hairline that’s receding just right for his skull shape. You can barely contain yourself. You’ve been letting life pass you by all these years, it’s time to tell him what you want.

“I want my boobs inside you,” you tell him when you pull him into the supply closet after eighth period.

“Like figuratively?” he asks.

You shake your head no.

“How would that work?”

You tell him you don’t care. It’s what you want. And you can’t wait any longer.

“If we have to just go with regular intercourse, will you be disappointed? Because I just don’t want you to—”

Kiss him on his stupid mouth and shut him the fuck up. Jesus why do they have to talk?

Happy I Want My Boobs Inside You Day!

Staring Into Your Coffee, Wondering What You’ve Become Day!

You used to have dreams, hopes, a charitable word for those who were trying as hard as you to become what you thought was inevitable. You were going to be a superhero, a mammoth of achievement and innovation and sexual legend. You were going to be celebrated by wealthy people holding glasses of white wine. Your idols were going to find you at cocktail parties and punch you in the face for being so arrogant that you’d prove their talent fraudulent before you even turned 30. You were on your way.

“But then I got trapped in a well for twelve years,” you sob into your coffee.

“We know!” the barista shouts.

“Twelve years!” you shout back.

“It’s a long time!” the other barista shouts. “You wasted your youth on darkness! We’ve heard all about it! Jesus!”

“I was meant to do so much!” you scream.

You down your coffee and go to the counter and grab both baristas by their shoulders.

“Don’t waste what time you’ve got,” you demand of them. “If you don’t fall down a well, with no one coming to rescue you because the property’s been abandoned and anyone who does hear you pleading for help just assumes the well is haunted, you have no excuse.”

They yank their shoulders away from you.

“Got it,” they both say in unison. “Refill?”

You nod yes, a few new tears fall on their counter. They charge you 75 cents.

“You charge for refills now?” you ask.

“New policy,” one of the baristas says.

You cry even harder. You hand them your quarters and you go back to your table and you drink your coffee refill and you lament.

Happy Staring Into Your Coffee, Wondering What You’ve Become Day!

Sex Town, Population You, Me, And My Friend Leland If You’re Cool With It Day!

Tonight you’re going to be celebrated as a genius in the field of nightlife pickup artistry. You’re going to debut your new pickup line, “Hey girl, how’d you like to take a trip to Sex Town, Population You, Me, and my friend Leland if you’re cool with it?”

The first girl you try it out on, a blonde with arms that won’t quit, immediately asks, “Wait, who’s Leland?”

You point to Leland, a weird looking man in the corner of the bar.

“Is he wearing fake eyebrows?”

“He shaved his off because he liked the fake ones he saw at the Halloween store, yes,” you tell her.

She tells you if Leland is a citizen of Sex Town, then she’s definitely not going there.

That’s when you call Leland over and demand he show you the deed to his house. Leland complies, and she observes that the address plainly reads, “Sex Town.” You ignite a Zippo lighter and set fire to the deed.

“Hey!” Leland shouts.

You tell Leland he’s not wanted in Sex Town anymore, and he should go find someplace else to live. Leland looks defeated. He says he’ll do as you say.

“You kicked that man out of his own home, for me?” the girl asks.

“His childhood home,” you tell her. “His dad built it with his bare hands. But if it keeps you from taking a trip to Sex Town, tough.”

The girl says she’s flattered and she’d be happy to take a trip to Sex Town. You tell her to follow you in your car, and you lead her to a great B&B just off the main drag of Sex Town. She checks into her room and you wish her good night and go back to your apartment. In the morning she meets you for brunch, and over the course of conversation the two of you realize you don’t really have that much in common.

She thanks you for showing her around Sex Town and the two of you wish each other well.

Happy Sex Town, Population You, Me, And My Friend Leland If You’re Cool With It Day!

Since You’ve Been Gone Day!

He’s been running laps, up and down city streets, in sun and in rain, in snow, sleet, and holiday shopping foot traffic. He wants to be ready.

He’s been bursting into restaurants, with grand aplomb through double-glass front doors, with stealth through secret kitchen entrances, with bratty insistence, pounding on the panes of establishments where waiters wave their hands to say no, sir, no, we’re closed sir, she’s gone. We’re closed. She’s gone.

He’s got a notebook of the city’s finest wedding venues, the most popular rehearsal dinner locations, the “top ten most romantic spots to pop the question.” He’s been tipping maître d’s, putting wedding planners on the payroll, handing out your picture to bus boys and reservationists. If anyone in the city is asked to drop an engagement ring into your champagne glass when you aren’t looking, he’ll get a call.

He’ll be there. The guy who thinks he’s got you for the rest of his life doesn’t stand a chance, because he’ll be there motherfucker.

He’s at the top of his game, in peak physical shape, on a diet designed to give him maximum stamina, speed, and strength.

He might not have been able to say what you needed him to say to make you stay, but only because he thinks you deserve bigger, better, more drama, heightened tension, a moment of last minute him or me, what’s it gonna be.

Someone tries to put a ring on your finger, he’ll be there to intercept. Someone tries to introduce you to their parents, he’ll be there to exfiltrate. If you somehow manage to get so far as to find yourself in a white dress ready to walk down an aisle, expect him to crash through the skylight and Batman you out of there before the flower girls can shout, “What the frig?”

Since you’ve been gone, he’s been getting ready. He’ll be there. He’ll be there motherfucker.

Expect him.

Happy Since You’ve Been Gone Day!

Caramels Day!

Dan loved you so he used his vast wealth to open a store where you could sell your caramels.

“Maybe I just have trouble accepting kindness from a loved one,” you tell the cashier, a senior in high school, who you’ve been sleeping with in the store’s kitchen area.

“Let’s have sex again,” the cashier says, pulling off the skirt you just put back on.

When Dan comes in and finds the two of you he takes a pan of caramels and throws them at the wall.

You feel terrible about having hurt him when he was always good to you. You feel even worse when he gives you full ownership of the caramel store in the divorce. You vow to not waste his generosity.

You fire your cashier and replace him with your middle-aged aunt who needs the work, and you put all of your strength and energy into making the business thrive. Before long, The Caramel Lady caramels is a nationwide household name, and every time someone opens a box, they can read the company’s origin story on the lid: The Caramel Lady was a terrible wife, a cheater and a liar. The secret ingredient in every one of her caramels is the sorrow she feels for how she treated her sweet, generous ex-husband Dan, a man far too good to be married to someone as horrible as The Caramel Lady.

Happy Caramels Day!

A Guided Tour Of The Homes Of Ordinary People Day!

You give bus tours of the homes of ordinary, everyday folks who live in your town. You’ve been doing it for years, and the same shtick rolls off your tongue day after day. You can pretty much recite it in your sleep.

This two-story house is where Craig and Nina Olsen have lived out the majority of their lives together. Craig is well-known on the block for his grilling expertise. Nina is an insurance claims adjuster. Their son moved to New York City to study dance.

The people take their snapshots and cross the house off their maps. They’re satisfied that they know the lives of the Olsens now, they know what it means to be Craig and Nina, to live in their home and watch their son head off to find his rhythm. And then you roll them on to another one.

Melanie Llanerch, a widow of 15 years after her husband Mario died on the floor of the plant in a mishap. Melanie’s annual Christmas party has been the source for quite a few local rumors, but it’s all in good fun. She’s very active in the neighborhood decorating committee, and there’s a long line of ladies who’d like to find a way into her book club.

Is that it? Is that all there is to say about Melanie? What are you doing, whoring these people’s homes out to be gawked at by paying strangers? You don’t know them. You make a living summarizing the existence of human beings. This isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Here we are at Pamela and Arthur Reed’s house. I could tell you all that Pamela works in finance and Arthur is a school teacher, but does that tell you even the slightest bit about them? If we want to know who these people are, what kind of lives they’re living, we’ll just have to go into their homes and watch them live it. Who’s with me?

You run out the door of the bus and the passengers follow you as you sprint across the lawn to Pamela and Arthur Reed’s doorstep. The door is locked. You throw your weight against it. Once, twice, a third time. The door flies off its hinges. Pamela Reed has a handgun. She aims at your heart. You die instantly. Two more shots are fired. One hits one of your passengers in the arm. The other hits the wood of the door frame. The rest of the passengers run for their lives. Your murder is ruled self-defense. Pamela had the right to defend herself from an intruder into her home. She had the right to keep you from knowing how she lives.

Happy A Guided Tour Of The Homes Of Ordinary People Day!

You Can’t Feel Day!

You kept it off of your dating profile, you explain, because it scares guys away sometimes.

“Or it attracts the wrong guy,” you say. “Like the kind who doesn’t really like women, and would prefer to not have to communicate with a woman on an emotional level.”

He seems intrigued.

“I bet I could make you love me.”

“I’m telling you,” you say. “I can’t.”

“Bet I could make you eat those words.”

“Fifty bucks?” you suggest.

The two of you shake on it.

You spend the next fifty years together, him showering you in romance from dawn to dusk, bombarding you with flowers and serenades and trips to romantic B&Bs. He writes piles of poetry inspired by you, published even, on reputable presses, with nothing but your name as the title, in numbered volumes. He fills you with children, celebrates you at every turn, with every breath. Your life with him is more wonderful than you ever could have imagined, more wonderful, certainly, than you deserve.

He stays by your side to the very end, when you’re on your deathbed. He refuses to leave you. He spends his days reading to you, telling you stories, putting ice chips on your tongue.

On your last night alive, when you know you don’t have any energy left to wake to another morning, you take your husband’s hand in yours and you squeeze it tight. When he pulls his hand away, he opens his palm and finds a fifty-dollar bill.

When he looks at your face, your eyes are closed, your breathing stopped. The money in his palm tells him his love for you was requited, but the proof isn’t in the fifty bucks. It’s in the fact that you cared enough to die before he could look in your eyes to find some seed of doubt.

Happy You Can’t Feel Day!

Vengeance For The Broken Hearted Day!

Henry broke up with Mary because he wants to go out with Susan now.

“He said he loved me,” Mary tells you.

“Then he’s a liar,” you say. “And we need to get revenge on him.”

Mary suggests she take the private chats they had and post them on Facebook.

“It’s real mushy stuff,” she says. “And there’s a lot of him apologizing for not being able to last very long in bed. It’ll be super embarrassing for him.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” you say.

After killing Henry’s family, grinding up their bodies and feeding them to Henry in a stew, you’re wanted for murder and so you decide go on the lam.

“Come with?” you ask Mary, leaning in her bedroom window. “We can live on the open road, killing what needs killing, stealing when we need a little dough, sleeping under the stars, just being free.”

Mary says no. You say cool, then you try to reminisce about the prank you played on Henry, how awesome it was to see his face when he found out he ate his whole family, but you notice the flashing lights behind you.

Mary shows you her phone. She secretly dialed 911. They heard every word.

“You ratted on me?” you ask. “After I helped you get revenge?”

You go to jail for life, thinking the whole time that all you’re guilty of is helping out a friend with a broken heart.

Happy Vengeance For The Broken Hearted Day!

Your Dad’s On TV Day!

Your dad’s on TV.

“Are you seeing this?” your sister asks over the phone.

You’re seeing this. He’s being interviewed by Anderson Cooper for rescuing puppies from a house on fire.

“I just hope my daughters will let me back into their lives,” your dad says to Anderson Cooper.

You tell your sister you don’t like the way this looks.

***

You’re on TV.

“Are you going to accept your Dad back into your life?” Anderson Cooper asks you. “He did something good for puppies.”

You tell Anderson Cooper that if he did something good for some dogs, but he never did anything good for you or your sister, that means he treated you and your sister worse than dogs.

Someone behind Anderson Cooper throws a tomato at you.

“Are you seeing this?” your sister texts you, forgetting that you’re the one she’s looking at live on her TV screen.

***

Your Dad’s on TV.

“I want everyone to leave my daughters alone,” he tells Anderson Cooper. “I did a lot of bad things in my life, and if they can’t forgive me for them, even after I saved some puppies, then that’s their right.”

Anderson Cooper says, “No, I’m sorry but that’s bullshit!”

“Anderson, take it easy,” your Dad says.

“I fucking won’t,” Anderson Cooper says. “I don’t normally do this, take sides and whatnot, but come on. Would they rather the puppies had died? Is that what they want?”

“Are you seeing this?” your sister asks from the other side of the couch. She moved in with you. Her and Stan are having trouble again.

***

Your Dad’s on TV.

“Until there’s definitive proof that that’s me on that video recording, I stand by my assertion that it’s not me,” he’s telling Anderson Cooper.

In the corner of the screen is a surveillance video of your Dad carrying puppies into a house and then setting the house on fire. Then he’s shown waiting around for some people to show up and turn on their smartphone cameras. Then he runs into the house and runs back out with the puppies.

“It really looks like you,” Anderson Cooper says.

“Well, I maintain that it doesn’t look like me. Look at me. Am I wearing a hat, like the guy in the video?”

“If it was you, I think your daughters need to know,” Anderson Cooper says. “They need to realize how far you’re willing to go to get them back in your life. I mean, you were ready to kill puppies.”

Your dad isn’t sure how to respond so he says, “Maybe?”

“That’s a lot to have on your conscience,” Anderson Cooper says. “If those puppies had died, you would have had to live with that, all because you love your daughters so much.”

Your dad says, “So whether I set the fire and rescued the puppies, or I didn’t set the fire and rescued the puppies, my daughters should let me into their lives again.”

“You’re goddamn right!” Anderson Cooper shouts before throwing his mic at the wall and stomping around cursing while your dad chases after him, trying to calm him down.

“Are you seeing this?” your sister asks Stan over the phone. They’re trying to work it out. You hope they do.

***

You’re on TV.

“Empty your pockets,” the corrections officer says to you. You watch yourself on the closed circuit monitor as you drop your keys and loose change into the bin. Then you walk through the metal detector and into the visitors area.

“I just wanted the chance to say I’m sorry,” your Dad says when you sit at the table with him.

You tell him that you accept his apology, and he shouldn’t feel the need to do more dangerous stuff just to get Anderson Cooper to convince you to reconnect with him.

“He parked outside my house for a week, spraypainting ‘Bad Daughter’ on my front door. It was awful,” you tell your dad.

“He gets results,” your dad says. “That’s why he’s the best reporter in the biz.”

Across the room, another inmate picks up his visitor and throws him against the wall.

“Are you seeing this?” your dad asks.

You put your hand on his. You’re seeing this. You’re right there with him, seeing this together.

Happy Your Dad’s On TV Day!

A Swollen Eye Day!

He’ll show up to work with a swollen eye.

“Looks like some girl’s boyfriend caught up to you,” you’ll say.

“He did,” he’ll say. “Yours.”

You don’t remember a thing. A few of you had rounds in the kitchen after you closed the restaurant last night, then you and he went to a bar to have a few rounds more. You vaguely remember arriving at the bar.

“You took me home?” you’ll ask.

“I didn’t think you would have gotten there otherwise,” he’ll say.

“Did we?”

He’ll shake his head.

“Did you try?”

He’ll say he didn’t get the chance. “You were on me by the time the door closed on the cab. I pushed you off and you went to sleep.”

He carried you into your apartment and tucked you in. Your boyfriend was waiting outside when he left.

“He followed us,” he’ll say.

“He doesn’t trust me. He follows me home from work,” you’ll say. “Because he knows I’m in love with you.”

“Godammit, we’re waiters,” he’ll say. “These diners are counting on us. How are we supposed to deliver their dinner if your heart’s getting in the way?”

“But if we weren’t?” you ask. “Waiters I mean.”

He laughs. “Might as well ask if the sky wasn’t blue. If up was down.”

A table for four arrives. You consider just throwing down your apron, walking out the door and waiting for him, waiting on the sidewalk for him to come out and love you.

But you see their faces. They’re hungry. They need you. And if you turned away from them, would he follow?

He’ll give you a look. “That’s your section.”

You’ll tear your gaze away from his. You’ll walk to the table, pulling your check pad out of your shirt pocket, the one right next to your heart.

Happy A Swollen Eye Day!