You Teach American History In The Caves And You're Starting To Fall For One Of Your Students Day!

You're only 25! Fighting for water and weapons has made these boys look so much older than 17! And since society has fallen and members of the resistance have been chased underground to preserve what life was before the End, doesn't it make sense that some of those old customs might have fallen away in the retreat under the soil? Specifically, age of consent laws? The life expectancy down here is 38!

Brandon is adorable with an anxious stare into the distance that's not like all the other anxious stares into the distance that occupy the eyes of the other boys you teach. Like Brandon can see something more than fires and armored squads pulling people from their homes and putting them onto military carrier vehicles retrofitted for civilian policing. Like Brandon can see a moment of tenderness he still remembers from the Before. Perhaps it's the last moment of tenderness he ever experienced.

You want to give him another.

You're supposed to teach them what was. You're supposed to teach them about trusted leaders and peaceful streets and social compacts that said neighbors should never report each other to the Registrars. You're supposed to teach them about the childhoods they never had. And you do. And you want to.

Except for Brandon. For Brandon you want to expand your syllabus and teach him what it means to be touched by a woman and feel everything else in the world fall away.

Yes you're 25 and yes he's 17 but dammit, you're his history teacher! You teach history so your students can make a better one for themselves. Where is the harm in you and Brandon sneaking away, finding your own special private nook somewhere in these filthy caves, and using every inch of your bodies to shape a tiny little pocket of history together?

Happy You Teach American History In The Caves And You're Starting To Fall For One Of Your Students Day!

Upgrade To Love Day!

He comes in with a reservation for Economy.

“You deserve better,” you tell him.

“No one ever told me that before,” he says.

You hit some keys on your keyboard. You hit more than you have to in order to keep him there at your counter a little longer.

“You deserve Standard at minimum,” you say. “Premium even.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” he says. “You don’t know who I’ve hurt.”

You reach across the counter and grab him by the lapels of his J Crew pea coat.

“Everybody gets hurt,” you say. “It’s how we know we’ve loved.”

He is startled. He is silent. He waits patiently for whatever your next word might be.

“I’m upgrading you to Luxury,” you say. “With a catch.”

He asks what catch and you tell him he has to take you with him.

“Wherever you go. I’m getting into that car with you and you are taking me wherever you go. Because you standing on the other side of this counter tonight feels like I finally found the reason I took this job eight years ago.”

You tell him to initial next to the part of the contract that says he can never let you go.

“Thank you for choosing Avis,” you tell him before leaping your hips over the counter and falling into his arms, then leading him to the Cadillac XTS Or Similar that will drive the two of you down that long and bumpy highway to lifelong love.

Happy Upgrade To Love Day!

You're In Some Girl's Trunk Day!

She put you in there and said you had to stay there until she could find a good place to park for the two of you. It's nice in the trunk. Every few hundred miles she stops for gas and opens the trunk to throw you some hot dogs and Sprites she bought from the gas station. She looks really pretty with the blue sky around her reddish brown hair when she throws you hot dogs and Sprites. The spare tire works as a pretty good pillow for when you get sleepy. And there's a bag of her clothes in there that she must have intended to give to Good Will so you like to pull those out and smell her on them. She smells nice.

One time she got pulled over and so you kicked at the trunk until the cop made her open it. He looked at you, then at her, and he said even though it's probably a crime you two make such a good couple that he'll let it slide and slammed the trunk shut. Who are you to argue with law enforcement?

She kissed you in Utah. Pulled over at a Scenic Overlook, opened the trunk, grabbed your face and kissed it until she was done. You've been hoping for another every time the car comes to a stop. Maybe this next one.

It's been a good seven weeks now. A good nine or ten thousand miles. She still hasn't found a place to park for the two of you. You're starting to wonder if she ever will. You're starting to worry that she might just let you out and drive away. 

Or maybe she just wants to drive. That'd be fine if she just wants to drive. Things weren't working out so well for you before, so being there in her trunk, smelling her clothes, sleeping on her tire, hoping for one more kiss, that'd be fine if she just wants to drive.

Happy You're In Some Girl's Trunk Day!

Co-op Board Meeting Day!

The last time you saw her she was twenty-six years old and screaming at you from across a rest-stop parking lot, waving down a truck to give her a ride. When she walks into the co-op board meeting she's thirty-eight and she has hips now. Good God she looks good with hips now.

She sees you and her face goes white and she rushes for the door to run but she jiggles the knob and accidentally locks herself in. Panicked she finds a far corner and puts a trash can between herself and you.

You jump out of your chair and leap row after row to the rear of the room to get as far away from her as you can.

"I moved all the way across the fucking country!" you shout at her. "I put 3000 miles between us!"

"So did I you dumb fucking piece of shit!" she shouts back. "I fucking hitched my way here after leaving you at that Roy Rogers you asshole. You followed me!"

"You followed me!" you counter. You grab a stapled packet of meeting minutes and throw it at her. She grabs a paper bag out of the trash can and throws it at you. A partially eaten sandwich falls out of the bag and hits Manny from 11D in the chest. 

"You two know each other?" Paul the board president asks.

"I think they used to date," Natalie from 2B says. "I think they broke up and each of them moved across the country thinking the other would stay put, but they ended up in the same city and now she's trying to move into the same building as him, into, um, which unit?"

"4C," Paul the board president says.

"That's right next door to mine!" you shout. "No fucking way! I vote no."

"She's already been voted in," Paul the board president says. "At the last meeting that you didn't attend. She's just here for an introduction. She's got solid credit and hers was the only offer that met our asking price."

You take a step away from the wall. "Withdraw your offer."

She comes out from behind the trash can. "Fuck you," she says. "I'm already in escrow. You can move."

You're feeling bold. It's been twelve years. You're older, sadder, the tissue of your heart's gone hard. You can face her without falling for her. You can take another step closer.

"You can live anywhere you want," you say. "Anywhere but here."

She moves to the center aisle. She's moving toward you. You try to stay strong but she has hips now dear God she has hips now.

"Sell your place, move back to Baltimore," she says. You see a slight wobble in the next step she takes. She's weakening too. "I'll buy your unit and I'll knock down the fucking wall."

"That would have to be approved," Paul the board president says.

You take another step toward her. And another. You're no longer moving toward her of your own volition. You're being pulled. You can feel her taking over. Already, still a few steps away, you can feel her in your veins.

"Jess," you plead. "I was doing so well, Jess."

"Then run," she says, also pleading. "Open that door and run. Because I can't move anywhere but three little steps straight ahead."

You take one step. She takes the second. The third you take together and you're in each other's arms and on the ground and your neighbors are ducking as your clothes go flying about the room.

Paul the board president bangs the gavel he bought himself and adjourns the coop board meeting, yielding the room to your reunion. A month later you'll both return to the meeting to request to knock down the wall between your apartments. Six months after that you'll both disappear without warning leaving all your possessions behind. 

Happy Co-op Board Meeting Day!

Here's a little info about this here blog.

The following is an amended version of what I posted on girlsareprettyforever.tumblr.com, the tumblr where Girls Are Pretty lived for the past few years. I'm putting it here too because I want people who come here to read it if you didn't. 



I started Girls Are Pretty back in 2002, updating it every day for several years before I slowed down and focused on other stuff. Because I’m bad at bothering to do things right, I moved the blog around a bunch of times, and the entries have ended up scattered about many different platforms. First it was on blogger. Then when I put a lot of the entries into my first book Happy Cruelty Day, I paid a friend to design a full-on website. Then for God knows why I went back to a blogspot blog for a few years, until I moved over to Tumblr, a platform I never really understood or enjoyed at all.

Jumping around like that meant the archives in every location were incomplete. I’m now going back to the days of its infancy and just posting it here as a Blogger blog again. And I’ve managed to gather every single entry from all the different incarnations into this blog's archive.

So if you’re new to this blog and you want to read the thousand or so entries you might have missed, Girlsarepretty.com now has every single Girls Are Pretty Day since “Tell People You Took A Friend For An Abortion Day” on March 26, 2002. All 2,637 posts are there in the right column, and the search thing at the top works if you remember one you want to find again for whatever reason.

I’ll continue to update it sporadically, usually whenever I hate whatever else I’m writing or I’m particularly filled with heartsickness or I want to passive aggressively address people in my life with missives too long for a subtweet. The design is as generic and ugly looking as the very day it started, back when I was living in an illegally converted office space in Los Angeles and discovering all the wonders a dial-up connection could deliver unto me.

I’ll keep everything here from now on. Even though I don’t update it that much, I like Girls Are Pretty. I like that it’s been around for so long and there’s so much of it and I like that all those posts are in one place again.

As long as I’m being sentimental, two people were really helpful to the site in the early days and I want to type their names onto the Internet now. A few months after I started it, Leslie Harpold contacted me out of the blue and actually just went ahead and registered the damn domain for me. Even though we’d never met in person she walked me through moving off of Blogger and making things look more legit. And Chloe Weil created a gorgeous design for the fancy site it lived on for a while. They’re both missed.

In closing, all my stuff is here now if you want to read it.

Also, buy the book version, Happy Cruelty Day. It’s got at least 50 entries that were never on the web, and when you buy it I get money.

PS: When I update it I'll tweet the link out from @girlsarepretty1 if you want to follow that. I'll probably tweet it from @bobpowers1 too I mean who are we kidding?

Tell Seamless To Leave Your Food And Beverages In The Bucket You Lower To The Sidewalk On A Rope Day!

The delivery guys are used to it. They know when a couple starts fucking, sometimes they get scared to put clothes back on and go back outside because outside is where people make them do stuff like work or have conversations, basically do things other than fuck or lay around grazing each other’s skin with the backs of their fingertips.

You brought this guy into your bedroom like 5 weeks ago and you’re hoping to get at least 4 more weeks of uninterrupted nudity on the books before you rejoin society. To keep from having to even go to the front door to get your food, just use the special delivery instructions field to tell the delivery guys how you want it done: “A bucket will be dangling from a rope outside my building. Please leave the burritos and Jarritos sodas in the bucket, then yank on the rope to ring the bell affixed to it so we know you’ve arrived. If you hear me screaming ‘Holy shit! Holy shit!’ it means we’re still fucking and you’ll need to ring the bell a few more times to be heard over the sound of this dude rocking my shit hard enough to shatter the wood of my futon frame. Please hurry we’re starving and need burritos in order to keep up our current pace.”

Before technology like Seamless, acquiring food and drink was one of the only reasons couples had to interrupt a fuck sesh and interact with non-naked people. Those days are over so stay where you are as long as you need. Though your roommates are starting to complain about the smell so maybe turn on a fan.

Happy Tell Seamless To Leave Your Food And Beverages In The Bucket You Lower To The Sidewalk On A Rope Day!

They’re Vacuuming Around You Now Day!

The air conditioning turned off hours ago.

It’s Friday evening and the only employees still in the office are currently sitting on this two-seater lobby couch.

The maintenance guy needs you to lift your feet so he can vacuum under them. You both laugh as you do it, your legs up in the air like you’re on an invisible amusement park ride or like you’re both fucking a ghost. The man pushing the vacuum runs it back and forth eight times, making you keep your legs up in the air long enough that he hopes your abs will give in and you’ll go home to your respective spouses.

Forever.

“You have anything lined up?” you ask him.

“I might take some time off for a bit,” he says. “But I’m bad at time off.”

You nod, staring at his fucking wedding ring.

“If I hear my consulting firm has any spots to fill, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” he says, staring at your fucking wedding ring.

It was six months ago that you got assigned to work alongside him on a data migration, and for the last four you’ve been unable to think of anything but him. You’re pretty sure he feels the same but you’ve never said a word, choosing only to hang on every one of his.

“It’s not fair,” you say.

He looks at you, very interested in what you’ll say next.

“It’s not fair that full time staff gets cut to save money. Soon the workforce will be nothing but us consultants.”

His shoulders fall. He looks away.

“We should stay in touch,” you say, your voice reduced to a whisper. You’re having trouble speaking at an audible pitch, like you know you’re going to say goodbye soon and your voicebox is powering down to prevent you from saying it.

“We should,” he says.

You won’t.

All you’d have to do is say “Let’s go” and you’d be in a hotel room within the half hour but you won’t. This isn’t someone you can be casual about. This is someone you would destroy everything for if you let yourself but you won’t.

The maintenance man is buffing the floors now.

He says something that you can’t hear. He leans closer to you on the couch and says it again but you still can’t hear.

He yells, “Maybe we should get going.”

You scream, “No!” You scream it loud enough that the maintenance man turns off the buffer to find out what’s wrong. He shoots you an irritated look.

“I’m not fucking leaving this couch,” you tell the maintenance man.

The maintenance man drops the handle of his floor buffer and stomps away.

It’s quiet now. He’s staring at your face from his end of the couch but you look straight ahead. If you turn and look him in the eye, even for a second, you’ll burn your whole life to the ground. So you just sit there next to him and look straight ahead, and you stay there, keeping one eye on the clock to make sure you don’t miss the last MetroNorth train home.

Happy They’re Vacuuming Around You Now Day!

Ex-Wife On The Roof Again Day!

“Dana,” you say. “Come down. You woke Pam.”

“Tell Pam to pop her tenth Ativan for the day and shut her hole. I need to think.”

You lean back in the window and assure Pam you’re taking care of it. Then you climb out onto the roof with your ex-wife.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you say.

“When you used to piss me off I’d climb out here and figure it out,” she says. “It’s how I decided to leave you. When I said you could keep the house I didn’t realize Stephen would start fucking up worse than you ever did.”

You ask her why she just doesn’t climb out on Stephen’s roof.

“Stephen doesn’t have roof access,” she says. “All we have is a shared yard but the douche who lives below us is constantly throwing meat into his smoker. Like in the middle of the night even.”

You puff up a little. “Guess leaving me wasn’t the fix-it-all move you thought it was.”

“Please,” she says. “You sucked.”

You sit in silence for a bit before telling her, “We’re re-shingling next week.”

“I just need a couple more nights.”

You climb back into the bedroom and fall asleep. In the morning when you go to your car you look up at the roof and Dana’s gone. Chalked into the shingles is a long list of pros and cons of leaving Stephen. The neighbors will probably complain about the profanity but you’re late for work. You’ll wash it off later.

Happy Ex-Wife On The Roof Again Day!

Your Dead Sisters Wrote You A Letter Day!

All your dead sisters wrote you a letter to tell you it’s your fault they’re dead. “You’re absolutely right to feel guilty that we died,” the letter reads. “We’ve been rooting for you to destroy yourself with booze and drugs and to convince others you don’t deserve an ounce of their respect. The way you’ve been lashing out at those who care for you until they turn their backs and split, great fucking work, shitstain. You’ve been doing a fantastic job. Keep it up, fuckdick.”

The letter is written on the inside of your eyelids and it’s only readable in that split-second of darkness when you’ve regained consciousness in the morning but you haven’t opened your eyes yet.

Happy Your Dead Sisters Wrote You A Letter Day!

Everyone At The Car Crash Just Fell In Love Day!

The drunk teen who was behind the wheel fell in love with the paramedic bandaging his head but the paramedic fell in love with the lady cop directing traffic and the lady cop fell in love with the dad who rolled down his window and asked “Hey what happened?” The dad fell in love with the college girl crying because her boyfriend’s cut in half on the guard rail. The crying college girl, now single, fell in love with the highway patrolman who gave her a blanket. The highway patrolman fell in love with both ambulance drivers and the Good Samaritan. Ambo Driver #1 fell in love with the bottom half of the kid cut in half on the guard rail and Ambo Driver #2 fell in love with the top half. The Good Samaritan fell in love with his wife all over again. He sees her in the passenger seat with the traffic lights sliding over her face and he wonders if it’s too late for them to rescue what they have. The Good Samaritan’s wife fell in love with the guy operating the jaws of life because who wouldn’t? No one will ever know who the dead kid cut in half on the guard rail fell in love with, which is why car crashes are sad and you should drive more carefully. Ten and two.

Everyone At The Car Crash Just Fell In Love Day!

Demolition At The Fuck Motel Day!

Last night they all checked in. They signed the waivers. They visited the ice machine and walked around the drained pool and stared out the window at the wrecking ball sitting dormant under the moon.

“You all have sixty seconds,” you say through a bullhorn. “Step outside and shout your joys.”

The doors all fly open and men and women shout over each other. They shout the names of the lovers they met there. The dates on which they occupied those rooms in an erotic quarantine, walled off from their children and temporarily delinquent from the promises they made to their spouses, spouses whose names they also shout. It’s a messy chorus, and when it ends, they one by one step back into their rooms and wait.

It’s a ritual dating back to the Intimacy Laws of the late 1800s. When a Fuck Motel is slated for demolition, former guests may volunteer to spend one last night in the room where they once experienced pleasure that proved elusive for the rest of their lives. Now, they sit on the edge of their beds awaiting the wrecking ball. It will forever bond them to the walls and ceiling and bedside tables that bore witness to their happiest hours.

Happy Demolition At The Fuck Motel Day!

You’re The Governor Of A Whole Goddamned State Day!

“Fuck!” you shout. “I wanted to date more. Put myself out there. I can’t do that if a whole Goddamned state is looking to me every goddamned time they need shit.”

Your assistant gets up from her chair and slaps you across the face.

“I am sick of hearing you make excuses for why you’re still single!” she says. “So you’re the Governor. Big fucking deal. Everyone has a job. If you want to meet someone you have to make time to get out there and meet them! I won’t hear any of this ‘I’m too busy thwarting a public employee strike’ or whatever the fuck.”

You look deep into your assistant’s eyes.

“Maybe I don’t need to date,” you say. “Maybe the one I’m supposed to be with is right here under my nose, but I’ve just been too blind to–”

She slaps you again.

“You’re not going to pussy out of this,” she says. “You need to put in the work. Quit looking for the quick fix!”

“Fiiiiine!” you moan.

Your assistant clears your schedule and commands you to spend the next hour Tindering.

Happy You’re The Governor Of A Whole Goddamned State Day!

Cremains Day!

Everyone in your family is fighting over who gets to keep your dad’s cremains. Your sisters are grabbing at the urn and then it spills and the ashes land on the prayer card you were given at the church service.

“It’s sizzling,” one of your sisters says.

The prayer card turns black and floats up to the ceiling.

“Did Dad sell his soul to Satan?” you ask.

Your sisters remind you of all the get rich quick schemes your dad was into.

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” your sister Janet says.

Then the blood pouring from the light fixtures drowns you all and you die wishing you had a dad with better business sense.

Happy Cremains Day!

Just The Mattress Now Day!

His stuff’s all been put into storage. He moves into his roommate situation in two days.

Your stuff’s in the middle of the floor at Harold’s. You’ve yet to begin blending your things together.

It’s just the mattress now. That’s all that’s left from your three years in this one bedroom together.

“Nowhere else to sit,” you say as you take your place on what’s always been your side of the bed.

“Harold excited to have you all to himself now?” he asks.

“Don’t,” you say.

He says no. He says it’s okay. He says he’s curious.

“Harold’s happy I’m moving in,” you say.

“You’re still moving in?” he says. “I thought you were already fully in there.”

“He’s in Singapore until Thursday,” you say. “And you and I still have two days on this lease.”

“So for the next two days…”

“Technically, yes.”

“We still live together.”

“Technically,” you say again. “Yes.”

He pulls a beer from the six pack sitting on the floor by his side of the bed. Hands it to you.

“So,” you say. “What should we talk about?”

“How this was?” he suggests. “How we did? Three years living together. Five years dating. Lot of ground to cover.”

“Like a post-mortem?”

“If you’ve got the time.”

You take a sip of your beer. Two days later you finish talking and head off to the rest of your lives.

Happy Just The Mattress Now Day!

Hitchhike To Work Day!

Today you’re going to hitchhike to work. It will take you three different rides and two fended off assaults, but you’re going to experience the open road of your commute for once. Let those other suckers take the subway six stops, huddling underground like rats for the 20 minutes it usually takes you to ride in. You’re a dweller of the land and it’s time to see that land, to hear the stories of the people roving between your apartment and your office. When you finally make it in 90 minutes late and the other board members ask where you’ve been, you tell them, “America, man. America.”

Happy Hitchhike To Work Day!

Stay Up And Listen To His Voicemail A Hundred More Times Day!

“I’m turning in,” your husband says.

 "I have some work to do,“ you tell him.

 He kisses you on the lips. It’s a sweet, happy kiss. He loves you and he never fails to let you know how lucky he feels to have you. You love him too. You know you hit the jackpot with him. And you can’t imagine a better way to live your life than to grow old with your husband by your side.

 But he’s going to bed right now. So it’s time to stay up and listen to the voicemail from Steven, who you haven’t stopped thinking about since he became your office-mate four months ago. He left you a message on Monday morning telling you he’d be in late. An email would have sufficed, in fact it would have been more practical. But there was no real reason for him to have your phone number when you gave it to him on his third week on the job, so why should he have a real reason to dial it?

 You’d never do anything to hurt your marriage. But you’ve listened to Steven’s voicemail about a thousand times since he first left it, and you’re just going to listen to it a hundred more times before bed.

Happy Stay Up And Listen To His Voicemail A Hundred More Times Day!

Tell Your Mom You Just Got Your Heart Broke Day!

“Good,” she’ll say. “Sounds like you fell in love with the wrong guy.”

Ask her to have some sympathy for you.

“The girls I have sympathy for are the ones who slide into a marriage like it was a pair of flannel lined pants. So easy and comfy. No one remembers being comfy. On your death bed you’ll remember this pain, and you’ll know you loved, little girl.”

You remember the phone call during which he told you he was lying to himself when he thought he could be with you, and you double over on the couch.

“Goddammit, Harold!”

Your mom’s soap opera has been interrupted by a freeway chase. The cops are chasing after her new boyfriend, Harold, who’s driving your mom’s car.

“I really thought he might be the one,” she says.

You both eat ice cream while she watches the chase, yelling at the screen every time Harold sideswipes another motorist in her car.

Happy Tell Your Mom You Just Got Your Heart Broke Day!

You Wouldn’t Have To Negotiate With Hostage-Takers If Larry Listened To You At Home Day!

You used to be a hostage negotiator just to pay the bills and to have a good spot for yourself in the department. Over the years, you’ve ascended the ranks to become known as the finest hostage negotiator in the city. Anytime someone gets a gun pointed at their head, you get called in. And you owe all your success to Larry losing all interest in hearing a single word you say at home.

“Listen,” you tell the bank robber. “There’s no rush here. No need to start throwing out bodies, and no ticking clock on the demands. I can sit here on this megaphone all day.”

“But these people’s lives are in danger,” the bank robber shouts back. “And you’re wasting the department’s resources.”

“Forget those people and forget the department,” you say. “It’s just you and me, Larry.”

“Why’d you call me Larry?” he shouts.

“Larry’s my husband’s name,” you say, with a little feedback on the megaphone. “And since you won’t tell me your name, I’ma a call you Larry, since it’s nice to talk to a Larry who’ll hang on my every word. For once.”

The bank robber’s silent. So is everyone on the street.

“Oh you used to,” you say. “You used to cherish what I had to say, Larry. In those early days, it was like every single word that fell off my tongue held the secret of the universe for you. But those days are long gone.”

One of the snipers gasps audibly.

“I mean, did I change, Larry?” you ask. “Or did you just explore every nook and cranny of me and decide this mystery’s been solved? I come home every night telling stories about saving the day from desperate gunman threatening innocent lives, and for all the attention you pay me, I might as well have just asked you to remember to pick up a gallon of milk.”

Gusts of wind rattle through the police tape.

“Have you told him that?” the bank robber asks. “Have you demanded more from him?”

You chuckle into the megaphone. “My career has made me way more suited to listening to demands than making them, Larry.”

Everyone laughs. The bank robber, the bystanders. Even one of the hostages shouts “Good one!” before getting a rifle butt to the forehead.

“Besides,” you say. “What if he tells me why he stopped listening?”

“Leave him!” the bank robber shouts. The front door to the bank opens and as he steps out into the plaza, he shouts again, “Leave him and find someone you des–”

He’s tackled by police before he can finish giving you relationship advice. You drop your megaphone to the street, and you accept the pats on the back from your colleagues. Then you get in your car to drive around for a few hours before heading home to your husband.

Happy You Wouldn’t Have To Negotiate With Hostage-Takers If Larry Listened To You At Home Day!

Bottom Day!

Tell your man, “This won’t get any worse.”

He’ll say he doesn’t think it’ll get any better either.

“But if we are cool with this,” say, “At least we know we can count on it. Like, we can know that tomorrow will be like today. It won’t be worse than today. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“And it won’t be better,” he’ll say.

Ask him what his fascination with things getting better is.

“I just feel like I have potential for better,” he’ll say. “And this won’t fulfill that potential.”

Ooooooooh. Nooooow you realize the problem.

“I feel like i have potential for worse. Much…much worse!” you explain. “And this doesn’t feel like it will fill that potential.”

Tell him your potentials aren’t compatible.Tell him you need to go find someone who believes, like you, that everything could go crashing through the floor at any moment, then ask if you can borrow his Vespa.

“I just need to drive until I find him,” say.

He’ll give you the Vespa key and a last kiss.

Happy Bottom Day!

There’s No One At Your Office Anymore Day!

“Guess you didn’t get invited either,” the maintenance guy says to you.

“Invited to what?”

“Yesterday they were all like, ‘Let’s work somewhere else.’” he says. “They invited everyone they thought was cool.”

You ask him where the new cool office is.

“Dunno,” he says. “All I know is they think this office is played and for lame-o’s.”

The elevator door opens. Harold, the smelly guy in HR, steps onto the floor and looks around at the empty desks.

“Goddammit!” he says. “This happens at every place I work!”

You and Harold marry.

Happy There’s No One At Your Office Anymore Day!

Bloodstains Day!

“Are you killing again?” you ask her.

She shakes her head no, her eyes fixed on the TV.

“There’s bloodstains on the carpet,” you say.

She shrugs.

“And on the basement floor.”

“Maybe some kids got down there. Drank? Fought?”

“And on top of the refrigerator.”

“When did we last clean up there?”

“And under the bedsheets on my side of the bed.”

“Maybe your skin is dry.”

“I opened your dresser drawers. Nothing but damp bloody rags.”

“Hey,” she shouts. “You knew I was sloppy when you asked me to move in!”

“You’re covered in blood. Right now. Head to toe.”

She looks at the clock. “Oh jeez you’re right. And it’s already 8. I’m late for work!”

She gets up and runs to the shower. You get on your knees and start sopping up the puddle of blood she left on the couch.

Maybe she’ll quit tomorrow. Cleaning up after her kills might make you an enabler, but wanting her to quit shouldn’t mean you have to live in a messy house.

Happy Bloodstains Day!

All Your Hostages Are In Love With You Day!

Your partner hangs up the phone with the FBI.

“They need three hostages.”

You pretend to not be listening.

“You go tell them or I will! Ask some of them to leave. You’ve got like nineteen guys back there.”

As you step into the vault you see their eyes light up.

“I need volunteers,” you say.

No one raises their hand.

“In honor of what we shared together?”

One raises his hand. “I’ll go. If the way to show my love for you is to leave you behind, then I’ll–”

“Fine, get your coat. Who else?”

Another raises his hand.

“We’ve only just gotten to know each other, yet it feels like we’ve known each other for years. So yes, I will honor our–”

“Great. One more. Come on. I promise to date you when I’m out of prison.”

Five hands go up. You pick the hottest one. Then you send the three volunteers out to where the police are waiting.

Back in the vault you can hear the racket. They’re writing songs about you, composing poems, screaming at God for making them meet you under such impossible circumstances.

“I might just go shoot them,” your partner says.

“Wait,” you say. “This one guy’s song about me sounds pretty good.”

Happy All Your Hostages Are In Love With You Day!

Ask Your Mom What Made Her Fall For Your Dad Day!

“He blackmailed me,” she’ll say. “I did a hit and run. Thought I got away clean. But then there was a note on my door that read ‘I saw.’ We met and he gave me my options. Marry him or go to jail.”

You ask her why she didn’t just kill him.

“I planned to,” she says. “But he had a fail-safe. If anything bad ever happens to him a letter gets sent to the police telling them everything.”

She still doesn’t know where that letter is. You offer to go looking for it but she says no.

“I don’t want to kill him anymore,” she says. “I’ve seen what you’re going through on that dating scene and no way do I want a taste of that. Besides, people get married for far worse reasons than avoiding prosecution for vehicular manslaughter and fleeing the scene of a crime.”

You both look outside and watch your Dad shoveling snow.

“You’ll see, sweetie,” she says. “You get used to people.”

Happy Ask Your Mom What Made Her Fall For Your Dad Day!

Terrible Mistake Day!

“Hi,” he says, letting you in.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you say.

He nods and lets you in. You sit at his kitchen table. His roommates pass in and out of the kitchen, saying hello, gathering their coats, preparing to leave. There seems to be an understanding that sometimes they have to go when an important encounter is afoot.

“I remember this,” you tell him. “When I was your age. My roommates would vacate when I had a boy over.”

“And tonight I have a girl over,” he says.

You nod. Your eyes are on the one bottle of liquor on display in his kitchen. He grabs it and pours it and puts a glass in your hands. You down it while he opens a beer.

“So you’re here,” he says.

You nod, holding your already empty glass out to him. He pours.

“Can I just be a fun thing you did?” you ask. “A story you tell everyone? The older married lady you banged? You can even make fun of me. How old I am. If you just let it be nothing more than that?”

He lowers himself to his knees. His blue eyes are close enough to yours you have to down your glass to keep from looking away.

“I’ll tell this story,” he says. “I’ll tell it to you when we’re growing old together.”

“Oh fuck, man, come on,” you say. But his hands are already on you and you slip out of your clothes so fast you wonder if you were ever wearing any at all.

Happy Terrible Mistake Day!

Don’t Sleep Day!

“Why do you love me?” he asks.

You don’t have an answer.

“You can split or you can explain.”

You sit down on the floor, bundling up your coat under you for a cushion since he doesn’t have any furniture in his apartment.

“I’ll explain,” you say. “Just give me a minute.”

You drove a thousand miles to this tiny one-room apartment where he hoped to start his life again, alone, resigned to not building a life with you. And now here you are, and you should be able to come up with a reason why.

“Maybe I need five minutes,” tell him.

He pours some bourbon into glasses and he gets comfortable. It’s going to be a long night for the both of you.

“Just because I don’t know why I’m here doesn’t mean I don’t want to spend every single second of my life with you until you die first or I die first,” you tell him.

“I want a reason,” he says.

He hands you some paper and pens and you start drawing diagrams.

Happy Don’t Sleep Day!

You’re A Bronte Sister Day!

Today you’re Amber Bronte, the Bronte sister no one knows about because you’re still temping until you can get your Life Coach business off the ground.

“That’s so great!” your three sisters say to you when you tell them you now have four steady clients and your friend says he can build you a website for free. You don’t add that you think he might want you to sleep with him, and you don’t add that you might go ahead and do that if it means free website by summer.

“You have such persistence!” your sister says.

“Seriously you never give up, no matter how discouraging things are,” your other sister says.

The backhanded digs have begun. Time to throw the focus away from you.

“How are your book tours?” you ask.

They spend the next hour complaining about lackluster promotion from publishers, poorly appointed author accommodations provided by far-flung bookstores, and fans who want too much from them at book signings.

“Oh, Amber, I based a character on you in my new book,” Charlotte says.

Oh dear God.

Happy You’re A Bronte Sister Day!

Wear Something Remarkable Day!

“Remarkable blouse,” your temp will say.

“Thanks, Dylan,” you’ll say to him.

“Remarkable,” he’ll mutter to himself as you step into your office to call your ex-husband.

“He noticed me.”

“That’s great, hon,” your ex-husband will say. “I really hope you find someone.”

“How’s house arrest?”

“Dullsville.”

Your husband is charged with violating building code, reckless endangerment and fraud after putting up a new construction slum and renting it out for $5000 per unit without ensuring even basic support to keep the entire structure from collapsing. You divorced him to keep the tenants from going after your money too, and after being separated for a while you both felt like it worked.

“Go tell that temp your blouse would look even more remarkable on his bedroom floor.”

You do what your ex-husband says and your temp immediately reports you to HR for sexual harassment. You’re fired and humiliated in the press. They’re excited to revisit the one-percenter slumlord story by taking down his ex-wife too.

Why do you listen to your ex-husband? The only thing remarkable he wears is the location bracelet on his ankle.

Happy Wear Something Remarkable Day!

Steal A Bike Day!

When you get the stolen bike home, a man in futuristic dress will be sitting in your living room.

“Oh, you already stole it,” he’ll say.

Roll the bike into your bedroom then sit with the man.

“Do you have any idea who you stole that bike from?”

You shake your head.

“The future. My future. That man is meant to lead the movement that will one day bring America under the rule of fascist tyranny for centuries…if someone can prevent you from stealing his bike. Because when he decides to walk to work he crosses against the light and gets hit by the front of one bus throwing him into the back of another bus, killing him instantly.”

“Oh my God,” you say. “I killed a man. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. In another timeline I come back a little earlier and kill you before you can steal his bike.”

You just stare at the assassin.

“I undershot it by a half hour,” he adds.

You still aren’t sure what’s happening.

“So you’re good. You can live the rest of your life peacefully until the end.”

“But in another timeline you came back at the right time and murdered me?”

He shrugs. “Shouldn’t steal stuff.”

All of this absorbed now, you ask him, “So what are you going to do now?”

“Dunno,” he’ll say. “Can’t exactly go back. It’s a one way time portal only. Guess I gotta find a place to live.”

And that’s how you become roomies with the assassin from a fascist future America who was sent back in time to murder you but got here too late.

Happy Steal A Bike Day!

One Night AirBnB Day!

When you arrive at the AirBnB, your kids are bouncing off the walls they’re so excited. You open up the trunk and hand them each a shovel.

“It’s a fun project in the back yard.”

You dig in the far corner of the yard, by the rose bush. You do most of the digging, your older son helping some, but your younger son and daughter can’t hold the shovels very well, so you instruct them to just pick up the rocks when you hit them.

“Can’t we go and play by the stream?” your younger son asks.

You don’t answer because your shovel just made a thud against something wooden.

You and your kids dig the chest out of the ground. You open the lid and reveal the remains of the man your father murdered 39 years ago, the man you helped him bury when you were no older than your youngest.

“He was a threat to our entire family,” you tell your kids. “When your grandad killed him, we were set up financially for generations. But all this land is being leveled for a condo, so we have to get these bones out of here before someone finds them.”

You and your kids carry the chest into the car and head to the stream. You spend all night digging. Once you have the chest in the ground, your oldest jerks his head up the hill.

“Someone’s watching.”

“Robby!” you say. But your son is already on the run.

When you get over the hill you find Robby standing over the body of a drifter who has a shovel shaped gash in his skull.

“We need to dig another hole,” Robby says. “For the family.”

Somewhere, you know your dad is smiling.

You dig as fast as you can so you can get someplace with a signal to try and extend your AirBnB rental, but they’ve already rented the place and you haven’t filled in the hole yet. You’re still digging when the new renters arrive with their kids.

“Robby!” you say. But he’s already run inside the house with his shovel.

Happy One Night AirBnB Day!

Your Daughter Might Be God Day!

“She doesn’t care about the suffering of Earth’s people,” your husband says.

“Teenagers,” you say with a shake of your head.

“When I bring up earthquakes and tsunamis in chit chat she says it’s all part of her plan,” he says.

“Why do you always talk about that stuff?” ask him.

“She won’t let anyone see her face,” he says. “We’re not prepared, according to her. So she just keeps wearing that Scream mask.”

“She’s a movie buff,” tell him.

“If she’s God we need to change our parenting strategy!” he shouts.

“So what? Put her back in public school?”

“To expose her to all that she’s wrought, yeah, maybe!”

Now you’re full on fighting. That’s when your daughter walks in. Through the air holes of her Scream mask she says, “Talking about how I’m God and it’s hard to be a parent to the all-seeing all-knowing Deity?”

“Yeah,” your husband says.

“Stand up straight,” you tell her.

“Can you keep it down?” she asks. “I’ve grown bored with this world and am busy creating another one. No humans this time. Just insects. They’re the only living things I fucking nailed. Everything else turned to shit.”

“We’re having chicken and Brussels sprouts for dinner tonight,” you tell her.

“Too busy to eat,” she says.

“You’ll take a break and you’ll eat your dinner,” you tell her.

Your daughter stomps away. Your husband falls to his knees in fealty while you finish moisturizing your pregnant belly. Maybe the next kid will be a little less of a bossy pants.

Happy Your Daughter Might Be God Day!

Tell Your Husband When He Touches You It Feels Like You’re Being Napalmed Day!

“Like,” he asks, “Like it’s really hot?”

Tell him yeah, dumbass, napalm feels hot.

“Jesus, read a book.”

“But like,” he asks, “Like your skin is falling off your body?”

With a deep sigh, open your laptop and bring up the Wikipedia page for the word “Napalm.”

“I’m going out to the bars,” tell him as you place the laptop on his lap. “Read this so I don’t have to answer any more questions when I get back. I’ll be too fucked up.”

When you get back at 4 am he’ll still be reading the wiki page.

“So yeah,” he’ll say. “Losing skin is part of it. But do you mean it like, I want you just to ravage me so hard until my clothes and skin are ripped to shreds?”

Murmur something non-committal as you pass out. He’ll move to pick you up and carry you to bed, but then he’ll look at the photo of Phan Thi Kim Phuc again and he won’t know what to do.

Tomorrow he’ll ask you if gloves will help.

Happy Tell Your Husband When He Touches You It Feels Like You’re Being Napalmed Day!

Think About What You Want To Do When The Ransom Gets Paid Day!

First thing you’ll do when you’re free. The thing you’ve been dying for during this entire abduction.

“For the life of me I don’t know,” you tell your kidnapper. “I think about food I want to eat or places I want to go and it’s like, who cares?”

“You’re depressed,” she says.

“But I’m not. Not right now.”

Your kidnapper starts shaking her head.

“No.”

“I don’t wanna leave!”

“No!”

“Don’t make me go back out there.”

“We need this money. We need your dad’s money.”

You know it’s true. So you turn back to your list, trying to think of anything you want to do when you’re free. You write “Drink a milkshake?” then cross it off, crumple up your paper and throw yourself face down on the pull out bed.

Happy Think About What You Want To Do When The Ransom Gets Paid Day!

Blackjack Day!

Tonight you’re going to lose at Blackjack and you’re going to lose big. So big that the Blackjack dealer will have a crisis of conscience and quit his job on the spot.

“I can’t be party to the ruin of lives anymore,” the dealer will tell his boss.

“Who cares?” the boss will say in acceptance of his resignation.

Wait outside the casino and when the Blackjack dealer comes out say, “Thanks for quitting for me. I guess we’re boyfriend and girlfriend now.”

Take the Blackjack dealer to the parking lot where all the casino buses empty their port-o-johns. Find a space between the buses and escort him through your many erotic realms.

When finished, take him home and give him a bath and your bed. Spend the next 47 years blissfully happy together until the day of the car crash.

Happy Blackjack Day!

Bake Cookies Day!

Bake cookies so your mom will be surprised when she comes home. You know she likes ginger cookies, but you don’t have all the ingredients. So bake chocolate chip cookies. She’ll still be impressed that her little girl baked cookies all on her own.

Once you’ve got three dozen, set them out to cool and go upstairs to change into something nice before your mom comes home.

You hear the front door open while you’re changing, so you hurry up into a dress then you run downstairs to find your big brother inhaling the cookies on the counter.

“Those are for mommy!!” you scream as you throw yourself on his back trying to knock the cookies out of his hand. “They’re for mommy!”

He spins around, trying to shrug you off.

“Stop it!” he yells. “Get off!”

“They’re for mommy!”

He spins again and slams his head into the corner of the cabinet. You fall off his back as he slumps down to the floor moaning. Cookies are everywhere.

“You ruined it!” you cry.

“It’s okay,” he says, holding his head.

“No you ruined it!” You try to gather the broken cookies but they keep falling apart.

“It’s okay,” he says. “She’s not coming back. She doesn’t deserve your cookies because she’s not coming back. She doesn’t want us.”

You give up collecting the crumbs and you cry into his sweatshirt.

“They were good cookies,” your big brother says. “I’m glad she didn’t get any. I’m glad she doesn’t get to enjoy all the good things you can do. She doesn’t deserve to.”

When your dad comes home he finds the two of you on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the mess. He doesn’t say a word. Just goes to his room and shuts the door behind him like every night since she went away.

Happy Bake Cookies Day!

Your Dog Ran Away Day!

He was found several towns away. It’s a miracle. Someone’s driving him up your driveway right this minute.

“Starsky!” you shout as he slides out of the car.

You run down the driveway and wait on your knees with open arms. Starsky trots up the driveway towards you.

“Come on, Starsky!” you shout.

Starsky slows as he approaches you. His shoulders fall. His head bows, reluctant. But also, ashamed.

You hold your arms out, but you don’t know if Starsky wants your embrace.

He halts just a few steps before you. Finally, he looks up and meets your eyes with his own.

You see it then. This runaway. It was no accident. Starsky wasn’t lost.

Your arms lower. You nod at him.

“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s okay boy. I understand.”

Starsky turns from you. He trots away. The man who returned him to you moves to stop him but you raise your palm to tell him to let the dog go.

You know when it’s over. You know when someone’s done with you.

Happy Your Dog Ran Away Day!

Your Dad Says He’s In Love With One Of The Aides At His Home Day!

“I just felt an instant, mutual connection,” he says.

You stand stock still, waiting as your soul rises out of your body.

“I hope I don’t jinx this by talking about it.”

Say to him, “Well, that’s nice.”

Remember that you have power of attorney so his money’s locked down. If he wants to start a new relationship at the age of 82 now that your mom’s been in the ground for over a year, so be it.

“So is she around your age? Younger?”

“Younger.”

“How young?”

“Around 25.”

Hold on to something, steady yourself. The back of a chair. Something.

“And when did you meet her?”

“In Spain.”

He’s never been to Spain.

“You might have dreamed this whole thing.”

“I don’t think so.”

You let it go.

“Just don’t tell my son about this okay, Pete?”

You’re his son. Your name’s Lance.

Happy Your Dad Says He’s In Love With One Of The Aides At His Home Day!

You Stopped Sleeping Day!

Your boss noticed you’ve been looking tired.

“You doing okay?” she asks.

Tell her, “I stopped sleeping. My dreams have gotten as bad as my waking panics. Worse, some nights. I haven’t tried giving up sleep yet. They say I’ll go mad but I’m already mad so maybe a madness I know the cause for will be a better madness than the one that showed up one day and wrapped me in its great dark arms promising to never let me go. It’s been eleven days now and I can’t quite see anything but blurred shapes and I can’t quite hear anything but elderly people’s sobs but trust me that’s an improvement.”

Your boss will say that’s all, then she’ll go home and throw away her bed hoping for lack of sleep to overtake her lack of will to do anything but curl up in a ball and moan faintly.

Happy You Stopped Sleeping Day!

Date With Loretta Day!

You have a date with Loretta tonight but you’re not going to make it on time because you’re going to get kidnapped.

“Please,” you say to the masked men who threw you in their van. “I have a date with a girl I’ve loved from afar for years. This could be the most important night of my life. Please don’t deprive me of it.”

“Godammit Steve,” one kidnapper screams at the driver.

“No real names!” the driver screams back.

“Sorry. Goddammit Kevin! We said no one would get hurt.”

Kevin/Steve yells back, “We’re not hurting him!”

“Standing in the way of true love? I’d say that’s pretty hurtful!”

“He’s got a point Ste– Kevin,” the third kidnapper says.

“Fine,” Steve/Kevin says. “Where’s this date supposed to be?”

They drive you to the restaurant and say they’ll be parked outside all night. If you try to escape they’ll kill you both.

The date goes wonderfully. You talk about your hopes, your fears, your childhoods, and your favorite episodes of Mr. Robot. At the end of the date you walk her home while the van follows. She invites you up and you make love. The next morning you come downstairs, the van still waiting for you.

“Looks like it went well,” one of the kidnappers in the back says. You can see his smile through the hole in his ski mask.

“It did,” you say, blushing.

“Ready to get on with this?” Steve/Kevin says.

“Wait, I told her I’d bring back bagels.”

They follow you to the bagel store and back, and they wait outside while you eat bagels and make love again upstairs.

Hours later, you come back downstairs.

“Now you ready to get on with this?” Steve/Kevin asks.

You nod, staring up at her window. “I am,” you say. “Now that I know my love will be here waiting for me, I’m ready to survive however long a kidnapping you have planned.”

They throw you in the van and speed away. Three days later your rich father delivers the money, but he ignores their demand for no cops. You’re killed in the shoutout. Loretta falls for one of your coworkers at your funeral.

Happy Date With Loretta Day!

Cater Waiter Your Ex-Husband’s Wedding Day!

You don’t get any info about who’s getting married. You get a phone call with the address of the events hall and a one hour window to confirm you’ll take the shift. It’s not until you’re there in the thick of the reception, a tray of canapés held high above your head, that you start recognizing ex-mutual friends’ faces.

“Holy shit, Christine,” one of his work friends says to you.

“This is pretty messed up,” says Clara, who you got really close with but who ceased talking to you when the divorce went through since she’s married to his high school best friend.

“You guys, who’s getting married?” you ask.

A cheer erupts through the room as the double doors to the dance floor open. You see only the top of his haircut through the crowd and you know today is the wrong day to have been available to fill in for Melanie, who has the flu.

“And now the bride and groom invite you to witness their first dance as man and wife,” says the DJ before he spins “At Last.” (Your song was a Sugarcubes song, at your demand.)

The crowd parts and you find yourself standing in the center of the dance floor, holding your tray of tiny food.

He sees you.

She sees you.

They all see you.

“Congrats?” you say to him.

They don’t move. Their first song keeps spinning. You do the only thing you can think to do.

You dance.

It’s an elegant, solo routine. You glide and sway across the floor, occasionally miming someone in your arms, someone whom, over and over again, breaks free of your embrace, leaving you to wave goodbye to the apparition.

The song ends. Your ex and his bride are stunned. A slow clap begins. Your ex’s father. He always liked you. Others clap along, growing louder, faster.

They believe it was planned. A gift to the bride and groom. Before they can dance, his ex must dance him free of her, a farewell spin across the floor. Tonight’s the night the “Ex Dance” is introduced to wedding planners as a new tradition in matrimony. You leave the venue, get in your Corolla, and make a plan to go back to being an office temp in the morning.

Happy Cater Waiter Your Ex-Husband’s Wedding Day!

Your Love Just Killed A Guy Day!

You and your girlfriend are so in love some guy just died.

“This is the news,” a TV newsman says while you and your girlfriend are kissing for like the hundredth time this hour. “Some guy died today because these two are too in love.”

A photo of the two of you is on the TV. You can’t see it because you’re busy getting naked again. You just put clothes back on. Naked again?

“Apparently this couple’s love is so strong that it needs to feed on the life force of others,” the Newsman continues. Not that you two would know. You’re too busy holding each other’s naked bodies and crying.

“If anyone can think of some way to break these two up,” the newsman says. “Please contact the police with your plan. Before their love comes for us all.”

You’re inside each other as the police meet with several of your respective ex-lovers who are busy detailing your emotional pressure points and relationship deal-breakers that might be exploited to bring an end to your love affair.

“This just in,” the newsman says. “A family of six was just found dead. They were just lying there in their house, like they all just dropped. It’s assumed the mass death occurred when these two came at the same time.”

Your picture on the TV again, not that you’d see it since you’re still marveling at the simultaneous orgasm that just made you both scream at God.

Happy Your Love Just Killed A Guy Day!

Your Two Dads Day!

They’re fighting with knives.

“Dads, stop it!”

Your adoptive dad slashes your biological dad across the face. Your biological dad digs his blade deep into your adoptive dad’s gut. Your adoptive dad uses the last of his strength to land his blade in your biological dad’s heart.

“She’s my…daughter,” your adoptive dad whispers.

“No, she’s…my daughter,” your biological dad whispers back. They both die.

You really shouldn’t have gone looking for your real parents.

Happy Your Two Dads Day!

Lose At Pool Day!

Tonight at the bar, challenge another bar patron to a game of pool. Don’t make any shots.

“Are you losing intentionally?” the other player will ask.

Say yes.

“Then I don’t want to play,” the other player will say.

Tell him you’ll start playing for real, then don’t.

“Were you lying when you said you would play for real?”

Say yes.

“Then I don’t want to play!”

Tell him, okay, you admit that you were losing intentionally and you were lying when you said you’d start playing for real, but it’s just because you like to give yourself big challenges, so you let him get a major lead on you. Now, though, it’s a big enough challenge so you’re going to try to come back from your deficit by playing the best game you’ve ever played.

After your next few shots are just horrible, the other player will say, “Were you lying about that wanting a challenge stuff?”

Say no.

“Are you lying now?” he’ll ask.

Say, “What is truth?”

The other player will beat you with his pool cue until you’re dead. Hooray, you died in a bar, just like you always wanted.

Happy Lose At Pool Day!

King Fun Day!

Today you’re King Fun.

“Chop off everybody’s heads,” you tell the people who do whatever you say.

Everyone in your kingdom is lined up and one by one their heads get chopped off. Until one small boy is about to be placed on the chopping block when he says, “For a guy named King Fun, you sure are a downer!”

You think about what the boy said. You take off your crown then hold your head in your hands.

“Oh my God! He’s riiiiight! I am a dooooooowner! I’m supposed to be King Fuuuuuun but instead of I’m King chop off everybody’s heeeeeeeads!”

You cry and cry and cry until everyone gets sick of hearing it and they start asking to have their heads chopped off so they don’t have to hear you anymore.

You wake up the next morning feeling better after having a good cry. You resolve to change your ways and live up to the name King Fun by being a little more positive and fostering an enjoyable atmosphere in your kingdom, but everybody’s already dead. Even the executioner. He cut off his own head. That’s how sucky it is to hear you cry.

Happy King Fun Day!

Don’t Break Up With Lance Day!

His mom says he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“Not today,” his mom begs. “Please. Just wait a little.”

“I don’t want to break up with your son,” you tell her.

His mom laughs.

“Come on, of course you do,” she says. “You’re so much hotter than him. And he’s so lame. But please, just keep dating him a little while longer?’

"Mrs. Sanford,” you tell her. “I really like your son. And part of me wonders if he could be the one.”

Lance’s mom laughs so hard at that one that she starts to cough. You pour her a glass of water. She thanks you, then hugs you.

“You’re so considerate. Lance doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “Which is why I’ve drawn up an eight-week plan for you to let him down easy. Take a look.”

Lance’s mom unrolls a large calendar across the kitchen table. It lays out exactly when you should start being cold around Lance (week 2), when you should fight with him over something small that represents a larger problem (week 4). Week 6 is when you should suggest that you and Lance spend some time apart. In week 7, you’re supposed to tell Lance you want to go on a date, just like in the beginning. You’re to tell him you want to see what it’s like if the two of you pretend all this fighting and questioning hasn’t been happening, so you can just enjoy each other’s company. In week 8, on the day of the final breakup, you’re to tell Lance how much fun you had on that pretend do-over date, and it reminded you what a great guy he is and why you liked him in the first place. But you also realized a relationship can’t exist within a pretend do-over date. Those weeks of fighting really did happen, and you think it would be better to just cut your losses and cherish what you had.

“Seem doable?” Lance’s mom asks.

“Look,” you say. “I like dating your son. I don’t want to break up with him. And I need you to get through your head that no matter what you think of him—”

You stop talking when Lance enters the kitchen.

“Hey, whatcha doin’?” he says. “Ready to go to the movie?”

He looks down and sees the calendar.

“Oh,” he says. “My mom showed you the eight-week calendar.”

There’s a moment of silence. You don’t know what to say.

“So,” Lance says. “Seem doable?”

Happy Don’t Break Up With Lance Day!

Voodoo Doll Day!

You bought a Voodoo Doll but it’s broken.

“I’ve been stabbing it in the head with needles a million times but Karen’s head’s fine. Doesn’t even have a headache.”

The doll salesman will ask who Karen is. Explain that she’s the woman who sits in the cubicle next to yours at work and she hums too much.

“So I want to blind her. But your doll blows.”

The doll salesman says that you need to hide the doll under Karen’s pillow and have her sleep on it before it will work.

So you break into Karen’s house and hide the doll under her pillow. Then you call in sick the next day so that when she’s at work you can get the doll back.

Unfortunately, when you go to look for the doll, it’s not there. You search everywhere in Karen’s bedroom, then everywhere in her house. You get so tired that you fall asleep on her couch.

Karen shakes you awake, holding the doll up to your face.

“Looking for this?” she asks.

She found the doll last night. So she tucked it away, and when she found you asleep on her couch she slid the doll under the couch pillow you were sleeping on. Now she’s holding a pin to the doll’s head.

“Say you like me as a person,” Karen commands.

“But I don’t,” you say.

She pokes the doll head with a pin. You feel a sharp pain at your temple.

“I like you as a person,” you tell Karen.

“Say it again,” she says.

You do as she tells you. She makes you say it a dozen more times. Then she hands you the doll and lets you go.

“That’s it?” you ask. “That’s all you’re going to use the doll for?”

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” Karen says. “And if I used the doll for worse, you might not like me as a person anymore.”

You leave while Karen cries. Then you go to the doll salesman and tell him his doll backfired big time and now you still have to go into work and listen to Karen’s humming for forever.

“And I had to say I like her as a person,” you tell him. “So gross.”

“Quit and come work for me,” the doll salesman says. “I don’t hum.”

You tell him you don’t want to sell stupid dolls. So the doll salesman holds a flame near the doll you just returned to him and you feel a burning on your skin. You accept the job, and that’s how you embarked on a career selling Voodoo dolls, which you’ll do until you die or you get that doll back from him, whichever comes first.

Happy Voodoo Doll Day!

Love For A Year Day!

The dystopia you live in has a rule that people in love can only stay together for a year. At which time they have to apply to the government for an extension. If they aren’t granted an extension they have to either break up or commit suicide.

“It’s not fair,” you tell Greg.

“Better to have loved and lost,” Greg shrugs.

“It’s because the government is scared of love you know. The government doesn’t ban anything unless it’s a threat to their power.”

“What power does love have?” Greg asks.

The clock strikes midnight. Your year is up. You pull Greg’s face to yours and you kiss him.

A siren sounds. You both go on the run, hand in hand, a beacon for governmentally-thwarted lovers everywhere. The nation celebrates your love as the love that will set them free.

One night the president issues a pardon for your crime.

“It’s all right for them to stay together. The law only applies to lovers. Greg’s not that into her.”

You become livid. “He’s only doing that to try and break us up.”

Greg bites his lip. “Actually…”

You break up and Greg starts dating someone else, but the revolution continues. Lovers all across the land continue to love each other in violation, which pisses you off because now the whole country knows you just got dumped, and getting dumped used to be easier when it was the law.

Happy Love For A Year Day!

Steal From Your Kids Day!

Your son has a toy truck. You want that toy truck. It’s not fair that he has it when you want it. Take that toy truck from your son and bring it into the office to play with.

Your son will visit you at work and ask if you’ve seen his toy truck. Lie to him. Say, “Psssh. That truck sucks. I didn’t take it.”

Your son will explain he has a play date and he needs his toy truck back if you have it. Stand your ground.

“I’m the president of a massive corporation. I don’t have your stupid fucking truck.”

Your eyes flash on the floor safe. Your son notices.

“It’s in the floor safe isn’t it?” he says.

“What floor safe,” you say, but he’s already out of his chair and spinning the combination dial.

“12. 16. 6,” he says as he spins, then pulls the door open to reveal his toy truck.

“Shouldn’t have used my birthday as the combo, dipshit,” he says, inspecting the toy truck for blemishes. “Have your secretary call me a car.”

You do as he says, happy that your son didn’t lift up the stacks of cash and bonds to find the Boba Fett action figure you stole from him.

Happy Steal From Your Kids Day!

What To Do At Game Night Day!

Tonight’s Game Night with you and the Palmers and the Costners and what you should do is you should stand up in the middle of Scattergories and shout, “I am done playing games with you people!” Then tell them about the hit and run in ‘93.

Pam Costner will stand up and shout that she’s also “done playing games with you people.” Then she’ll plant a kiss on your wife’s mouth and tell her she’s been in love with her for years.

Richie Costner will also stand up and shout that he, too, is effectively finished “playing games with you people.” He’ll walk out the front door, get in the car, and that’s all she wrote for Richie. You’ll never see him again.

Michael Palmer will similarly rise from his seat and say that he’s not going to be playing any stupid games with you people any longer. He’ll go to the bathroom and draw a bath in the tub and the blood from his open wrists will float out like ribbons.

Patty Palmer will announce in a whisper that she doesn’t want to play games with you people anymore. The rest you won’t understand because she’ll say it in Russian. She’ll be tried as a spy later this year.

Your wife, Debra, once she’s done being made out with by Pam Costner, will sit back down on the couch and say that she’s done playing games with you people, and she’ll take out a deck of cards and begin a game of solitaire. You won’t notice because you’ll be on the phone with the police confessing to vehicular manslaughter.

Happy What To Do At Game Night Day!

Emily’s Sad Day!

Emily Connell, the president of the multi-national conglomerate where you temp, is sad today. You spotted her in a café staring out the window at the rain.

“Should I go in and see if I can cheer her up?” you ask your 7-year-old daughter.

“Do it. It could be good for your career. I can go see The Good Dinosaur some other day.”

Your daughter hails a cab and you go into the café and stand at the edge of your company president’s table.

“Why so sad Ms. Connell?” you ask.

She looks up at you through her tears.

“I know you.”

You sit down across from her. You wave to a waiter and tell him you’d like a glass or Port.

“This one’s on you, since you make 1500 times my salary at our shared place of employment.”

“Oh,” she says. “You work for me.”

“Tell me,” you say.

At that she unloads a tale of her third husband’s confession that he’s in love with her brother, a prominent member of British Parliament. He’s going to divorce her and announce his relationship with her brother, which will likely cause the board to oust her from her position as CEO due to a ridiculous “undue controversy” clause in her contract, and her brother will also have his government post threatened. Meanwhile, her (soon-to-be-)ex-husband has refused to offer testimony in a corporate malfeasance case, testimony that would be necessary to exonerate her of accusations that she manipulated the stock price with false accounting.

“So I’m facing public humiliation, professional disgrace, jail-time, and a broken heart,” she tells you.

You do the only thing you can do, the only thing you know how to do in situations like this. You try to cheer her up by farting the National Anthem.

It works.

“You’re quite talented,” she says, laughing through her tears.

“Thanks,” you say. “If you’re feeling better, I’d better hit the men’s room and check my underpants.”

When you come back from the men’s room, she’s gone. The waiter comes by and says she paid ahead and told them you could have whatever you want for the rest of the night. You get drunk on port and eat a half dozen scones, stuffing yourself until they lock up for the evening, making sure to bring one scone home for your daughter, who hasn’t eaten in hours.

Happy Emily’s Sad Day!

New Dad Day!

You’re a new dad, which means everyone’s counting on you to not fuck up. So put the gun down.

“Will you just let me go?”

The bank manager says for the sake of your new baby daughter, yes, he’ll let you walk out the door if you don’t hurt anyone.

“What about the police outside?”

The police chief says into his megaphone that if you leave the money and you don’t hurt anybody and you promise to be there for that little angel, they’ll look the other way.

“What about the Feds?”

The FBI agents in the helicopters hovering over the bank call in on their dedicated line and tell you they have terrorists to catch. They don’t want to waste time keeping a new dad from his little girl.

“Okay,” you say. “Here I go.”

You put down your gun. You walk out the door of the bank. You walk all the way to the hospital. You kiss your baby on her forehead. You begin your life as a new dad, focused on taking care of your daughter and honoring the agreements you made with law enforcement.

That REALLY worked out!

Happy New Dad Day!

The Sing To Your Food Diet Day!

The best way to manage your eating is to express appreciation for your food before you eat it. When you have your lunch in front of you, don’t just plow into it. Let your lunch know how much it means to you by singing a song you just wrote about it. Like let’s say you have a bowl of three bean chili. Sing it a ballad.



Oh well I know we been estranged

The road between us was steep and hilly

But now you’re here with me

And my life is great with you, my three bean chili



Or let’s say you’re about to eat a meatball hero. Sing that sandwich a song of positivity and joy.



It’s a neeeeew day

And everything feels just fine

Cuz I got a meatball hero in my hands

And I can feel the future is miiiiiiine



Really hit the high note on “mine.”

If you’re eating a salad, go with one of those twinkly high-pitched gnome-like indie singer songs that always play over yogurt commercials.



When I look into your eyes

I see a grassy sunlit meadow

And it’s green and bright and free of strife

I’ll meet you there

Whenever you’re ready to say hello again, salad

Because you’re just the sweetest treat of my sweet life



Once you finish singing, wait for your food to applaud. When it doesn’t applaud, ask your food who the fuck does it think it is. You worked hard writing that fucking song and it just sits there. Tell your food to go fuck itself then throw it at the wall. Don’t clean it up either. Just walk past the splash of food on your wall and give it the finger, day after day, then hold your phone to your ear and sing into it so your food thinks you’ve met other food to sing to. Your food will get jealous as it dries into a permanent stain that you’ll one day paint over. You should expect to lose two pounds a week.

Happy The Sing To Your Food Diet Day!

Be The Kind Of Person Who Brings In Donuts To Work Day!

Today you’ll try and be the kind of person who brings in donuts to work. You’ll try and be a generous person with enthusiasm for the day ahead who delights in making things a little sweeter for your coworkers.

You’ll stand in front of your bathroom mirror barking at your reflection, “You can fucking do this Sharon! Stop fucking crying and go buy some goddamn donuts for motherfuck’s sake!"

When the negative thoughts invade your mind telling you it can’t be done, punch the mirror and feel the shards cut into your skin. Focus on that pain.

"Get the fuck out of here I need to focus,” you scream at the guy in your bed. He scrambles into his clothes and slams the door behind him. You check your wallet and this one didn’t steal all your money and credit cards for once.

“See! New day, new you! Now go buy your coworkers some fucking donuts and don’t fucking spit on them Sharon!"

On the bus to the donut place you get into three fist fights and you win all of them. Outside the donut place you have a panic arrack but you spy a pigeon eating a dead rat and it calms you.

Once inside the donut place you scream at the girl, "I don’t fucking care which kind. Just fill the fucking box!” When an armed robber comes in and tries to hold up the place you aren’t having it.

“Fuck you if you think you can fuck this up for me! That box is almost full!” You wrestle the gun from the robber. It goes off, grazing you in the side and killing the robber.

The next day a photo of you in the hospital is on the front page of the newspaper under the headline DONUT HERO. The article tells the story of a sweet girl who just likes to do nice things for her coworkers, but when a stranger put others in harms way, she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. “Sharon was always the kind of person who put everyone else first,” a coworker whose lunch Tupperware you once farted into will be quoted as saying.

Happy Be The Kind Of Person Who Brings In Donuts To Work Day!

Haunted Life Raft Day!

You and the other survivors of the capsized cruise ship have been floating for three days. Everything would be fine if it wasn’t for the ghost that’s haunting your life raft.

“I don’t think she even died on our cruise,” one of you says. “Do they reuse life rafts from other sunken ships?”

“Maybe she died on the boat itself,” someone responds. “Like of a heart attack. Or she got on the boat and her husband was supposed to meet her in their cabin but he never showed and sent a note saying he left her so she killed herself and then decided to haunt a life raft.”

“Maybe she died building the life raft,” someone else suggests. “Like in the factory?”

You all agree that that’s the most logical explanation. She must have been a life raft factory worker who died building the life raft so she haunted it.

Just then her apparition appears. You tell her you think that she died building a life raft and you want her to know her death wasn’t for nothing. That life raft she built is saving all of your lives.

“I never worked in a life raft factory you dumbasses,” she screams. “Time to take another one of you.”

She goes to the back of the boat and reaches her ghostly arm into a woman’s mouth, then pulls her insides out of her mouth until she’s turned the woman inside out completely.

You all help shove the spasming bloody inside out woman into the water. You have ten more hours to again guess why the ghost is haunting that life raft before she pulls the internal organs from another one of you.

Happy Haunted Life Raft Day!

Why You’ll Never Close The Party Store Day!

Tell him that your mother couldn’t afford to throw you a birthday party with the money she made working as a grocery store cashier.

“So she got a job at the party store, which would give her an employee discount so she could buy me some balloons.”

She kept looking for a better job, but one never came along. And since you kept having birthdays, she ended up trapped in that party store job.

“But soon she got an even better employee discount. And I got even more balloons on my birthday.”

It became your mom’s goal to get you so many birthday balloons that you’d be in danger of floating away. So she started sabotaging her coworkers, framing them for stealing from the register etc., and as they got fired one by one, she got promoted.

“But the real employee discount would come if she owned a piece of the store,” tell him. “If she owned a piece of the store, she’d be able to get balloons at cost.”

So your mom seduced the store owner and carried on an affair for a few months, making sure that his wife would find out and divorce him. The party store owner was so infatuated with how giving a lover your mom was that he married her as soon as the divorce went through.

“As his new wife, she was part owner of the store. I got so many balloons. But that wasn’t enough for my mom. Her new husband was too controlling over the store’s inventory and he wouldn’t buy the right balloons sometimes.

It was a slow-acting poison that she put into his food in small doses over the course of several months. When he died, the doctors only said it was a degenerative illness of the blood that they couldn’t quite pin down. Your mom owned the store outright, and when she eventually died, she passed it on to you.

"I have this party store because my mom wanted me to have a good birthday. And she devoted her life to giving me that good birthday by systematically climbing through the ranks of the store’s staff, seducing the owner, and eventually murdering him. And you want me to close it down?”

Your husband will say he was only thinking you might want to work less and be with your daughter more.

“I’ll be with my daughter when it matters. I’ll be with her on her birthday. She’ll know me because I’ll be the one behind the giant ass fucking wad of sick motherfucking balloons.”

Your husband will shrug. Increase the dose of poison in his food tonight.

Happy Why You’ll Never Close The Party Store Day!

Six Ways To Make Your Friend Be Attracted To You Sexually Day!

There are only six ways to get a good platonic friend to become attracted to you sexually. Let’s count them down backwards, though it should be noted that number six is no less effective than number 1. Sexual attraction is sexual attraction, period. Anyway, here they are.

6. Show your friend how physically attractive you are. Ask your friend, “Which body parts do you like?” If your friend says “Boobs” or “Feet” or “Nostrils,” tell your friend, “I have some of those!” Then prove it. Your friend will probably go, “Want! Oh Christ. I want your dying bag of blood and guts. Want to stuff it inside me and stuff me inside it. Shit!” Then start sex.

5. Show your friend what an attractive mind you have. Ask your friend what they want from an erotic partner intellectually. Your friend will probably be like, “I want to talk to my erotic partner about books.” So you should say, “I’ve read books. Four books.” Say that even if you haven’t because who has? Your friend will demand to know which books. Tell your friend, “I’ll only tell you which books after 10,000 sessions of intercourse.” By the time the 10,000 sessions of intercourse is over and you tell your friend you lied about the books, it won’t matter because you had intercourse 10,000 times which is enough.

4. Smell like stuff that turns your friend on. If your friend thinks a sexy night is a cozy time spent by the fire, cover yourself in the ashes of the nearest arson aftermath. If your friend is turned on by lavender because that’s what your friend’s mom used to wear before she died and it became a sex trigger in a weird way, pour a vat of lavender over your head then shove your friend’s face against your body until your friend is visibly aroused.

3. Taste attractive. Oysters are an aphrodisiac so rub yourself with oysters. The next time your friend licks you, the taste of oysters will make your friend think, “Wow. I was just platonically licking my friend like I always do, but this time for some reason I’m turned on.” Next comes nudity then comes the wedding then kids then death.

2. Give your friend all your money. Tell your friend, “I want you to have everything you want in life. Here’s everything I have.” Your friend will feel obligated to pleasure you sexually, which is the most awesome thing for your friend to feel obligated to do.

1. Change your wardrobe and your physical appearance so that you look exactly like your friend. We’re living in a narcissistic age and sometimes friends won’t be attracted to you because they’re too into themselves. So get plastic surgery to look exactly like your friend. That way, loving you will be the same as self-love. Sex with you will be no different than masturbation. You should also change your personal beliefs so that you and your friend agree on absolutely everything and there is never any discord whatsoever between the two of you. Enjoy being so loved by your friend you’ll both lose your grasp of the boundaries of personal consciousness and go mad!

Happy Six Ways To Make Your Friend Be Attracted To You Sexually Day!

A Hang Glider Just Crashed Into Your House Day!

His hang glider is implanted into the siding along the second floor.

“Fuck!” you shout. “I can’t have this now!”

“Mmph!” he mumbles. His head’s stuck in your house.

“Goddammit!” you shout. “The teen I seduced just killed my husband and he’s supposed to get rid of the body but with you faceplanted into the side of my house and your stupid giant kite hanging over the lawn for everyone to see, the news crews are gonna be here any minute.”

Mmph!“ he mumbles.

"Sorry dickface, but the murder just got pinned on you.”

And so your husband will forever be remembered as having been killed by some guy who thought he could commit a murder and then escape by hang gliding off the roof but then the wind just crashed him back into the house. You’ll make a killing from the life insurance, yo.

Happy A Hang Glider Just Crashed Into Your House Day!

Waaaaaay Before Sunrise Day!

Her Courtyard By Marriott hotel room has a balcony in the middle of an office plaza that looks out on a dark corporate sprawl of office buildings. She sits out there drunk at 1 am when she sees a guy in a suit walk out of one of the buildings.

“Working hard or hardly working?” she shouts down to him.

“I don’t fucking need this!” he shouts back to her. “I just found out my company is doing business with the mafia!”

She apologizes. “I was just having some fun,” she says. “Drunk. You know.”

“Well maybe think about who you yell stuff at next time!” the guy shouts. “I thought I was working for a legitimate firm. But it turns out, they’re doing business with the mafia!”

“Want a drink?” she asks.

He climbs up the balconies to hers and they enjoy Scotch together.

“What do you think I’m gonna do?” he says after she asks him what he’s going to do about the mafia thing. “I’m going to report it to the local police station as soon as the sun rises.”

“What if we’re still making love?” she asks him.

They make love but they finish waaaaaay before the sun rises.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” she says when they’re laying in the afterglow like, seriously, hours before the sun comes up. “But if you rat on the mafia, that’s probably what will happen.”

“Could you do it?” he asks. “Could you go on working for a firm that does business with the mafia?”

“Yeah. Who cares? Besides, the mafia’s cool.”

He catches her drift and decides to not care who his firm does business with and so he becomes rich instead of dying, plus he had sex earlier (waaaaaay before sunrise),

Happy Waaaaaay Before Sunrise Day!

Fun Couple Day!

He slams the vacuum cleaner against the carpet to try to shake loose whatever’s stuck up there.

“Maybe you vacuumed up some of my dreams?” his wife says over the rim of her highball glass.

He jokingly searches the inside workings of the vacuum looking for her dreams.

“Don’t see any of those in here,” he says with a chuckle.

“Check the garbage disposal. Maybe you shoved my dreams down there! I haven’t seen them in so long, maybe you ground them up in the sink blades like they were just some leftover kale leaves from last night’s forgettable dinner!”

He jokingly checks the garbage disposal to see if there are any dreams in it.

“Nope. No dreams down there!” he shouts jovially.

“Maybe you threw them out with the trash. My dreams are so old and neglected that I could see you mistaking them for garbage. Did you happen to take my dreams and stuff them into a garbage can with the stripped toilet paper rolls, the soiled q-tips, and the junk mail pleas for charitable donations that we tear up and throw away without even fucking reading?!”

He jokingly goes down to the sidewalk to untie the garbage bags and root through the trash searching for her dreams.

“Can’t find any dreams in these Hefty cinch sacks!” he shouts up at their window.

She opens the window and shouts back at him, “Have you checked the grille and tires of our car? Take a flashlight and inspect the grille and tires for the blood of my dreams! You might have accidentally run down my dreams some night when you weren’t paying any goddamn attention to them. So you obliterated them against the grille of the car, then dragged them under the tires. Then to be sure they were dead you might have shifted into reverse and backed over my dreams until the life bled out of them into the street. Then you might have peeled away without even bothering to get out of the car to try and help.”

He jokingly goes upstairs to grab a flashlight, and then jokingly heads out to the car to inspect the grille and tires. There’s blood everywhere.

Back in the apartment, “My God, you drove home? I begged you never to drive when you’re like this.”

“He came out of nowhere. I thought I could live with the guilt but I can’t.”

When she finishes her drink, he takes her to the police station so she can turn herself in for the hit and run.

“Honey,” she barks at him. “Check the other jail cells for my dreams! See if they’ve been locked up in here for life without the possibility of parole.”

He asks the police if he can jokingly check the jail cells for his wife’s dreams, but the police remind him that a man is dead. This is no time for jokes.

Happy Fun Couple Day!