I’ve been climbing this ladder, that’s all I really can do. Climb climb climb and, every once in a while, stop at a floor to look in a window. See how people are getting along. Hope to see some broken reflection of myself in glass meant to be looked through, not reflected upon.

Just when you think you know everything, realize you’re only being tricked. The point at which everything seems clear is the point just before your reality is overturned. It’s easy to be proud of how well you get through hard times, but it’s harder, for me at least, to be proud of the times when I got by and it wasn’t hard.

I had an amazing summer. I went on a road trip to California, I met so many new people; pretty much began a new life. But when you meet new people you inevitably lose others. To think we understand the purpose of someone’s relation to us is to claim to know more than anyone’s ever known. That’s probably why everyone gets divorced now. They all think they’re signing a contract to relieve their loneliness, only to find they’re signing up to spend years with someone they don’t even know.

I sometimes toy with the idea of just traveling. Backpacking through Europe, learning about the world and writing about its beauty. But it all comes back to that saying, Wherever you go, there you’ll be. I go through waves of content and discontent. Every time I feel a positive wave coming on I hope that this time it will stay. But I should never be so foolish.

Once, I met two amazing people at nearly the same time. These people were on opposite ends of the spectrum. One romantic, involved, clever, sincere, but almost wholly untouchable. The other receptive, playful, intelligent, and hungry for knowledge. Both beautiful. These people got along well enough, but by no means were best friends. I, however, managed to be best friends with both of them. I could connect with both of them unlike either of them were able to connect with each other. I wasn’t so much a bridge but a system of underground tunnels to both. Each of them often spoke of the other and I felt conflicted in their intentions. A game of tug of war it seemed. There was the first, she couldn’t hide a thing with her eyes. And the second, I fear could do it all too well. Neither of them was better than the other but they, as well as me, have at least one thing in common—we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing aside from making it alive and in bed every night. If we’re lucky we might even get some sleep.

Hi Everyone,
My Grandparents house has crumbled with them inside. I have lost my grandfather and my family is digging as we speak for my grandmother. Please pray for us.

This came from one of the friends I spent two weeks in Belize with this past summer. Much of her family resides in Haiti and has, as the message ominously dictates, been involuntarily given a lead role in one of Haiti’s worst natural disasters.

Yesterday a 7.0 earthquake struck Haiti. The Red Cross estimates 1/3 Haitians have been affected—roughly 3 million.

My problems seem pretty insignificant right now. I have a home, I have transportation, I have my family and friends.

Raymond Joseph, a Haitian ambassador to the US, said of the disaster, “God has given, God has taken away.” It’s difficult for me to comprehend being taken to such devastation and yet able to view the situation so rationally. Haiti has dealt with over 30 coups and countless hurricanes in its 200 some odd years of life. The history of Haiti, as with so much of the world, has been recorded in blood.

Today, if you wake up and don’t want to go to work because you can’t stand the person in the cubicle next to you, Google “Haiti.” You’ll be giving that same person a hug when you arrive. Sometimes, the best we can do from afar when disaster strikes, is live our own lives twice as purposefully.

Read more on the quake here.

Do you know what it’s like when you have a glass of orange juice, finish it, then neglect to wash the glass and refill it with apple juice? The acidic qualities of the orange juice, stray bits of pulp, they all come through with the apple and make a strange cocktail. That’s how I envision lovers upon lovers in a lifetime. The next becoming more and more of a cocktail with bitter—and sweet—remains of the lover before. The final being nowhere near as pure as the first. Or maybe nowhere near as pure as the third, or fourth. Perhaps after the first couple I still retained the energy to wash the glass before pouring a new one. But my energy, I fear, is depleting. I’m on my way to drinking cocktail after cocktail.

This is the third time I’ve listened to Pet Sounds today, it’s 11:44, I’ve been awake something like four hours. Three times in four hours. A bow without resin. Powder flying, strings scratching, notes resound with impurity.

Adam ordered me a sandwich. That’s the kind of grace I need. Shantell smiled bigger than big, that’s the kind of grace I need. I slept on a cold pillow that smelled like someone else’s hair. I opened the window to hear the inconsistent drops of the gutter. A mountain of pillows laid beside me all night trying to breathe. A fan whistled a monotone tune it wished was a lullaby. Vodka nourished me. The blankets could be held tight but not tight enough.

I dreamt of grocery shopping, I think. I rolled and rolled, over and over. I dreamt, I think, of grocery shopping. The domestic kind, “Do we need this, honey?” That sort. “No, we’ve already got some.” You know the kind. “And what about this?” With the inevitable, “Well, is it on sale? We don’t really need it.” And the produce. Looking for the unbruised fruits but finding none. Settling, finally, for only the mildly bruised. Settling for the mildly bruised.

Here’s a secret. Sometimes I walk grocery stores late at night, early in the morning, mid-day. I don’t purchase a thing. I just walk down the aisles to see how much all the items wish I’d purchase them. I like the way their packages try to lure me in—they just want me so bad. Except the cheese, the cheese never tries too hard. It smells funny and is wrapped in clear plastic. But it doesn’t need to look nice, right? It’s cheese, it knows someone will buy it. Same with the milk. And the eggs. It’s only the packaged cereals, snacks, crackers, cookies—the things we don’t need that want me to buy them so badly. I think I dreamt of grocery shopping last night.

Let us quickly assess the state of my being:

Are you here?
Are you?
Are you breathing?
Slowly.
Did you sleep well?
Define well.
Who woke you up this morning?
Am I awake?
What time is it?
11:56
What day is it?
January 9, 2010

Anywhere but here would be nice,
But maybe what I mean is I quit,
Or maybe let’s fall and only sleep,
And let’s stop trying—
Only let come what may.
I mean, really, anywhere but here still
Has me me me
Perhaps I mean anywhere but here
Or there—nowhere.

My mind is a battlefield and the armies are made entirely of me dropping little me bombs all over my cities and drowning innocent me’s in rivers, imprisoning caught me’s, me’s jumping out of burning buildings, planes of me flying over runways made of hardened me.

And then a me plane drops a nuclear me on myself and I blow up into billions of me. Now billions of me are running around trying to patch up radiated me’s and my bits of limbs are lying around bits of my shrapnel. A mushroom me rises above it all and laughs an impenetrable laugh.

Me’s winning.

Me’s losing.

Me wins.

Me loses.

Me sits in a corner of the house and strums away at the guitar. Me taps away at the piano. Me sings in a closet. Sometimes I get tired of myself. But like the rotten stepmother you can’t get rid of, I can’t get rid of myself. I am my own rotten stepmother who tells me I’m ugly and needs to do my chores. I am the rotten stepmother who tells myself I’m not pretty and I can’t go to the ball. I’m the rotten rotten stepmother who wishes she could get rid of me but keep the husband that she married into the family for.

Maybe if I were forced to go on a date with myself to a ball, I would learn to like me.
“Hello, my name’s Daniel.”
“Hello, Daniel. My name’s Daniel too.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“And you.”
“Shall we dance?”
“I’ve always wanted to, but don’t really know how.”
“Me too.”
“I used to dance uncontrollably wild jigs at weddings when I was younger. Rose between the teeth, sliding on my knees—that sort of thing.”
“How strange, me too.”
“Would you like some punch?”
“Does it have lemon?”
“I think so.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I don’t like lemon either.”
“I’m picky.”
“So am I.”
“It’s nice that we find so much in common.”
“They say opposites attract.”
“They don’t know anything.”
“No they don’t.”
“But then again, who does?”
“Not me.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much.”
“Me neither.”
“Shall we sit and have something to eat?”
“We shall.”
“Fantastic.”
“Steak?”
“Pas moi, c’est tres mal.”
“D’accord.”
“So you can speak French, too?”
“Only sort of. Je parle francais tres mal.”
“Yeah, moi aussi.”
“Chicken fried steak?”
“I’d love it but always regret it. And it doesn’t seem appropriate for a ball.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“And to drink? A red wine with your seafood?”
“I know red’s good with meats and fish, but I really do prefer white.”
“The similarities between us truly are endless aren’t they?”
“I think they might be.”
“I think dessert should be bigger than the main course.”
“As do I.”
“What’re your innermost desires?”
“What’re YOURS?”
“They’re hard to articulate.”
“So are mine.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Me too. What do you write?”
“I don’t much like this question, but I always answer it. Personal essay, short stories, and poetry mostly. You?”
“Same.”
“I’d also like to teach or do some sort of social work. Something for the greater good. I like music too. I’m a musician. I want to make music for movies and life.”
“You’ve got a lot of lofty aspirations.”
“As do you.”
“Think you’ll attain them?”
“Probably, but maybe not.”
“Would you rather have a beer?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Waiter, two salmons and two beers, please.”
“I don’t like it when people order for me, I wish you hadn’t.”
“Yes, me neither, but I do like to be in control.”
“As do I. Which is why I don’t like others to order for me.”
“Are you a control freak?”
“No.”
“Do you always take things personally?”
Silence.
“What’s your favorite song?”
“Stupid question.”
“Author?”
“Dumb.”
“Band.”
“You’re very persistent.”
“That’s my curse and my gift.”
“Do you like winning?”
“Yes. Who doesn’t?”
“Do you like losing?”
“No. Who does?”
“I do like the lack of responsibility involved with losing. There’s definitely less of a reputation to defend.”
“You can only go up.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re rather sarcastic.”
“As are you.”
“Yet another surprising similarity.”
“You hardly know me.”
“Apparently that’s not true.”
“You’re good looking but not quite.”
“Uh, thanks, you too.”
“Just being honest. It’s like you’re rather intriguing in appearance but covered in a dab of doofus.”
“I think I’m going to need a few drinks if we’re going to survive the night.”
“Yeah, me too.”

Today’s the one day of the year where going out in your pajamas is absolutely acceptable, thought not in the least peculiar. In America, Christmas is a holiday you celebrate even if you don’t celebrate Christmas. America shuts down, and the only thing left to do is look at an evergreen decorated with lights and unwrap some paper-wrapped items, too. I went to my mother’s house in Olalla yesterday to see her for the Christmas season. The house had never been so clean before. I went out to their back forty and disposed of some Halloween pumpkins that I still had sitting in my car—on Christmas Eve. My brother came with his wife and their kids, all bouncing with Christmas cheer and warm love.

Today is Christmas. Today I am in a coffee shop at 9:36 in the morning, and strangers are saying “Merry Christmas” to one another—not altogether strange—but the smiles that accompany their sentiments are. I enjoy watching others spread and absorb the Christmas cheer. Sometimes it’s nice to live the Christmas season vicariously.

I don’t really like how the holidays are less, for me anyways, a time of warmth, relaxation, and goodwill, and more an attempt to fit as many people into your schedule in the course of a day as possible. Every call from family members makes me want to ignore it and sleep. It’s overwhelming. What’s more overwhelming is the energy it takes to go to family gatherings. Their littered with people who look at me with a curious eye. On my father’s side they look at me funny cause I’m not Mormon, because I’m “sensitive and artistic,” because I’m quiet and disagree with much of the things they say, because I don’t understand how we can be so different and force ourselves to come together regardless. But I also know we’re similar. I just don’t know quite how. And that scares me. On my mom’s side (of which I never see more than about 5 of them at any one time), they just have absolutely no idea who I am. I’m a phantom who sits in the corner of the room hiding all sorts of secrets and abilities. They all watch with an anxious eye, waiting for me to perform a trick or dazzle them with my magic. I never do. At most, I’ll say something snide and, if they catch it, I’ll feel bad for it.

But really, it’s my favorite holiday. It always has been. I think anyone who disagrees has to provide some fairly substantial justification otherwise. I mean, St. Valentine’s Day? Whose idea was that? St. Make-The-Lonely-People-Feel-Lonelier-Day. It’s just a bad idea. I’m bearing witness to the strangest thing right now because it’s Christmas. There’s a father with his teenage daughter and son and they’re all getting along. He’s asking them what they’d like to drink. They’re past the you-get-hot-chocolate-by-default stage, which I’m sure they’re glad of. I feel as if on Christmas we force the world to operate the way we wish it did most days. Or we try to anyways. Every holiday I’ve ever spent—anywhere, with any of my family—has basically been a day of unwrapping disagreements and stuffing stockings with shitty arguments. Perhaps there’s a way to go back and re-do my childhood Christmases. The weird thing is that at the time, I enjoyed Christmas, for the most part. Sometimes I feel like my childhood was only terribly troubling in retrospect. As if one day I woke up and realized, “Actually that wasn’t how your childhood was supposed to go.” Ignorance is bliss and can’t be blamed. Really, if you’re ignorant you’re not missing out on anything. It’s only those who’re above your ignorance that have any trouble with it.

The only place at this time of day where the ice remains is in the shadows. The sunlight melts the rest away. Walking in the shadows is a dangerous idea. The evergreen forests are full of sadness, all wishing they were decorated too, but knowing that it’s only the domesticated trees that get the privilege, and for this privilege they must also soon die. But such a way to die. Such a way to live. The tree gets to guard those valuable gifts, be a shelter for the dollars that’ve converted from bills to thoughtful boxes. Christmas is the one day of the year that one of the deadly sins becomes, instead, a graceful gift. We hang our stockings above the chimney with care because our feet are never so warm as we’d like them to be. We must create a day of cheer and comfort because we lack it naturally. Without a human construction of happiness we would merely remain bipedal animals with enhanced cognition. Santa, the fat man, gets to be a fat lie, but a white one as white as his own beard. A safe lie. Maybe we all really start to grow up when we stop believing in Santa Clause. But then, do we even know now that he’s not real? What would make him real? Would he have to fly around in a sleigh with reindeer and bring gifts? What if there was merely a man who lived on the North Pole in red and white garb, all fat and jolly, by the name of Chris Cringle; would Santa Clause then be real? And what’s with the red nose? Is it really anything to be much embarrassed about in the first place, Rudolph? Perhaps I’m taking this all a bit too seriously. Regardless of my cynicism, Christmas cheer is evident in the streets and corridors of Seattle’s frozen feet. Whether it’s innate or a human construction is irrelevant. Most everybody is happier on this the 25th of December. And for this, so am I.

I need that push. I’m standing on the edge of the cliff, now someone, anyone, stick a banana peel underneath my foot and give me a shove.

The wrath of finals is evidenced by the exclamation of one of my friends, Cassandra, also a local barista, “You’re here like seven times a day,” she said to me, referring to Diva Espresso where she works. My only defense is an embarrassed, “It’s the only good place to study.” Which is mostly true. I can’t study at home. But honestly, how embarrassing. And then Karli backs up Cassandra’s sentiment with a, “Well, you are there more than you’re at home.” Which is totally true.

Isn’t home such a laughable concept? I think it is. Of course, my saying that home is a laughable concept is merely a coping mechanism. (It’s easier to say that than to pretend you’ve got the time to pull out a long chaise and permit me outline all of my internal complications which have caused this I-never-feel-at-home complex.) But I sometimes wonder how many people feel less at home at home than say, at Diva Espresso, or rather regrettably, Denny’s. No, I would not feel comfortable stripping down and changing into a different outfit, or running to the bathroom naked, or any other of these various at-home activities in either of these places, but my general day-to-day actions are quite a bit more comfortable at Diva or Denny’s than they are at home. Sitting and reading a book for instance, is easier at either of these places. Eating a meal. Drinking a cup of water. Writing this. Or even at other peoples’ houses. In someone else’s house, compiled of their memories and materialistic endeavors, I feel more warmth than I’ve ever felt in the places I’ve lived. My first home was the closest to home I’ve ever felt. And that was a sad excuse for a home. Arguments. Fights. OCD. Overgrown lawns. Fenced-in dogs. Crap-riddled backyards. Closets full of secrets; taboo, sexual, and completely misunderstood.

The dog should’ve clued me in. Any chance he got he would try to run as far away from our house as possible. He was not athletic or properly treated; he was a symbol of everything our family could not speak of. The indirect receiver of all our antagonistic indulgences. He would bark down in the yard. Endlessly. Crying for escape, no doubt. My father took my plastic Hot Wheels racing tracks and slapped them against the side of the house screaming, “Shut up!” in a way only a 5-year-old adult could sound. Terrifying. Awkward. Tyson, the dog, never shut up. Never. I see now why. Those plastic Hot Wheels tracks came to be scarred with thousands of bite marks, Tyson’s only method aside from crying out to request freedom from this place, or at least make it evident that he requested it.

Maybe that’s what I’ve become. I’ve become the mistreated dog we once owned. Needy of wandering, afraid of home. Crying out in silent rage when trapped in the bowels of my studio apartment.

But whatever became of Tyson? I don’t know. Perhaps he died. He was old. I’m sure he’s dead now, but hopefully he was granted better ownership first. Who knows. The difference between Tyson and I, I suppose, is that I own a car, and he did not.

The satisfaction I’ve received merely from the success of this meal is something not many know. To be proud of having eaten dinner. To be proud for functioning as a normal human being does. What a peculiar feeling, but rewarding as well. As if normalcy is less a sign of mediocrity and more an enlightened state. Not a single bite of food has been left here tonight. And for functioning more like a human being ought to, I am proud.

Shantell and I have studied infrequently and spent many a night sharing our disparaging love woes. Mixed up hearts and mixed up minds make for fantastic conversation and aided with the power of wine, conversation is inevitably good. I once saw a horror film, Paranormal Activity, alone. There was one other person in the theatre, an old man with a bucket of popcorn big enough for a family, a soda large enough to fuel a bus, and a box of candy hidden beneath his battered old fedora. I was tense and nervous, the armrests my only relief of tension beneath my clasped fingers. After the movie Shantell and I met up to study, she confessed that she’d never seen a movie alone. This shocked me, but made complete sense. Most people see movies on dates, or with groups of friends, somehow movies are a social activity. Or perhaps they’re easier to accept than two hours of awkward social inactivity at a restaurant or in someone’s living room with flat Coca-Colas. She told me I need never see a film alone, if I had no date or otherwise found myself in complete solitude, she was only a phone’s extended reach away. Today, after a tough day of study, attendance, exertion—too much reality for an artist—I needed escape. I needed the $10.50 ticket to another world, legally. And Shantell, the accompanying movie-goer she is, was down.

Perhaps the reason we get along is due to a lack of sexual tension. When I met Shantell her limbs were tangled in a dense affair (whose aren’t really?) and so mine were on their way. The mating game was suspended and friendship sprouted in its place. Stress-free, one might deem our relationship. Free from the boundaries of scattered emotions and complicated misunderstandings. What things we do disagree on blow over our heads like snowflakes in the wind. We are friends of the easy sort. We can discuss without consequence the intricate details of the world of love, as if what we’re saying we’re not really saying, but only implying. As if at any moment one of us could say, “Ha, just kidding! I never touched him!” and we would laugh off the entire conversation and continue our lives as if the molestation of the heart we’d just discussed was a story and nothing more.

Shantell was a gift from another friend, you might say. Kimberly, a deserter some would say; a lover of adventure and seeker of better things, others might say, introduced me to Shantell. You see they’re related and before Kimberly packed her bags and dove into the Californian metropolis, she introduced me to Shantell so that I wouldn’t be left alone in the cold Pacific Northwest. This isn’t to say Kimberly was my only friend, but it is to say she is a very valuable friend. Like Shantell. The kind of friend one needs, devoid of complication. Of course, I’m exaggerating, if the person in question is in fact human, they’re not devoid of complication. But something about the friendship I’ve shared with these two is both safe and comfortable.

The thing about being a writer is that there are things you must write. Meditations one sits on that must be manifested in the written word. The thing about social writers is that much of this is often related to people the writer knows directly. And so these meditations, lest the writer choose to change names and the like, become a sort of test. A test of friendship, or possibly a validity of said friendship. Fortunately the meditation set before you isn’t much of a revealing or embarrassing one, but there’s still the potential for disagreement. I might find that within a couple hours of submitting this my inbox has two horribly disgruntled emails from Kimberly and Shantell with elaborate details of my misinterpretations and daft assumptions, but this really would discount a good deal of my previous assertions. Precisely why these two girls are my friends are because, if I did receive said emails from them, I would be quite deserving. I would have been an obvious asshole who overstepped his boundaries. Either that or Shantell was listening to Lady Gaga or Britney too loudly as she read this and took their anti-man pop messages a little too seriously. Or maybe Kimberly was placing an order in a catalog and, disinterested in her reading, mistook me for claiming that I now liked Shantell more than her. But here’s the thing about these two: at the briefest of glances they may seem to belong to one of many all-too-commonly applied stereotypes (I confess I was guilty of making completely misguided first impressions of the both of them), but they’re so far from belonging to any of them. Each of them has this view of the world. This view so terribly unique from everyone else’s. One might mistake their interest for inattention, their attention for interest, one might see many things in these girls at first but certainly, one does not see who they truly are. And to claim I truly know either of them would be to claim too much.

I know this much: first impressions are bullshit and good friends are damn invaluable. Moral explicitly stated; time well spent.

A price appears on the television screen along with a 1-800 number, but more importantly, an item; not of futility, but utility. This item, suddenly, is the one item I’ve been waiting for all my life. It makes that one seemingly simple task not so simple, and necessitates its own purchase by a mere 30 second display of its endless features. I’m mind-blown. In fact, daily, I am forced to pluck cat hairs from my coat before prancing out the door. Such a terribly complex and time consuming task. But now, Mr. Sticky, an unconditionally lifetime guaranteed cleaning device which serves as a combination lint roller, broom, vacuum, mop, and duster, makes all the aforementioned “tools” absolutely useless. And for only $24.99, plus S&H, but wait! A free Junior Mr. Sticky, and Giant Mr. Sticky, too. I pick up the phone at 1:03 am and place an order. If I purchase five the sixth is free and 6 free juniors and giants too. Can I really afford not to? A toothy white smile on the screen convinces me they make great gifts. I hate goddamned cell phone manufacturers for making me available at nearly any given time or place in the known universe; I may be on the toilet and God can call to check on me (a particularly disturbing thought) but, because I own this cell phone, this plastic piece of technology produced by the Apple Corporation, I can call and order Mr. Sticky at 1:03 am and wait wait wait till the package arrives, for life to get easier.

I push the red metal cart full of Christmas toys; remote controlled helicopters, handheld videogames, stuffed animals. I don a red polo and a name tag that says “Daniel” and above that “Target.” But, the director of HR tells me, this name tag is not mine. It may say my name, but this name tag belongs to the Target Corporation. At the end of the day, and especially if I quit, or worse, am terminated, I must return this name tag back to a box of Davids, Dougs, and Daniels. I loathe the way the cart clunks and will purposefully stock one of these items on the wrong shelf with a hearty, “Fuck you, Target Corporation.” “Daniel?” My manager call from behind. “Could you come here for a moment?” God, apparently, does not approve of my internal sentiments towards the Target Corporation and has sent one of his prophets dutifully to reprimand my self-righteousness, but fortunately has not called me, because I’m not supposed to have my cell phone on at work. He echoes in my head with that ridiculous booming voice, “Daniel, you’ve bitten the hand that feeds.” And I have, but the flesh of the hand is so much more pleasing, now at least, than the stale paycheck the hand feeds at the end of the week. I hate the tile floors and the goddamned red branding of the Target Corporation, but they make me able to afford food and gas, and to satisfy that impulsive spirit in me to purchase my way out of those small issues I’m not presently aware exist in my life. Fortunately I can depend on the television to inform me of them.

“…in less than one minute now, you will receive your free promotional advertising gifts not regularly available in this store. A representative will be rushing there shortly.” With my tower of department store items in hand, I look around to see if anyone suspects my curiosity of the loudspeaker’s offer. I feel naughty. But really, how often does such a prospect occur? I walk with an air of indirection towards where the loudspeaker directs, looking every once in a while over my shoulder. I hop on the escalator. I hate people who are susceptible to these types of obviously misguiding promotions, but I am riding the escalator and can see the red and black counter the loudspeaker spoke of, and look, there! The representative rushing towards it! I look down at my shoes to avoid the gaze of a young man walking past.

“Daniel, we’ve been meaning to talk to you. You’ve been here for 90 days and it’s time for your assessment. I’ve met with Susan at HR and we discussed your performance.” This, I know, either means I’m fucked, or that, ironically, I’m fucked. “We want you to stay with us, you’ve been doing a fantastic job. And we’re giving you a dollar raise.” I’m fucked. I despise Target, I don’t particularly like Susan either, she told me I had nice teeth, that I must’ve had braces when I was younger. In retrospect, this was not a compliment. She was telling me that my face would be good branding for the Target Corporation. She thought my teeth would sell Target Visa credit cards, just like the teeth on the television had convinced me to buy not one, not two, but five Mr. Sticky’s; but hell, the sixth was free. The Target Corporation headquarters in Minneapolis just approved a pay raise for me. For my disrespect, hostility, and general loathing of each and every tile in the store, they gave me more money. God, apparently, is cleverer than I thought. He does not reprimand me, he guilts me. But I’m getting more money, which makes the price of guilt easier to swallow.

A man appears from behind the red and black counter. “Hello, I am your representative.” It’s the same man who spoke into the loudspeaker. First, he hands us all, all five of us, a free promotional advertising gift. It’s a towel that expands in water. Usually, they sell for $3.95 in a pack of three. I’m intrigued, what else might we receive for free? He pulls then, from behind his counter, slowly, Mr. Sticky. This man is a representative from the Echo Corporation and is here to sell me Mr. Sticky in person, and he won’t charge me S&H. I curse the cell phone manufacturers for allowing me to place that order. 4-6 weeks in waiting, and here’s Mr. Sticky in the flesh. I curse Target once more for giving me the money to place the order. And I curse the Ford Motor Company for producing my gas-guzzling, ozone-destroying, 1989 Ford Escort hatchback that drove me here, today, to Sears, and drives me five days out of the week to a giant red store where I try to convince customers to sign up for Target Visa credit cards. The man is different from the one on television, but the smile is the same. It’s a smile I posses myself. I walk away, distraught, towards my 1989 Ford Escort. But first I purchase my tower of department store items.

Mr. Sticky doesn’t just pick up kitty litter, dust, lint, and dirt; no, Mr. Sticky will pick up the scattered pieces of my life, and pocket-sized Junior Mr. Sticky will pick up pieces of it when I’m on the run; I can de-lint my red Target polo before walking into work with a white, toothy smile plastered to my face. And Giant Mr. Sticky, maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to solve this God problem. More than anything, I fucking hate waiting 4-6 goddamned weeks for everything to get a little fucking better.