My girlfriend is perfect

My girlfriend is perfect. She's exactly like Ayn Rand.

Even the way we met was like how Ayn Rand met her husband. I was walking out of the student center on my way to Intro to American Lit when I tripped and pretty much busted right on the cement outside. My hands were pretty scraped up and I was pretty pissed, but then I looked up and there was this girl. She had these enormous, gorgeous brown eyes. And she looked even more pissed than me!

She told me that I had run into her and I should apologize. Whoa, this girl was throwing me for a loop! But I realized she was right; I hadn't looked when I was coming out of the door. So I said I was really, really sorry. Then she told me I could make it up to her by reading this book that she was carrying. It was this really thick paperback book that was all creased up and had bent corners.

It was The Fountainhead. She had written her e-mail inside the front cover.

Of course, Ayn Rand didn't give her future husband Frank O'Conner a copy of The Fountainhead -- she hadn't even written it yet! Plus, there wasn't e-mail. But she did trip him on purpose because she fell in love with him from afar and that's how they met. I know all these things now because of Anne. She's my girlfriend.

Anne has changed my life so much, in so many amazing ways. Actually, let me say that again. Anne has helped me change my own life so much, in so many egocentric and ideal ways. One of the first things she helped me change was my major. I used to be an English major. I even kind of used to think about being a writer sometimes. But Anne looked at some of my essays and poems and then she did the virtuous and right thing: she told me the truth. Basically, she said I simply wasn't good at writing (as you can tell!) and didn't show any promise and that all that American "literature" was fogging my brain anyway.

She was right! I remember even when I kind of liked something we were reading, like The Sound and the Fury, that I also thought it had a really basically evil philosophy underneath it. The kind of thing that's all about how "feeble" and "stupid" and "parasitic" mankind is. Thanks to Anne, and Ayn, I realized how evil that was. I'm a Business major now. I'm going to start my own company when I graduate next year.

But I'm talking so much about myself! I mean, I should be, because my pursuit of my own happiness is my greatest virtue, and I like talking about myself, so I'm very virtuous when I do that. But Anne deserves so much of my respect. And everybody's respect! She is the single smartest and intelligent and independent and just really moral and respectable person that I've ever met. I bet that if Ayn Rand were alive today, she would really like Anne. She'd let her into the Collective, which was the ironic name for Ayn Rand's group of friends. Because she was for the individual, triumphant spirit of man, not the Communist collective so-called "greater good."

Anyway. Anne. She is very attractive to me. Her eyes are just so pretty and big. She's always looking at something! Figuring it out. Analyzing it. And then she'll make this really smart joke about it and I'll laugh. Sometimes I'll laugh even when I don't understand the joke, but I shouldn't do that. It's dishonest. It makes me feel like a parasite of her genius.

I need to earn her love. She's right when she says that. I told her that I loved her a few months ago, but she couldn't tell me it back because I hadn't earned it yet, even though I had hoped maybe she had already fallen in love with me like how Ayn Rand fell in love with Frank O'Conner just by looking at him.

But that's not how it is with us and it's my fault. I'm like Eddie Willers in Ayn Rand's incredible novel Atlas Shrugged. I just kind of go along with the flow and don't like to assert myself too much even though I know that I need to assert myself and get what I want because getting what I want in life is the moral thing to do, and we all should do that and not interfere with each other's lives and pay each other if we use each other's services. I need to be an individual for her. For myself. I need to be more like an individual.

She does enjoy what I can provide for her, though. She likes when I tickle her when we're in bed. She thinks I'm good at sex, which is something she really likes. She says I have a face like "Howard Roark's brother," and she'll never meet Howard Roark, so his brother is almost as good. Sometimes, when I'm feeling really relaxed or tired, I'll say something that just comes into my head and she'll give me this look like she's shocked and then she'll smile just a little bit. I know when I make her happy.

It's not as much as she makes me happy. Not even close. But I'll have plenty of time to make the balance right. I think we'll be together for the rest of our lives.

Dear UPS guy

Dear UPS guy,

Please leave any packages for Theo Haynes on top of the orange and white tabby cat sleeping on the porch. I just think it would be funny if I came home and my package was still sitting right on top of my cat.

Thanks for indulging me,

Theo

***

Dear UPS guy,

Okay, I know it was kind of an unusual request about the cat, but when I came home it was apparent you hadn't even tried to put the package on top of him. The package was sitting right outside my screen door, which is not where Wrinkle ever sleeps, so it's not like he got up and the package slid off of him.

If you're reading this, then my other package has arrived. Please, just do me a tiny favor and place that package on top of my cat's soft little body. He won't even wake up! That's the funny thing! He's a real sleepyhead.

Thanks a million,

Theo

***

Dear UPS guy,

Come on. Is it really that big of a deal? It's not like I'm going to get you in trouble or anything. I'm asking you to do this! And the thing is: nothing's going to happen. That's the whole point! Wrinkle doesn't do a thing all day. He just sleeps and sleeps, in that same spot. You know precisely what spot I'm talking about, too, because twice now you've seen Wrinkle sleeping there, thought about doing me just the tiniest possible favor to brighten my day, and decided against it.

Please. We've met each other a couple of times before when you delivered packages. Your name is Darius? You seemed like a good guy.

Just prop today's package up on my cat's torso.

Thank you so so much,

Theo

***

Marcus,

I'm sorry I got your name wrong. It's not a racial thing, if that's what you think. I just don't have a great memory.

You mentioned in your note that you "cannot comply" with my request because UPS practices do not allow "package placement that may result in a lawsuit." It hurts my feelings that you would say that. I'm not trying to get you in trouble, Marcus! In fact, I swear to you right now, I will not sue you or UPS. You can take this note as proof!

Let's not get ourselves tangled up in "lawsuits" and "cannot comply." This is just one man, Theo Haynes, asking another man, Marcus (what's your last name?), to put a box on top of a cat. It's as simple as that. Accidental rhyme (haha)!

Please,

Theo

p.s. I may have dropped a small amount of U.S. currency on my way out the front door this morning.

***

Marcus,

See that FedEx box on top of Wrinkle? That's funny, isn't it? Not kneeslappingly funny. Just kind of funny. Mildly amusing, you might say. Something to bring a smile to a chronically depressed man's face when he gets home from his job that he is too numb toward to hate anymore. That's all I wanted from you, Marcus.

But you refused. You wouldn't even take my money. Well, guess what, Marcus? I found someone else. Someone who doesn't mind placing lightweight or even somewhat medium-weight boxes on top of a cat if the cat owner requests it.

His name is Randall. He works for FedEx. He is better at his job than you.

I will not be having items delivered by UPS anymore.

Farewell,

Theo

***

Marcus,

Wrinkle is dead and it's all my fault. I know it's been months since you've been here. You probably were hesitant, maybe even frightened, to walk up my steps. I don't blame you. I blame me.

Randall did whatever I told him to do. At first, it was just one package. Then two. Then three. Then a tower of packages with Wrinkle at the top. Then a fort. Then a maze.

I was spending thousands of dollars a week on shipping alone.

Then, one day, when Randall was constructing a suspension bridge with Wrinkle in the middle, the whole thing collapsed. Wrinkle was crushed. Randall was fired. I was devastated.

You were vindicated.

I just wanted you to know that. Please forgive me for everything I said.

And please leave any packages for me right next to the screen door.

Thanks,

Theo

The House in the Woods

Every Friday, I am writing and posting an installment of a new children's story called The House in the Woods. Click here for previous installments.


"What does it mean?"

The boy's voice startled Melissa. A sound like "Wah!" jumped out of her throat before she could stop it, which made her mad. How had the boy just snuck up on her like that without her hearing? Sure, she had been busy double-checking the contents her survival bookbag, but...

"What?" Melissa said, spinning around to face him. She put her fists on her hips for emphasis.

In answer to her question, the boy simply pointed to her bike.

And with that, Melissa had had it with the silence thing. It was one thing to be quiet when you were angry because somebody had spilled your golf balls. It was another, totally obnoxious thing to be quiet after you asked that somebody a question that didn't make sense.

"Say it," she said. "Say what you mean."

The boy squinted at her and tilted his head to the side, as if he were trying to figure out if she was crazy. Then he let out a big breath through his nose and looked down at the ground. "Girl Exploder," he said, putting the emphasis on the word "girl."

Melissa felt suddenly off balance. "What about it?"

"What does it mean?"

Melissa realized she didn't know. She had never thought about what "Girl Exploder" meant, and her mother had never asked her. It just was what it was: awesome.

"I don't know," she said, putting some annoyance in her voice.

"Does it mean you explode girls? Or does it mean you explode?"

"I. Don't. Know."

"I was just wondering because..."

"Gah! I wish you'd be quiet again," Melissa said, wrapping her arms her chest.

The boy looked like she'd just kicked him in the privates. Then his eyes narrowed and he turned away from her and started to run back where they'd just come from -- the pond at the bottom of the waterfall.

"Wait!" Melissa said. She ran after him. She was a fast runner, but he was fast, too, and shorter, so he ducked easily under branches that scraped her face. Melissa kept saying "Stop!" and "Ow!"

The boy didn't stop until he'd returned to the edge of the pond. His two plastic bags full of golf balls sat upright against a tree. He walked over to one, yanked a ball off the top of the pile, and threw it right into the pond, just as he'd done with the orange ball when she'd gotten it back for him. She didn't know much about this boy, but she knew that when he threw golf balls into the pond, that meant he was pretty angry.

And this time it really was completely her fault.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The boy stared at the water.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

The boy ignored her again.

Melissa wanted to just say "Fine!" and leave. She didn't even know this boy's name. And he was acting all upset like a girl.

But if she was going to do this thing that she had planned to do, she would have to be nice. She couldn't be like the way she was back in her old city, before they'd moved. She needed people to help her. She needed people to like her. She needed to be ... nice.

"I'll give you your orange ball back," she said. "Okay? I'm sorry." She tossed the orange ball toward him. It landed on the dirt next to his shoe and rolled a little ways in front of him.

"I can't even use that," he said. At least, that's what Melissa thought he said. But it didn't make sense, so maybe he'd said something else. He was still looking away from her.

I tried, Melissa thought. I tried.

She had apologized. Three times. And she had given him the orange ball back. It was all she had. And it was a lot, especially from her.

Melissa started to turn away, resigned to finally just leaving this stubborn, silent, weird boy by himself with his two bags of usable white golf balls and one unusable orange one.

Then she realized she still had something. Something big.

And he still had something she wanted.

"I'll tell you a secret," she said.

The boy turned his head just a little.

"It's a good one," she said. "I'll tell you what it is if you forgive me."

Slowly, the boy turned back around. The look on his face suggested he thought she was going to throw something at him.

"Okay," he said.

"Do you forgive me?" she said.

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll tell you my secret."

The boy nodded.

Melissa said, "I'm running away."

"No," the boy said. But his eyes said that he believed her entirely, and that he was in awe.

"Yes," Melissa said, smiling. "Now you have to show me where that house is."

Faile

Click through the picture to vote for my first and only Failblog submission! I'm serious!

[UPDATE: So, I misinterpreted the Failblog upload instructions and apparently the people behind Failblog have to first post this photo on the Vote page before you can officially vote for it. But then why is there a cheeseburger ranking system on the link that's currently available? I will notify you if/when you can actually vote for it (if you want to).

I suppose all of this counts as an actual Fail.]

Yes/No/Maybe: Some idiot's overblown music reviews

LP by Discovery. Most reviews I've seen refer to this as a "great summer album," but I want to go on record as stating that this is probably a great album for all seasons, with the possible exception of Autumn. Time will tell, I suppose! I mean, I get why people think of this as a summer album: the album is being released in summer, and it's fun and light and poppy. I get that. But a beautiful pop treat like "Osaka Loop Line" or "So Insane" is valuable during Spring ("When the world is a-bloomin'" - Nobody), Summer (when you find yourself on a rooftop drinking a Bud Light), or Winter (when it's cold as shit outside and you want to warm your soul up). In fact, you should probably abstain from listening to it during Fall so that when you scroll through your music selections in January, hoping for something to pick you up, and you find Discovery just sitting there waiting to be listened to, it'll pack even more of a punch.

[Additional Note: There is a remix of "I Want You Back" on here that predates MJ's death. When I first heard it last week or so, it struck me as kind of gross. I mean, "I Want You Back" is already a perfect song, so why would you fuss it up with Autotune? But when I stopped being dumb and began thinking of it as just a different version of the song rather than an attempt to improve it, my assessment of it really skyrocketed and now it's one of my favorite tracks on the album. Check all the tracks before you buy them, if you're the kind of person who likes to make up his or her own mind rather than trusting some idiot's overblown music reviews.]

Far by Regina Spektor. This album is Regina Spektor being really Regina Spektor-y. If that sounds like something you'd like, check it out. If that sounds like something you wouldn't like, I don't blame you. If that sounds like something you don't understand, I don't blame you, either. (That was a lie: I do blame you. Just a little bit, though.)

Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!: Seasons 1 and 2. Usually when people use the word "Lynchian" or the phrase "It's like a David Lynch movie," they just mean something is weird and/or frightening. And those adjectives are certainly applicable to a lot of the sketches and segues on this show. But this show really is Lynchian in how it focuses on the psychological terror of the inexplicable and the soul-killing aspects of television/commercials/movies. That to me is one of the more interesting aspects of this show -- how much it plays up the darkness that is inherent in the best humor, to the point that it sometimes overwhelms the humor.

That said, there are some really hilarious sketches throughout this show. "Spaghett!" is just ridiculously funny, as is Zach Galifianakis as the Snuggler. THAT said, there are a lot of sketches that met my expectations of this show, which were Weird = Funny, which I don't think is a true equation without a few more variables (I'm a math genius and a metaphor genius). Ultimately, though, I think these dudes really have done something new with comedy and deserve the comedy nerd praise I have resisted for quite some time now.

Blast off

[Via Buzzfeed]

Big Gulps

You're not the only one who can push a pretty stroller around to a dentist's office soundtrack

[Via Buzzfeed]

Brevity

If you're not in the mood to read a kinda long piece about apocalyptic fireworks (see below), please check out Yankee Pot Roast, where they re-published several (relatively short) Founding Fathers-inspired pieces, including one of mine, this past Independence Day.

The Sixth of July

I'm still in the basement. I can see a little sunlight coming through the tiny window over in the corner. The smoke must be settling, finally.

My watch says it's 7:06 a.m. July 6th. 2009.

I wanted to write this down so that people will know what happened and who was responsible for what. I was there the whole time. I saw all of it.

All day, before it started, people were scared. But they tried not to show it. The Barkers and the Inlights and the Natts all had BBQs with all the fixings and burgers and all of that. Seth and I snatched like six Coors Lights from the Inlights' cooler when nobody was looking.

We needed it because we knew what was going to happen. Seth told me how his dad had gotten on a flight to Asia somewhere--he didn't even know where, specifically, because his dad wouldn't say--just to stock up. I had been telling him for weeks how my dad had sealed off the basement, the basement I'm in right now, and went down there at night. Whenever I saw him come out, I'd try to look angry, but he always just smiled, like he understood why I was angry but he didn't care.

None of the dads cared. Every year, they started spending more and more money and time on these insaner and insaner fireworks to the point where it wasn't even fun anymore. It was just dangerous. And I'm not even a wuss about that stuff. Last year, that little girl Breanna got the tip of her ear burned by a flying rocket. That's serious.

People were getting super-drunk, almost like they were trying to pass out before everything started so they wouldn't have to go. Seth and I jumped from BBQ to BBQ and you could start to see people's moms getting really freaked out just by how much they were talking and how they were laughing like they were literally crazy.

It started to get dark. The lightning bugs hovered and blinked. Seth squashed a few of them until I told him to stop. Normally, I wouldn't care, but it just felt weird that night.

By sunset, everybody on the whole street was gathered in the usual spot in front of the Jenkins' house. I don't know why it's always been the Jenkins' house. But this year, instead of people talking and whispering all excited and people handing out sparklers and maybe even shooting off a couple of bottle rockets just to give people a little scare, everybody was pretty much just silent, pretending like they were having a good time. Everybody appeasing the dads.

Mr. Jenkins started, as usual. He clapped once and the sound echoed between the houses. Then he yelled, "Alright, let's do this!" A couple of people clapped. Mr. Jenkins and his little son, Greg, dragged a red wagon to the center of the street. The wheels creaked so loud. "This one's called 'Independence Day'!" he said, and then he brought the stove lighter to the side of the box inside the wagon. The fuse started to spark and he ran away. I bit my lip and crossed my arms over my chest.

It was one of those multi-stage boxes of firecrackers and there was a lot of stuff flying off into the air and popping noises and the wagon rocked a little bit from the force of it all. But it was so normal compared to what everybody was expecting that we all just started to laugh and clap. The dads weren't going to kill everyone after all.

Then Mr. Nicerty started dragging something down his driveway. He and Mrs. Nicerty and their daughter, Simone, who's like nine maybe, were pulling this big box by these ropes that were attached to it. It was so awkward to watch but nobody helped them. We realized that Mr. Jenkins had been an exception, that he was maybe trying to stop people by setting a weak first example. But obviously there were a lot of explosives in the Nicerty's box, and they were going to blow them up no matter what Jenkins did.

Finally the Nicertys dragged the box--it was as tall as Simone--to the middle of the street, and Simone and Mrs. Jenkins speed-walked back to their yard. Mr. Nicerty turned to everybody and said, "Everyone please take a few steps back." Most people did. Seth and I didn't. None of the dads did.

Mr. Nicerty pulled a long tube out of his pocket, inserted it somewhere in the side of the box, and lit the end of it. The whole time he looked like he wanted to be already running away. Finally he did. "This one's called the Light!" I think he said. The fuse glowed bright green at first and changed to gold as it moved toward the box. Then it disappeared and, for a couple of seconds, nothing happened. People were just about to start laughing at Mr. Nicerty's box when a big white light like a powerful spotlight shot straight out of the top of the box. People shielded their eyes, but we didn't. It didn't hurt your eyes. There was a whining sound.

Then the light stopped and the edges of the box opened up and there was a dark form that looked like a demon or an angel. It was hunched over and naked, I guess, and there was a dark red haze around it. People were absolutely dead silent. I was frozen. I couldn't even look at Seth right next to me.

The thing spread its wings. They were enormous and scaly and had little claws at the ends of them, I think, so I figured it was a demon right then. Everything was still completely quiet. And then the thing opened its jaws and screamed. I was sure I was about to die with everybody else.

Then it flew over to the Barkers' pickup truck and started ripping apart and eating pieces of what was in the back of it. Most people were running away screaming, but Mr. Barker and his brother started yelling at the thing, telling it to stop tearing apart the "Dragon Machine Gun." I remember thinking how fucking stupid that was, that they were yelling at a demon instead of running away from it.

I heard Mr. Thierry yell, "No, you don't!" Then he ran back to his yard and drew the blue tarp back from the big hole he'd been digging for months. Everybody had assumed it was yard work. But I guess it was actually some kind of portal. These dark blobs with sparkles inside of them floated out of the hole and Mr. Thierry pointed in the direction of the demon and said, "I command thee to strike." The blobs sort of joined together into one big sparkly black blob and shot across the street toward the demon. "See how you like Earth Spirit Stars!" Thierry yelled.

I didn't see how that turned out because right then there was a huge explosion down the street. A fireball--a real goddamn fireball taller than a house--bloomed into the sky. I couldn't tell where it came from. At this point, everybody was running except the dads and Seth and me. I figured it might be time to run. I turned to Seth to say so. Then I saw that he was on the ground. His eyes were wide open and there was a rocket in his chest, still sparking from the end. I don't know how I knew for sure he was dead, but I knew for sure he was dead.

Then I saw Dad. He was carrying something that looked like a small vase. He ran to the center of the street, set the vase on the ground, and stood up. "Behold! The Igniter of Dreams!" he yelled over the sounds of destruction. Then he realized nobody was there except me. We looked at each other and I tried to communicate with my eyes--because I knew I wouldn't be able to speak words right then--that I really didn't want him to do whatever he was about to do.

"I'm sorry," he said. Then struck the vase with a hammer. It broke open with a crash. Then the tops of all the trees in the neighborhood instantly went up in flame.

I ran inside. There was shouting and whooshing and crashing and exploding all behind me and everything smelled like smoke. The basement door was open, for the first time in months. I ran down in there, shut and locked the door behind me, and waited for my mom and sister to come and knock on the door. If my dad had come, I wouldn't have opened it.

But nobody came. Not that night and not all yesterday. There were more explosions and even yelling sometimes yesterday morning and afternoon, but then all that stopped. I decided to sleep in here. I think I got a few hours of sleep, but it felt more like I was wide awake.

My watch says 7:28 a.m. If I'm going out there, I should go now. I found this old backpack I used to use and filled it with the bottled water and trail mix that was down here. And a flashlight and batteries. There isn't much else down here that would be useful.

There are two vases standing on Dad's workshop bench. They are simple, light brown vases made of some kind of fragile clay. One has a red dot on it. The other has a black dot on it. I don't know if I should take them so they don't fall into the wrong hands or if I should just leave them here.

Anyway, if you're reading this, whoever you are, now you know who's responsible. Not that you can really do anything about it probably. But it kind of helps to know, at least. Or maybe it doesn't.

I think I'm going to just leave the vases. Maybe you'll know what to do with them.