Unable to pay back my credit card debt of almost sixty dollars, it seems the only option left is to fake my death.

I already have it all planned out: while on vacation in the Bahamas, I will sign up for bungee jumping lessons. During one of these, I shall secretly cut my rope so that after I jump, I will fall to the ground, at which point I can run into a cave before anybody sees me. My death will thus be appropriately assumed.

The next phase involves the investigators who remain skeptical because they cannot find my missing body. To counter this, I will import several alligators and feed them my arm. This will provide me with an authentic arm bone with teeth marks, identifiable by their labs, which I can place at my original landing spot. On this, I will pour a copious amount of wolf urine to prevent the coyotes from prematurely removing it. And then to prevent the wolves themselves from doing the same, I will pour some manly urine of my own. Now that I think about it, the wolf urine may be entirely unnecessary.

“That’s odd,” the investigator will say, stroking his chin. “This man peed as he landed on the ground and was devoured by hill creatures.”

His assistant, taking photographs of the scene, will respond, “Given the situation, sir, I am sure I would piss my pants too. There are no restrooms for miles around.”

“Yes, but on his own bone?”

“Hey, that rhymed. Own bone.”

“Yes, haha.”

And as the two of them laugh about their spontaneous poetry, this illogical matter is quietly forgotten.

Finally, there are the mediums who will be unconvinced of my death because they will not be able to communicate with my spirit. This is little more than a passing nuisance, however, as they invariably go back to chatting with Elvis.

I will hide out, perhaps for twenty years, after which I will return to civilization under a different name. My face will have grown weary and saturated with beards, unrecognizable even by family. I will move to a town I have never been to, rent a room in an inconspicuous house, and begin my new life as One-Armed Joe.

On an uneventful day like any other, I will wake up in the morning, walk out to my mailbox, and see that I have been pre-approved for a five hundred dollar loan. And then I will think: wow, that looks like a pretty good deal.

Much is expected of me because of my status as a worldly gentleman, but there is one area in which I fail miserably: alcohol tolerance. This truth has plagued me ever since I tasted alcohol for the first time at the ripe and legal age of 21. Even now, after four years of training, things have not improved, and last weekend’s trip to the bar was a painful reminder.

“WOOOOOO!” I howled, while showing off my dance moves to anyone watching, which was nearly everyone because I was on top of the table. This would have been a surprisingly cool act if I actually had an established set of dance moves, but as it were, my repertoire consisted of a part of The Robot and the entirety of Sailor Moon’s transformation. I peeled off my clothes, certain that a sailor outfit was going to magically cover me up.

A security guard reached out and grabbed me, asked me what the fuck I was doing.

“It’s okay!” I said, “I am a soldier for love and justice!”

He was unconvinced and proceeded to drag me towards the door.

“Let me gooo!” I protested, my voice now hoarse from the alcohol. “Can’t you see I’m Sailor Moon?!”

Suddenly, a single rose flew at us, hitting the security guard in the cheek. He looked up, gasped, turned around and ran. I looked to see what it was: Tuxedo Mask!

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized it wasn’t Tuxedo Mask, but my friend. And I wasn’t at the bar, but on the floor of my friend’s living room. For some reason, I couldn’t remember the trip home at all. My head ached and I was almost as dizzy as that time in college when I was spinning nonstop in an attempt to become Sailor Moon. What the hell just happened? Unable to remain conscious, I closed my eyes and let sleep take over me.

I’m never drinking Bud Light again.

Summer has arrived again, which means the return of my old nemesis: the ants.

What is it about summer that brings out these tiny dudes? At first I thought it was kind of adorable, a lone ant here and there, scouting for food with its little antennae, but these guys sure can’t keep a good thing secret; before long, their entire family is invited, and I am faced with the awkward situation of forced small talk with its distant uncles and aunts. Having learned from my experience last year, I dismissed the idea of befriending anyone this time. As I spray down the insecticide, I don’t even look them in the eyes.

The problem had gotten so bad, spiders began invading. The infestation, as it turned out, was moving up the food chain. I suppose the logical question, then, is why I did not let this process continue until it reached the top—man—at which point it would be a pretty rockin’ party. But this assumes that man is at the top. Who is to say that sharks would not come by and chomp us into bits? Or a gang of Nelly Furtado’s? No, such scenarios were too risky.

The insecticide I am using also has the bonus fragrance of citrus, which saves me time from not having to apply deodorant before I leave the house. You may not believe me, but this is the scent that really knocks the women out.

Few things said by a woman can be more interesting than the one sentence she chooses to say when ending a relationship. Months or years of shared moments and emotions are condensed into a mere handful of words, each as ambiguous as a mixed cup of Slurpee, and each as cold. It has been said by the wisest of men that kids say the darnedest things, but it is my experience that things said by women are even darneder. They are sometimes so darned the only appropriate response is, “Wow, that is really darned.” That is not to say, however, that I disagree with them.

Take, for instance, that girl in my sophomore year who told me that I enjoyed the chase more than the actual relationship. On the moonlit bench, I gently brushed apart her hair, revealing her sullen eyes, and quietly told her that it was true. Especially the ones who screamed when they ran. Those were the best.

Then there was that girl in eighth grade who claimed that despite our seven months together, I could not remember her name. This, too, was true. As an aspiring screenwriter whose mind was largely filled with character names appropriate for different faces, I have always relied on intuition rather than brute force memory. My ability to see names based on a person’s appearance had never failed me, except in the case of this girl. As we sat on the pier after dinner, as she poured her heart out through an endless stream of tears, telling me that although she loved me dearly that it was best we separated, all I could deduce was that she was not a Peter.

I suppose I should see it as a kind of blessing that these women thought of me well enough to not say anything intentionally hurtful. Their words, although never pleasurable, were always measured to cause the least amount of pain. Well, except for that one girl who said my dick was a joke.

But at least it was an inside joke.