Short Answer!

No, I'm not such a big fan of surprises. I like the ones that other people seem to get, like birthday cake and presents. I don't get those kinds of surprises. Mine typically fall into three different categories:

(a) That thing you did, said, or wrote down several years ago is coming back completely out of context to bite you in the ass!

(b) Six of a particular type of animal have decided that I look delicious.

(c) That wasn't a fart.

There are others interspersed throughout my life, and some were even of the positive variety. Still, I think I'd like a little warning before my next big surprise.

A few years ago, on a night much like this one, except for slightly more on October 31st, there was a shindig of considerable proportions at my then residence. My friends were experts at throwing parties, and somehow managed to have a house full of strangers and familiar faces, which is pretty impressive if you ask a fuddy-duddy like me.

In any event, one of the strangers turned out to be considerably... stranger. She had been working at a Halloween costume store weeks earlier, and was invited by my roommate on a whim. She was not a particularly attractive girl, but my roommate tended to eschew the typical hunter mentality, drop the rifle, and hurl dynamite into the woods and hope the law of averages would eventually lead him to victory. Regardless, she accepted and, more surprisingly, showed up.

I first saw her as she was standing near the french doors of the third floor living room. French doors, for those who do not know, have window panes in them. That's important, write that down. She caught my eye and, knowing I was my roommate's... well, roommate, pushed me up against the wall.

"Where's Jed*?" Lips envelope the lower half of my face. "What?" I sputter, before they came back a second time, even more aggressive than the first. "Where's your roommate, Jed?" This girl... was trying to get to my roommate... by making out with me first. I'm no Napoleon, but I would have drawn up a different strategy.

"I don't know!" I say, before making out for a few more minutes because hey, free make-outs. About three minutes of that, and I start to get a little self-conscious of this, and the fact that this girl is clearly not socially equipped to navigate the waters of proper roommate seduction. "I'll go find him!" I say, and scurry off, intending to do nothing of the sort.

After scurrying aimlessly for about thirty minutes, I decide to go back to the third floor. Why not? I'm not the pick of the litter, I might as well update her on my imaginary quest for Jeb and face suck for a couple minutes. Also, scurrying is tiring.

She's standing in the same spot. In fact, she hadn't even changed angles. It's like she had erected a statue of herself to mark the occasion of tongue bathing a guy to somehow get to his friend. So I walk over, and she repeats, "Where's Jed?" I dunno, I say, and she repeats her face-suckery, as if I'd hidden him in my lower lip and was acting coy.

She pushes me up against the doors and goes all out, flailing like a howler monkey on ecstasy. The sound of lips flapping, costume fabric brushing against walls, smashing glass... oh wait, that's not expected.

Crazy Girl had, in her moment of passion/seduction/request for information, slammed her kneecap through one of the glass panes in the french door. And she. Was. Bleeding.

"I'm okay!" she said, as the skin began to peel off of her knee bone. "I'm FINE." She was, of course, not fine. Ven*, another roommate of mine, and I led her into the bathroom to size up the damage. It was ugly. And bloody. And skin... flappy. So bloody, in fact, that Ven thought it appropriate to make a joke about her having AIDS. He always was the pure essence of etiquette and tact in delicate situations. She did not, of course, have AIDS. You'd like to think that AIDS education had been prevalent enough that the word "AIDS" would not cause a panic throughout a party, but you'd like a lot of things that aren't going to happen. Everyone started worrying, going for the exits, and just generally making me mourn the state of health education in my country.

After a few minutes, we decided to call an ambulance, because Halloween parties really peter out when people actually die at them. You'd think that out of all the year's festivities, Halloween would be the best to have a corpse at. Not so, according to many lawyers and judges. The ambulance showed up, and a fire truck with it, because screw it, this isn't humiliating enough for all parties involved quite yet.

"WHERE'S JEDDDDD!" Are... you... KIDDING ME? On the stretcher, being carted into the ambulance, screaming like a banshee. "WHERE'S JED?!" Finally, Ven yells, "He'll meet you at the hospital." He was, of course, unaware of who she was or really that she was at the party in the first place. But at that point, we were just trying to numb the pain for her. I think the paramedics were probably better at it.

So, then they left, and none of us ever heard from her again. Mostly because none of us knew who she was, to be fair. Jed had no idea she'd even been there, and I managed to cause an event WORTHY OF A FIRETRUCK AND AN AMBULANCE by kissing a girl. So that... yeah. That was memorable.

And we never did fix that window pane. SPOOOOOKYYYYYY.

*names have been changed to protect the identities of the Nowhere-Close-To-Innocent

Finishing what I start has always been a part of my personality, I guess. I can’t bear to leave a morsel of food on my plate. I will not abide a few glasses left in the sink after cleaning most. The thought of leaving some of the dirty clothes in the hamper during a wash brings me great pain. And just like all of those things, I have to finish a book once I start it. It doesn’t really matter what it’s about- it can be fiction, non-fiction, some third kind… whatever, it has to be read. After all, if I don’t read the END of the book, what was the point of reading the beginning? I don’t claim to be some bibliophile who plows through a hundred books a year, but the books I do read, I go from front to back, and make sure I understand them.

That is, except for one.

Although I ordered it with high expectations and a real sense of pride (I was reading an OLD book! Like some kind of fancy colonial guy with high socks and frilly things!), from the moment I began the preface of "Democracy in America," I knew deep in my heart that I had flown too close to the sun, and was about to come plummeting down, wax a-drippin’, into Can’t Finish This Frickin' Book Junction. To provide some background, it’s a book written by a Frenchman regarding democracy and its effect on the United States during the first years of the Constitutional government. How it formed, what it’s done for the peoples’ demeanor, all of that fun stuff. I thought I’d enlighten myself by reading this thing, but just getting to chapter two was like trying to tread and stay afloat in pea soup. The sentence structure gave me seizures. The descriptions, tangents, and explanations to the reader gave me mumps. I’m pretty sure I caught crabs from the prose but if you listen to idiot doctors, they’ll always tell you it was from grinding against that homeless person.

The worst part is that "Democracy in America" has been around for two-hundred years, and has been read by citizens, politicians, and a host of others. People look to it as an excellent piece of work. Not the same type of people who want to split Green Eggs and Ham into chapters, mind you- intelligent people! So I refuse to disagree with them. I just concede that however my brain was put together, the part that allows a person to read this book was left out. If I had to venture a guess, I think it was replaced with a chunk that gives me an unnatural lust for blueberry muffins.

But every once in a while, the Hunger will grip me. I’ll get up from my seat and walk into my study. I’ll reach to the top shelf and pull the thick text down and try to read it. I’ll absorb every syllable, re-read every line I need to in order to conceive the meaning of the author’s word. And every time, about fifty pages in, I will slam the book down and shriek at the heavens, “I CAN TOO READ, DAMMIT!” and go find a Dr. Seuss book to prove it.

Awkward moments are my most vivid memories, so this prompt is perfect for me. I've seen a lot of Facebook pages in my day, and more than a few state that they "love awkward moments". Really? You're sure about that? You love them? We'll have to agree to disagree on that one, because regrettably, every awkward moment I've ever encountered is etched into my memory with a knife crafted from Stainless Steel Embarrassment. I'll use only my very first for this answer. There are countless more.

When I was in pre-school, I once stole a Fisher-Price peg-shaped doll from the bucket of... well, the bucket of Fisher-Price peg-shaped dolls. I still remember that the little guy's body was green, and had the head of an old man. I needed him for my home collection, as I guess all of my figures were young and in need of an older member of the community to dispense wisdom, yell at them for no reason, and vote based entirely on socially conservative issues.

There were two moments of pure awkward in this event. The first was getting caught. My mom, unbeknownst to me, had memorized the faces of all of my Fisher Price dolls, and realized I had stolen it as soon as she saw it in my hand. She outed me immediately, in front of my friend Brendan and his mom. I had never been in trouble for anything Commandment-Breaking worthy before, so it was most likely the first time I'd ever felt the sensation of pure awkward- that heat on the back of your neck you get when caught red-handed in full view of everyone. I had no defense, either. The stares of Brendan and his mom skewered me like swords, and I was without armor.

The second awkward moment was my attempt to casually return the doll to it's rightful bucket the next day at pre-school. See, my mom had told me to return the doll, but she never told me to tell the teacher what I'd done. At that age, I'd already learned about contractual loopholes, and as soon as my mom was out of sight, I pocketed the doll and awaited my chance to make right what was once made wrong. At play time, I made my way to the bucket and pulled Ol' Greeny from my pocket, dumping him back into the bucket. Unfortunately, while I'd masted loopholes, I still had some learning to do on "looking around before doing something incriminating," because when I looked up, one of the girls from class was intently watching me.

In a burst of intuitive dishonesty, I told her that the bucket was getting low on guys and I was adding to it. I don't think four-year-olds are able to articulate "Bullshit!", but I'm pretty sure that was the sentiment on her face. So I slinked away, knowing she knew. That burning on my neck gnawing at me the whole time.

So that's the story of the Great Toy Heist and my first experience with awkward situations. There are hundreds more, but this is not a site dedicated to the writing of novels, so I'll leave it at that. So what makes an awkward moment so awkward? Those stares, that burning on your neck, and for me, the knowledge that this moment in time will actually haunt your dreams for all of your life.

As a young and terribly unoriginal child, I first wanted to be a police officer. I guess kids just have a thing for guns and arresting people. Although I think America is better off not having me as a police officer, because my understanding of how the "arrest" process worked was always a little hazy.

I'm the eldest of four siblings, so my first four or five years' worth of playing games was pretty much exclusively with my parents The neighborhood we first lived in was mostly older people and leftovers from the hippie era who grew weed in their homes. In retrospect, I should have been arresting them I suppose, but seeing as how I wasn't allowed to cross the street, I had to settle for taking down my own father on some trumped up charges I'm still a little unclear on.

The game went as follows: I would tell my dad that I wanted to play cops and robbers, and my dad would comply. So I would chase him around the house and after a brief pursuit, I'd yell "FREEZE!" My dad would put his hands in the air and stop running, and I would run up to him and point my finger at his head and shoot him in the face.

Now this went on for some time. I remember at one point my dad tried to explain to me that if the robber puts his hands up and surrenders, a cop will not typically gun him down execution-style in the middle of the street for the crime of "running around like a bad guy." Apparently, I was playing a game more in line with the Gestapo, because it didn't stop me from shooting him halfway through his explanation. It was probably for the best, because he eventually would have gotten to the booking and processing part of the arrest, and I didn't want to hear about the paperwork involved.

Nowadays, I'm 26 and still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but I think I'm woefully under-prepared for a life in fighting crime. My childhood training never really got me ready for domestic violence or public intoxication. My dad really should have encouraged my dreams more by violently resisting arrest and drinking heavily before playing, but I guess no parent gets it right 100% of the time, right?

My current fitness routine started about four months ago, shortly after I went to the local gym that just opened up in town. I went from work straight to the brand new shiny building, ready to plunk down my money and get myself back into shape. After taking a quick tour, I signed up, agreeing to give them a voided check the next time I came in so they could debit my account accordingly.

So a week went by, and then another, and then a few more... the gym stayed in the back of my head, but far in back. A month or so went by, and by that point, I felt way too awkward to go back with the check. If I go back with it, they'll realize I haven't gone in since the first time. Who wants that?! So time continued it's relentless march, Christmas went by, and now it's been months and I still haven't set foot in there.

So now, my fitness routine consists of realizing once a day that I haven't given the gym my check yet, and flop-sweating off a few calories. The feeling is somewhat similar to the teacher in school telling the class to pass the homework up to the front when you forgot that there was any. So that burns a few calories. Oh, I also burn a few by straining myself telling my girlfriend that she has to go into the gym and give them my check, telling them an insane story about my being on business in Kansas City for four months, or possibly outer space. And if she doesn't, our relationship is a sham. So far, this has not worked.

Good workout overall, but lots of reps of it are stressful.

I'm really not superstitious about anything. I'm a pretty practical guy, and I think that the world is ruled by laws of physics and the idea of some weird action having a noticeable effect on my life or the future due specifically to the nature of said act is laughable.

A few winters ago, the lack of sun, joyless job, and living away from my family was getting me a little down. As a solution, I wrote a list of things that make me happy/feel better. Just something to get me to sleep easier, y'know? Anyways, at the time, I'd been going out to bars with friends and meeting groups of girls, typical single guy stuff at my age... but most of these girls were... welllllllllllllllllllllllllllll... vapid. And pretty shallow. I prefer girls that can make me laugh. So that's just what I put on my list: "Girls who can ACTUALLY make me laugh."

Since then, I've moved. Twice, in fact, over two years. I hadn't seen that piece of paper for two years. One day, a few months ago, my girlfriend asked to use my printer, which I had not used since our most recent move. I went to bed early, and she came in a while later, upset and quietly crying to herself. It took me an hour to coax out why: "I found a note in your printer, and it made me sad." I'm baffled, because I try not to make it a habit to write down "Sam is awful and I don't like her" on notes and leave them around... New Year's Resolution and all. Anyways, I walk into my study, and on my desk... is that very note. With "Girls who can ACTUALLY make me laugh" written on it, looking perfectly like I'd written it in reference to her.

In short, the note that I made to help myself sleep better at night... lost me about half a night's sleep trying to convince my girlfriend that the note wasn't about her.

So no. I do not believe in luck or mystical powers that be at all. But I sincerely believe that not believing in them has pissed them off to no end.

<strokes rabbit's foot nervously>

Look into his eyes... this duck can read your mind...

Ohhhhh, I see your game, Plinky. Clever! Clever. Lay low for a couple years, act all casual, asking me questions, like nothing is on your mind, ohhhh sure, just shootin' the breeze. Then one day, you ask, totally innocently, I'm sure: what would you invent if you could invent ANYthing?

Yeah, I'm falling for that, sure. You want me to spill my guts about my greatest new idea about how to get some ducks and- wait, no. I've said too much. Yet again, allowing me to talk myself into giving it away... you are one devious little trickster. But if you think you're going to get me to explain how I get the beaks OFF the ducks and the plastic lips ON, you're going to have to- for God's sake, Joel, shut UP! You'll give it all away. Pull it together, man.

I've always had my suspicions that Plinky was a front for the reanimated corpse of unscrupulous business tycoon Thomas Edison. It's so obvious: PLINKY- Patent Lucrative Ideas... well, I haven't figured out the end of that, but you get the idea. Well, Edison, here's ONE patent you'll never be able to steal; I'm no pushover like that Tesla chump. And you keep your hands off of my Automated Duck Sexifier invention, because I'll NEVER give away that I use a modified Barbie Doll assembly line to force the dresses on the ducks.


...dammit!

The Mountain

A long ways away, in a far off land, I stood on top of a giant mountain, proclaiming in my mind my ability to climb anything for my family. Criminals, holding my mom and dad for ransom, stood on top, waiting for a cut of dough. Sadly, I didn't bring any cash, but I did carry a giant shotgun up... and I was aiming it with a firm grip. "Cut mom and dad's bonds," I said, furious, "or you'll pay." For all too long, a pin dropping would sound as loud as a car crash. Without warning, a thug grabs his gun, laying against a rock. BOOM. Taking a dirt nap without bringing his gun up to aim. If any of our crooks had similar thoughts, it didn't show... cutting my folks' bonds and making away into shadows from which scum such as that hails, I bask in glory and triumph. At first sign of dawn, my family and I go back down, hugging and laughing, happy again.

Some guy runs up to me. "Hey kid, wanna go to the moon?" "No thank you, I don't use drugs," I politely reply, wondering why he called a clearly adult man 'kid'. "No no, I mean for real. A real trip to the moon! FOR FREE!" Hmm, I think. No pants... a bright green top hat... slippers made out of diapers... this guy seems pretty on the ball. Should I take him up on his offer??

Well, it might not begin THAT interestingly, but I would definitely go to the moon. Why? A few reasons. First off, it's probably the only vacation you'll ever take where you actually get to RELAX while you're there. You don't get up to the moon and check into your hotel, only to run out thirty-seven seconds later because the kids want to go to the waterpark and play in the pee-water. No kids, no water on the moon. And no traffic. There's some dust over there if you want to go play in that. Gray dust. And silence. Gray dust, silence, and a total lack of freaking buses pulling up outside your apartment at 6 in the morning and telling you it's there by squeaking so loudly that your eardrums pop. Just... silence.

Also, I've been running low on cheese recently, and I don't feel like going to the store. Well actually, I can't go to the store, because I'm currently letting my girlfriend use it to get to work, as she doesn't have one for the time being. Anyways, my point is, since the moon is made of cheese, I can just grab some while I'm up there and take a lifetime supply back home with me. Now, you may be thinking to yourself, "But Joel, the moon isn't made of cheese. That's insane and stupid." Well, how the hell would you know? You haven't been there. I'm going there for free with the pantsless man in diaper shoes! So who's the expert now, ass?

Finally, if it turns out that the crazy conspiracy theorists are correct and the moon ISN'T made out of cheese, I'll just take some moon rocks home with me to sell for tons of money, the profits from which I will parlay into a vast cheese collection. At least that's my hope. I certainly wouldn't buy a rock just because it was from the moon. That's cool, but... it's not MONEY cool. I feel like a lot of people would, though. If sales lag, I'll just advertise them as able to protect you from death panels or global climate change or something. That stuff is all the rage with the kids now, right?

Anyways, moon. Yeah, sign me up. I have like five vacation days left unscheduled for the year, so... what the heck.

Extended version
I was five when it started
Now I'm twenty-four

My first kiss was a magical wonderful experience. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I was a young lad of... like 19 or so. I was at my friend's house and my oh my, I could just feel the magic in the air as I drank rum straight out of the bottle. It was wonderful. Everyone was having a grand old time, and I barely remember any vomiting into trash cans. We all danced and sang and carried on like old pals. And then... I saw her. Standing there, hair flowing in the wind, mostly coming out of her moles... kind of hunched over, because she kind of had a cute hunchback. Like Quasimodo, only with a vagina, I hope. Her name was... uh... maybe Susan or Theresa. Whatever, anyways, the point is, I went downstairs and my friend Brad said, "Dude, that girl thinks you're cute."

Okay so when I said I saw her all dramatically, I was flat out lying. I hadn't seen her yet. But I went upstairs to take a nervous look. I suavely walked up to her, and put forth one of my best lines. "Hi," I said, before immediately tripping over myself and spilling rum on the three people to my right. "I'm Joel." I'll never forget the way she said, "Hi, Joel, I'm <>."

From that moment on, it was like a fairy tale. Not like the one you'd tell your kids, more like one of the old school fairy tales where gruesome shit went down and people died horribly. Regardless, I danced in an opposite corner of the room, gradually gaining courage and alcohol poisoning until I boldly walked somewhat close to her and made awkward eye contact until she forced herself upon me, dancing and grinding like a whirlwind of romance and passion.

I tried on some of my best white guy dance moves- bending my legs slightly and bouncing up and down a little. After about five minutes of that I got bored and turned her around to face me. Her lips met mine and, in an instant, I knew that I would remember this moment for a lifetime, no matter how much I tried to suppress it.

It was a quiet serene moment, and you could have heard a pin drop, if not for the numerous other people hooting and hollering, "Go JOEL!", flicking the lights on and off repeatedly, and slapping me on the butt. It took all the self restraint and respect I had to back away from her and end the wonderful kiss. It took even more self restraint to pretty much forget to talk to her for the rest of the night.

In the end, she left- as they all do, over time. She went back to her college, and we knew it would never work out between us. We were from two different worlds. Well, at least I was fairly sure she was from a different world, judging from her biology and appearance. Maybe the zoo. Regardless, she left and I was utterly heartbroken when I found out I'd lost my one true love, at least until like a week later when I met the girl I'd essentially be in teen-anxty love with for about two years.

Oh fuck, she's gonna read that. Well whatever, it's too late to hit backspace now.

Women have come and gone since then. Well actually, not many of them have come at all, which is why most of them have gone. But the fact remains that I'll never forget that magical day or maybe night in October or November at Union Street's party house, I think. I wouldn't give that wonderful memory up for all the money you could offer.

Oh shit, twenty bucks? ...What kiss?

The feel of the place was just a lot like Agawam. It's strange, because I get specific feelings whenever I cross into certain territories. I have a specific feeling for home. It's almost like an emotion to me, if that makes any sense. Home doesn't feel exactly like any other mix of happiness or safety or comfort... it feels like HOME. And I haven't felt that in any other town aside from my native Agawam until I had to drive to Cohasset's UPS store to drop of my incredibly expensive paperweight, the XBox 360. As soon as I drove into town, I was just more relaxed and happy than I was before. Maybe it was the more relaxed feel, or even the less idiotic drivers, but something about it made me wish I lived there or back in Agawam again. Ah well. Things to do, things to do...