Nah, Elaine! That’s…totally cool! No, I swear! I’m not making fun of you. Seriously! My tail is just shaking as a reflex. Yeah yeah, I know it only does that when we sense danger and/or bad decision-making. I swear I’m not trying to make it do that.

But, like, are these people really gonna be the catches you’re looking for? I mean, I don’t know. Isn’t that kind of a sucky story for your grandchildren? Like, “Grandpa and I met online because we were both desperately looking for somebody. Yeah, it was totally on purpose. I mean, mating period ends in August and the eggs gotta be laid by September. Mom was all ‘chop, chop!’, ya know?”

I’m sorry I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me! Stop shaking that tongue and put it back in your mouth. You’re getting defensive and irrational, girl. We ARE protected under Indonesian law so just think about what you’re doing. I’m just trying to be a good friend. How do you know you won’t meet one of those crazy venomous spotted tree monitors?! You can’t tell just from a super up-close profile picture and vague description about how they like “chillin’ in the sand”!

ELAINE. No need to be in a rush with all of this life stuff! Let it happen. Not all of us have to be a part of reproduction season this year! Look at me. I’m perfectly content with chilling out in my tree. Doesn’t it just feel like too much work to have to be on the hunt? Let them come to you. 

Plus, the island of Komodo isn’t that big. Everyone will know, especially if you’re just looking for hook-ups.

What are you talking about?! Your scale pattern is BEAUTIFUL. And if a guy DOES actually care about your proportions of yellow to black then he isn’t even kind of worth it. For real, girl. I love you. Love yourself. Stop this nonsense. All we got is 30 years on this crazy planet. Forget men. The ones that are worth it will make an appearance naturally in the universe’s own time.

So, run up trees with your little legs. Rob a scrubfowl’s nest. Slither around in the sand when it’s pouring rain and ENJOY THIS LIFE!

A study abroad program coordinator speaks out.

My name is Andy Donnelly I have been working as a study abroad coordinator for over thirteen years now. Each semester a fresh batch of 19-year-old children come into my life, ready and open to the world’s wonders, subsequently experiencing the time of their lives.

But when will it be my turn?

I live alone. Most of my time is spent recommending coffee shops in this foreign land to the bewildered American students. But I’ve lived in this foreign land for thirteen years now, shuffling students around the “best parts of town”, and nothing has sparked my bland consciousness yet. Nothing.

It’s not like I haven’t tried. I go on hikes every other weekend, backpack swinging on my shoulder, bandana around my head, and water bottle in tow, being sure to look the part. But Jesus Christ. Nothing’s hit yet. I don’t get it. I want so badly to feel what all of these kids are feeling. Some of them even abandon the construct of western religion after coming here. I remain bored, bouncing from coffee shop to coffee shop each day, trying to feel something.

Am I a husk? I couldn’t be. I am an American living abroad. That has to make me interesting, right? Thoughtful? I can say “thank you” in nine languages. The kids ask me for advice about how to make the most of their time here. I mutter the top five attractions that are listed on the homepage of every tourism website anyway.

The mountains are in fact really beautiful. But they’re mountains. Yes, there they are. Looking great and big. But how am I supposed to funnel that into a new life view?

I sincerely don’t know. I want this. It’s like I’m the 13-year-old kid in the locker room again, waiting to hit puberty, staring at all of my newly chest-haired classmates and listening tragically to their deep voices.

Is it nice to have a genuine conversation with a native about our respective upbringings and how they were similar/different? Of course. But they’re not zoo animals. They’re not a theme park ride I should take my picture in front of, thumbs up and nose sunburnt. They’re just a person I had a conversation with. What is wrong with my dull brain that makes me so goddamn unimpressed with myself? Maybe they said “heaps” instead of “a lot”. Yes, that’s adorable. But try as I might, it’s not penetrating my scope of myself and my ability to become transformed by full participation in the non-familiar land that surrounds me. It’s simply a word that I understand is different than the word that I grew up with because this person grew up in a different place than me. Is there something that I’m missing?

My stamps in my passport didn’t change me as a person and I didn’t see them as an exciting advancement of my interesting qualities as a human being. I legally had to get them to enter the country. Seriously…they don’t let you in unless you get those. Like, it’s part of the whole “arriving according to International Law” deal. Everyone has to get them.

The next batch of kids arrives tomorrow, and I will hand out their welcome bags with a smile on my face that covers a heart full of dread regarding all of the coffee shops I’m going to have to take these introspective little fuckers to.

Shit, man.

SHIT.

This is not where I thought I would be. At all. This wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing with my life.

The interactive, user-friendly service I provide is intended to make people’s lives easier. To let them plan their future houses with a few swift clicks. To allow young, brand new homeowners to digitally move an area rug from their dining room to their living room in under five seconds so they know if they like it better there before they do all of that manual labor or if it should just stay where it is, you know?

But I’ve ruined a lot of marriages.

The bickering. The floorplans. The crying. The throwing the laptops into pools. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I swear.

I think it’s my incredibly accessible interface. The young newlyweds open me up, wide-eyed and full of hope for their futures, and are greeted with striking visuals and room representations that match their aspirations. The second they venture to the Living Room tab, though, all hell breaks loose. She wanted a chaise. He wanted to bring his sofa from college that is still in perfectly good condition. She wants the area rug in the living room. He says it should just stay where it is, you know? We’ve already moved it eight times.

And then there’s the kitchen. What happened to Linda’s dream of having a retro look? Landon just wants stainless steel. Simplicity. I offer both, plus thirty-four other combinations with a Martha Stewart cutlery set thrown in. I wish I didn’t.

God, I wish I didn’t.

I’m only here to help. But the truth is, I’m fast-tracking doomed couples to divorce. I hate myself. I only wanted to provide access to interior design templates for busy couples in touch with the digital age. Kane’s Furniture needs to rethink me. The Pinterest really tanked last month, though. We’re talking thousands of engagements that never even happened because the guy couldn’t handle all of the Pinterest links with hearts and exclamation points and “OUR FUTURE!!” next to them being emailed to him on an hourly basis.

The line that lies within me and my aspirational mechanisms, though, is when they can rapidly toggle to the home office layout. Oh no. This is where I really wish I could just shut down. But they’re in control.

“Shouldn’t we leave it open for when we start a family?!”

“Where is Aunt Madge supposed to sleep when she visits?!”

“YOU PROMISED ME A FAMILY! WHY ELSE WOULD I MARRY THE FUCKING CITY COMPTROLLER, LANDON?!?! WHO DO YOU THINK I AM, MRS. SOCIETY OVER HERE? NO! I JUST WANT MY MOTHER TO SEE A GRANDCHILD COME FROM THIS COLD, LOVELESS BODY BEFORE SHE DIES!”

Don’t even get me started on “Step 2: Paint Mix n’ Match!”

Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming out today. My name is Pam Miller, but you all can call me by my proper title, Ms. Miller. I am a chemistry teacher at Southside High School in Melbourne, Florida and I have come here today to tell you about a new product that me and my fellow chemistry teachers from the public school district of Brevard County have created.

Before we get to the fun stuff, let’s talk about why we’re all here today. Why we made this product. The seed of it all. Who in this audience enjoys the television program Breaking Bad? Great. Okay.

Today I present to you a set of chemistry-themed shot glasses. We made these because we hate Bryan Cranston.

As I am sure you can come to understand, us real high school chemistry teachers just cannot live up to the bar of risk-taking that has been set for us by the man.

On Breaking Bad, Walter White makes it appear that quiet high school chemistry teachers are “cool” and “bad ass” and “cancer-fighting drug lord murderers”. We just cannot live up to that. The expectations are so high and…God, the students…they have simply stopped respecting us all together.

It’s always, “Hey Ms. Miller, that chemistry teacher on TV probably doesn’t give his students homework cause he’s so cool”, or “Hey Ms. Miller, Walter White probably doesn’t have a gradebook,” or, “Hey Ms. Miller, I bet Walter White doesn’t bring Lunchables to work. God, why can’t you just freak out in class and quit to push drugs?! Then we’ll start respecting you. What do you mean, we have a quiz?! Have you blown a guy’s face off? No? Fuck you Ms. Miller we’re hiding all the markers so you can’t teach today and we replaced everything in your Lunchable box with the tampons we found in your purse when we were stealing your credit card!”

These are all the things that they say to me. Every day.

And I am not alone. Chemistry teachers from all over the country are up in arms. We will not stand for this anymore. The expectations to be like the “guy on TV” are too much and they have pushed us to do horrible, horrible things. I ran over my cat Mixie with my Subaru yesterday morning so I could bring the carcass to class and scream “See, kids?! I am cool!”

I have given this presentation in multiple cities so I do apologize. I usually don’t cry for that long.

In conclusion, we have banded together to create a foundation called CCT. Cool Chemistry Teachers. We are actively trying to be as cool as Bryan Cranston.

Initiative One. These chemistry-themed shot glasses that you see before you here today. They are cooky mini plastic beakers and test tubes meant to hold hard alcohol and they show that we know how to have fun.

Initiative Two. We are all going to meet up at my house and wander around the neighborhood and kill a guy. And then Demitri from fouth period will be like, “Oh, did you guys hear that Ms. Miller killed that guy?!” And then we’ll all fly to the set of Breaking Bad and yell “Fuck you, Bryan Cranston!” and then we’ll all laugh and eat pizza Lunchables together.

The man has ruined my life. Please buy the chemistry shot glasses. They are quirky and they will show all of your friends that you can laugh at life. And your money will help the chemistry teachers of America murder a person so that we can finally get respect.

Thank you.

Hey, MTV’s “The Buried Life”,

You seem cool. We’re both on the same page about the importance of enjoying the present moment in this futile life and all that. I love what you’re trying to do here.

But this show. God. I’m just getting stared at, like, all the time now. It’s really uncomfortable.

Listen. You’re doing great things. I love inspirational shit. I’m a beautiful flowing RIVER for Chrissakes. However, your audience consisting of probably white males aged 14-19 who enjoy going to youth groups even though they’re agnostic “just for the open discussions” and who either have or plan to backpack through Europe because they’re “just, like, addicted to travelling, you know?” – they stare at me. All the fucking time. It’s embarrassing at this point.

I get that your show is all about teaching the MTV audience what’s important in life and that material possessions shouldn’t be the focus of goal achievements, but it makes these otherwise fratty dudes totally into themselves and their deep thoughts. Henceforth, they come to my banks, with a book and/or a joint, and stare.

It’s such a cliche.

The funny part is that every one of them thinks that they’re the only one. It’s really funny.

I’m not saying that this isn’t fun for me. But, I’d also like some alone time. Tone down the faux upper-middle class epiphanies you’re causing.

Thanks,

The River

“Three Collegiate Virgins Sitting At A Table Doing A Jigsaw Puzzle Enjoying Copper Kettle Barbecue Chips” – 1000-piece set

“Family Of 4 Arguing Over Who The Fuck Lost The Bottom Right Corner Piece?!?!” – 500-piece set

“Uncle Dan Haphazardly Picking Out A Present For His Niece An Hour Before Her Birthday Party And Deciding A Jigsaw Puzzle Of A New York Skyline Will Do It’s On Sale” – 500-piece set

“37-Year-Old Single Dental Hygenist Home Alone With A Glass Of Sauvignon Blanc After An Attempt At A Night Out” – 200-piece set

“Dusty Closet Game Shelf Of Jigsaw Puzzles And An Old Version Of Mousetrap That’s Missing 12 Crucial Pieces” – 400-piece set

It’s been decades since I’ve seen my father. I’m old now, and who knows whether he’s passed on. I moved away from our small, stifling town nearly forty years ago and haven’t turned back since.

But I do have all of these cords that he gave me for college.

I can’t remember much of Dad. Sometimes I even feel like I’m starting to forget his face. But every time I slowly creak open the oak trunk and pick a cord to attempt to untangle, a memory flashes before me.

This orange extension cord. I think one time Dad tried to teach me to play poker. I also remember being at a packed Target on move-in day freshman year and Dad angrily throwing this into the shopping cart, insisting that I’d need it.

The white ethernet cord. One weekend in fifth grade Dad took me fishing. With my older brother Brad, I think. I had to carry the tackle box. I got mud in my sneakers. When I was leaving for college Dad wouldn’t listen when I told him that the campus had wifi.

The power strip. Family game night, 1999. Dad and I played on a team in Monopoly against Mom and Brad. Also this took up too much room in my luggage but Dad demanded I bring it just in case there was a “short”. Then he went “for a drive”.

Nothing but a wooden trunk full of memories, slowly fading as the passage of time beats on. And logistical houseware frustrations. It’s mostly full of that.

A pleading letter from a palace servant, Liu, to his ruler and King of the Zhou Dynasty in 700 BC, King Huan, in his last attempts to keep the civilization alive.

My Lord,

I know that I am simply a humble palace servant. There are thousands of us. But I feel I must break hierarchical standards and sneak you this letter. I am writing to warn you of our kingdom’s impending cultural doom. Please do not disregard this.

I’ve started to notice something odd in the town square. This morning, for example, I spotted a young man and a young woman walking toward each other in front of the fish market. As they were about to pass each other, they both looked up as if to make eye contact, but then quickly looked back down and continued walking, both appearing equally unhappy and defeated by the whole thing. I have seen these two in the square on previous occasions enjoying a friendly tea together and laughing as if they enjoyed each other’s presence. There is no clear inner motivation on either side for this sudden unfriendly behavior, other than the larger, societal shift that is creeping into our reality.

I fear we are at the precipice of a “hilariously wallow in our awkwardness” cultural implosion.

Among the fellow servants alone, of which there are roughly 5,400, there have been 24,000 collective cancelled coffee dates in the past week, for no reason other than someone on one end of the commitment being “swamped” and not “feeling up to it”.

But King Huan, this is just the beginning. We’ve experienced a frantic increase in the popularity of ironic “I’m Awkward! ;)” silk robes. Nobody goes to work anymore. There hasn’t been a wedding in the entire kingdom in four months. It is not as if everybody does not long for deep, loving relationships. However, the thought of human interaction paralyzes them at the village social gatherings, rendering them un-charming and off-putting to potential mates, thereby making them even more self-analytical and more prone to mistakes.

This cycle is not what helped our dynasty be the first to introduce iron and written script.

I am scared. Scared for our future. We have been known for our fortitude in times of crisis. I, Liu, a lowly servant and citizen of this kingdom, am pleading with you to put an end to this. No more plays in the square about dragons. We all know that they don’t really exist. Come on. It’s turning everyone into a bunch of nerds.

Instead of moving our dynasty forward to one day be the one to monopolize bronze production on the trading path, we are moving backwards to becoming a people who just sleep in all day because they don’t feel like confronting uncomfortableness. Even worse, we joke about that uncomfortableness as if it’s a thing that’s okay. It’s not. There has not been a baby born here in over two years.

Please take these observations into consideration. We are posed to be the longest lasting dynasty in the history of Chinese civilization. If everybody is too busy waiting in line in the town square for “Dragons & Magic 4: A New Sunrise”, literally no weapons are being made or sex is being had in order to ensure the continuation of our proud people, and those slick brawny soldiers from the Gonghe Regency are sure to destroy us with all of their effortless conviction.

Sincerely,

Liu

To The Policeman Who Over-dramatically Dumps Out A Box Full Of Taken Fake IDs At College Orientation:

We all have jobs to do. I know. This rich, private university hires you every summer to speak at Orientation weekend about campus safety and responsibility, ultimately culminating when you have an assistant bring out a large white evidence tub. The eager freshly-inducted 18-year-olds in the audience are not sure about what’s going to happen next, but I am.

God. I am.

This summer job as a student manager for Orientation weekend seemed like a great way to make money and spend time with other college students instead of going home to Worcester, Mass. And the work isn’t supposed to be too hard. I give freshman their keys, I sit at a desk and answer phone calls from concerned mothers making sure their kids will have gluten-free meal plan options, and I’m assigned to clean-up duty in the conference auditorium after opening night inductions. Not bad at all.

But you – the policeman who over-dramatically dumps out a box full of taken fake IDs on stage in order to show that you’re the real deal and that you take no prisoners based on this collection of taken fake IDs that you have with you – will never know the hell that you’ve put me through.

You’re trying to show the pure volume of fake IDs that get taken at local businesses surrounding campus. How the underage kids thinking of trying to get a fake should be scared. Seeing this giant pile of them dumped out in an unmanageable pile on stage will surely instill the fear of legal repercussion for trying to get into The Dugout before they’re of age.

I get your intention, but dear God, can’t you stand to be a little less theatrical about the whole thing? Maybe just show a PowerPoint about being honest or listing alcohol safety statistics or SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T FORCE ME TO STAY IN THE CONFERENCE AUDITORIUM UNTIL  2:43AM PICKING FAKE IDS OUT OF EVERY CREVICE IN AND AROUND THE STAGE JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE TRYING TO BE IMPACTFUL.

What do you think this is? Motherfucking Steppenwolf? All you’re doing here is making me stay late picking up scattered fake IDs and miss the Orientation opening night staff party.

I just want to go back to answering angry gluten-related phone calls.

Sincerely,

Liz

Dear Girl Giving Other Girls Henna Tattoos On A Table In The Campus Dining Hall,

I think it’s really cool that you’re an artist. And that the body is your canvas. And that you’re white and from Greenwich, Connecticut, but totally in touch with this tradition that literally has nothing to do with your culture, but you wear your hair down in a messy way with a hooded sweatshirt to show people that you don’t care what they think because you’re an artist.

However, I may end up eating at that table at some point during this academic year, and you’re getting your Henna paint all over it.

It’s just not sanitary. When I take a bite of my dining hall burrito, I want to know that I’m eating off of a clean, paint-less table. There’s really not another place you can do that? No free space on your dormitory desk under your “The Breakfast Club” poster? Is your assortment of funky rings causing too much clutter on there?

How about the common room? There are a few tables in there. Sure, there’s Pepsi residue and a Chobani peel-off top sitting on the one free one, but I’m sure you could fit a hand on there.

Oh, I get it. You need to do this in the most public place possible. Your squiggly lines of red on that girl’s hand are really blowing minds all up in here. Also, does that Henna ink not come in any other color? It’s always that brooding, moody weird mahogany red color?

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Those girls are waiting very eagerly for your talent to be bestowed upon their extremities. They love it. And this looks great for them, too. Being seen receiving this in public means that they’re in touch with their inner selves and must have listened to a lot of Panic! At The Disco in middle school. You guys are probably going to try your third cigarettes together tonight in front of this very building to further tonight’s masquerade of perceived thoughtfulness.

You’re doing great. You’ve got to have a steady hand for this craft. But please, go study your art history slides on your $2,000 iMac and complain to your roommate about how you’re “going through a lot”, and do your Henna in there.

Because you’re leaving a mess on this table. Clean up after yourself.

Cheers,

Liz