Que Sera Sera


I’d like to take this moment to recognize everyone on my roster for really giving it their all lately. Apparently everyone I know called a meeting where there was a Power Point presentation and handouts with an outline titled How Can I Fully Realize My Awesome Potential To Better Amuse Sarah?

For instance:

My number one brother calling me last night to tell me that on the first day of his creative writing class, the professor had them fill out a sheet with questions like What do you believe in? and my brother wrote “nihilism.”

My number one pal Sarah N. alerting me to the fact that tomorrow night at Antarctica, you drink free if your name is Sarah. Now you know where to find me before OH WAIT IT’S COMING

My number one roommate Liz’s boyfriend Rob throwing a party tomorrow night to celebrate his moving out of Manhattan and to Brooklyn. I applaud this decision for anyone, but this means that Rob will be at our house more often now, probably playing Dr. Mario on our couch. That warms the cockles of my old sea-farin’ heart in a way you just cannot understand unless you witness it firsthand.

My number one band The Hold Steady putting on the best show I’ve ever seen them give last night, probably because they’ve just recorded the best album they’ve ever done. Seriously, it’s so good it makes me want to bleed. I don’t even know what that means, but I’m leaving it.

My number one pen pal Jason sending me a letter. Jason’s letters are always a treat, and usually there’s a little pick-me-up enclosed, like, say, a stick of cinnamon chewing gum, or a picture of a tiger that he found on the ground, but this letter was especially great because it was written in code. I decoded the letter while watching The Daily Show and eating nachos. All in all, a great experience. My favorite part was where I could tell he meant to say, “I’d sell my first-born for a cigarette,” but instead wrote “I’d sell my first-born a cigarette.”

Speaking of mail, I seem to have received a letter from my number one former Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton, written from the Beekman Arms Inn in Rhinebeck, NY. Which is funny, because Liz and Rob were at the Beekman Arms Inn in Rhinebeck just last weekend. I keep meaning to ask if they ran into each other, maybe at the breakfast buffet. If there’s two things Alex loved, it’s women and build-your-own omelette bars.

Oh, also this one guy at work bought me a milkshake. That was pretty great.

So thanks, all my friends. I wish I had a minivan so you all could pile in and I could take you out for a post-game pizza party. I’d give everyone a whole roll of quarters for video games. And, since we’re playing pretend, I’d also give each of you one of those fist rings with your name spelled out in diamond across your knuckles. Except for you, Zielazinski. What do you think I am, made of fake money?

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