Somebody emails you. They’re checking in to see how you’re doing. Such a nice thought. They ask a few questions — where are you at in your career, in your mind, in your life. How was your experience of the most recent holiday or vacation? How is your family?
You answer all their questions, hoping to strike up a consistent correspondence. And accordingly, to return their empathy, you ask them questions to see how they themselves are doing.
But they never respond! They never follow up.
I’m not mad when stuff like this happens. People are busy. People are far away. Writing is hard. I just want to know — does this phenomenon have an established academic name?
I have wronged you.
I screwed up yesterday.
And I’ve screwed up for years.
I’ve wronged you, in ways, means, actions
That seem to be filled with malice
But oft I wrong without rhyme or reason
Simply put, I don’t understand myself
I ask, can you resolve my past?
Or better yet, except me from
your Laws. Raise a wormhole
Please, just this once
I hate regret.
And I want to be the most badass two-year-old ever.
2, 3, 5, 7, 11. (I’ll skip 10). These numbers are of prime importance in storytelling.
They are also all prime numbers.
I was daydreaming about being the frontman of a band today. (Not that I’d wish the hazards and suffering of touring and dealing with stolen equipment upon myself.)
And I had a thought — wouldn’t it be downright chill-inducing badass if a band opened a set in this manner?
A cover of the Breaking Bad opening theme, segueing into
a cover of the opening credits song of The Wire (Tom Waits’ “Way Down in the Hole”), segueing into
a cover of the Mad Men title sequence track, RJD2’s “A Beautiful Mine,” followed by
Louie Louie Louie Louieeeeeeee, followed by
the churn and grind of Ramin Djawadi’s Game of Thrones “Main Title.”
At least, I would get the chills from that.
Judging by the goosebumps I felt while watching The Ohio State Marching Band’s tribute to video games, I also wouldn’t mind if a college band did that TV show opening theme set.
My hair is trying to bankrupt me. Or my stylist has summoned the cursed power of his ancestors upon me to make my hair grow faster.
I just got my mug cut two weeks ago. It’s already overflowing. I wake up, and boom, it shoots up to the right and I have to shower and shampoo again because my hair filaments are made of steel, not keratin, and simply dousing my head in water does not work.
I tell ya, any more of these metrosexual Asian hair cuts and I won’t be able to get sufficient protein in for the rest of the year.
I will be forced to choose between my hair and protein.
Good Lord, think about that sentence, “I will be forced to choose between my hair and protein.”
How narcissistic does that sound?