Yes, okay, granted, it's ridiculous the Rite Aid on Broadway has banners outside saying "Grand Re-Opening," considering almost nothing has changed about the store except the new refrigerator case and the new tiles outside the building. But still, this is a pretty shitty thing to do to the workers while they were applying the new tiles to the building. They hadn't even put the grout in yet! And already you'd scrawled your nonsense over their work. How did you manage to tag this wall, in full view of a busy street, in the late afternoon, while the workers had their backs turned? You're an asshat, you know that? But you're a fast asshat.


You were wearing a full-body houndstooth harlequin jumper complete with cap and bells as you skipped up the bike lane on Broadway, a full 6.5 blocks from where we saw you back in November. Same time, too. Rush hour. Two questions, one comment. First question: Is this your thing? If so, thank you for being you, you beautiful court jester. Second question: You were less jaunty this time—why such a stiff skip this time? Your hands seemed locked to your sides, your face rictus—are you feeling a little low? Have the record-breaking rains and soul-killing cloud cap crushed your indomitable jester spirit? If so, don't let the rain get you down. The monocloud's grip on the psyche can't be any tighter than the iron fist of the evil king whose court you fled lo those many months ago. Whatever the case, if you're planning another skip trip soon, try keeping to the sidewalk. The self-righteous biker who unceremoniously buzzed by you clearly didn't appreciate your clogging his lane.


We didn't see you stick a white birthday-cake candle into a mound of dog shit on 14th Avenue South in Beacon Hill, but we wish we had.


On a downtown street corner, you were double-take-worthy, with light eyes, smooth skin, high cheekbones, and flowing walnut-brown hair. You looked smart and elegant. The double take revealed that you were part of a group of Christian fundamentalists who'd set up a small table to peddle homophobic pamphlets and other astonishingly stupid nonsense. It was decided that you were not, after all, double-take-worthy.


We saw you, a young woman at the downtown Target on a Saturday night, shopping for Scrabble. As a word nerd, we have to confess: We love you.


Some 30 people had come to celebrate you. In a sunbathed living room overlooking Puget Sound, you were surrounded by friends, parents of friends, presents, cake, and candy. The assembled guests sung your name and were all smiles. You were perched atop a high chair. Throughout it all, you stayed silent, alternating between outright pouting—your puffy cheeks swollen like angry little blob-monsters—and surveying your surroundings warily with narrowed eyes. You were waiting, anxiously, for your own second birthday party to come to an end so that you could, one presumes, curl up with your mom and take a nap.


You were pushing your cart fast through QFC, making hot-rod sound effects as you skidded around the aisles. You were cutting corners so close that you risked knocking over the mounds of fruit and the two giant pots of soup near the deli. Were you worried about making a mess of the produce? No. You weren't even worried about turning too sharply and toppling over the three bags of tortilla chips and your toddler son, who was sitting in your otherwise empty cart. It was unclear whether you were making those sounds with your mouth to entertain your son, other shoppers, or yourself, but that mystery was solved when you finally navigated the cart directly into the liquor section of the store and started making a crowd cheering noise. Try to drive more safely in the future, mon semblable, mon frere.


We saw you approach and mount us, remove your clothes with a violent grace, and proceed to begin the beguine in exactly the way we can't help imagining you might, under just such a circumstance. But then, as the saying goes, we woke up and realized we'd just had a very inconvenient, but no less welcome, sex dream. At our age!