I couldn’t spell the cat’s name and asked aloud if it was named after a certain bacteria.

The answer, from the couple, was a resounding No. Named, they said, after a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, from some country I should know but din’t.

Can’t I just call the cat “Purple Prose?” I ask, half-jokingly.  They sided with the half that wasn’t joking and stayed away from me the rest of the night. Which I give them a lot of credit for, since I was their only dinner guest. Luckily their children cared to speak with me. I asked them about Drake and Ariana and told them to decifer some of the lyrics from Machine Gun Kelly.  Now those are who people should have cats named after them. The kids laughed at this joke.  I caught the parents smirking. By the time dessert rolled around, the parents started speaking with me again.

Afterwards, the cat came by and twirled itself around my shins.

All was well.

Until next time.

.

I may feel crappy but I only feel crappy for a little while. I’ll have jogged in the rain, and, soaked, gone through aisles of clothes at TJ Maxx only to realize what I was looking for was right around the corner, on the sidewalk.

I little bird–a finch maybe, judging from its yellow-throated feathers. Dead.

Not sure, how, why.

What I’m looking for is right under my nose.

That day, I tell everyone who asks that my name is Chad. There is, in fact, only one person who asks. I turn away from the bird and go to Birch, the coffee shop. The barista  asks my name, so he can scribble it on my paper cup. “My name is Chad.”

I spent most of yesterday looking at old copies of the Caper’s Babe Bugle. Back from the early 1990s. As you know, I occassionally obsess about my younger days of unpopularity. I looked up Mara Stallab and saw her wedding photo. Hideous wedding headdress and hair. But typical for that time. But here’s the thing. She died just three years after her wedding. She had cancer while she was pregnant with twins and they had to deliver them early and she only knew them for less than a month and not really because she was unconcious most of that time. But all I can remember about her is when she whispered to her friend about my acne.  Later, in college, she saw me and  crossed the street to avoid me. In fact one time she said “You’re ugly.”

She was a girl I knew since kindergarten.

She died 20 years ago. I still kinda hate her. I can only tell you this. Not that you would understand. In fact you are so disgusted you’re probably going to call me, as soon as you read this, and chew me out. But that’s what best friends are for, I guess.

Everyone noticed he lost weight. Nevermind that I’ve lost weight too.

Between our laptop sits a big bag of assorted chocolate candies–the pre-halloween bag. Everyday he dips into it and almost magically comes up with annoying things to say that turn out to be funny. He’s the most popular guy at work.

I know, I know. I’ve wanted to lay low at work but of course I want to be the most popular guy at work. It’s a small office. Can’t be too large, you know.

I enjoyed our phone conversation. I confessed that I’ve been re-watching your old Youtube videos. You confessed that you were sexually assaulted. With everything that’s been going on, I’m sad that your news doesn’t surprise. I’m beginning to believe that almost every woman has been. Thank you for telling me.

Have you told Brian?

Dear Binda,

It’s now autumn. In New York there is a swirl of possibilities, chocolate, vanilla, strawbery ice creams piled high on cake. I love this time of year. I wish you were here. I know. You are only in Jersey. Not the end of the world. I appreciate your closeness.

It’s soggy out, now, with rain. I know  things get really messy at this time with you and Brian. But I’m here. I have to be. Because…I’m here.

Looking forward to our visit on Friday!

1. Cutting pizza
2. Digging boogers out of my nose
3. Pennies
4. Breathing
5. Kitties
6. Grapefruit
7. Crossfit
8. Joe Garagiola
9. Samsung
10. Whirligigs

Dear Binda,

You used to be a Baptist, right?  Or was it Catholic? I’m asking because you sent an oddly religious birthday card to me. Come to think of it, the cake you sent was oddly religious too. Or was that Eddie Vedder’s likeness on the cake. By the way: great cake. You know how much I like pineapple. You always remember the little things.

I’d like to say that I spent my birthday with friends and family. But instead I spent it with you, on Youtube. I was looking back at some of the vlogs you did, when you used to take viewers on shopping sprees or we could all just watch you cook and eat. Those were the good old days. I call it B.B. “Before Brian.”

Please thank him for my gift too. His was oddly not religious. It was a book about the discovery of DNA. I like how people discover things. He’s good at knowing me too.

Thank you both!

Dear Binda,

I had the dream again. The one where I’m traveling with Destiny’s Child, all four of us trying to catch a train. I’m in charge of the tickets. But can’t find them. As you know the dream usually ends with me being fired.

But guess what happened. I found the tickets this time! They were in my backpack. Right there, under my nose. Only you could appreciate this latest victory. That is why you are my best friend, Binda.

Sorry Binda,

I don’t hate being judged. I just hate telling the truth. As soon as the words come out of your mouth, the recipient of those words takes them and chews them and inevitably spits them out. Regurgitation is what I hate.

Telling the truth is just an added layer of fat-free whipped topping to an othewise untasty cupcake, and then burping all that shit back up.

I even tried dump cakes. Even two-ingredient cakes. One with nutella. Cheap sweets.

It still tastes awful coming back out. It’s tinged. With someone else’s perspective.