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.

I continue to wait for a verdict on my visa application, so I thought this would be an appropriate time for me to recount the day when I first arrived into the United States. It is a story that began, like most fairy tales, on the US-Mexico border.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you through, sir.”

The federal agent was about the same height as me, but in my mind, he towered over me entirely, blocking out the sun so that I could stand only in his shadow. His voice was a deep growl, and his eyes seemed to glow with a mystical flame.

“But look at me,” I said, “I’m small and scrawny, with hardly a meat on my bones. My older brother will be passing here soon. He is obese and would make a fuller meal. I think you should wait for him instead.”

I watched his expression, carefully gauging to see if he would believe me. He, in turn, studied my face, cautious in conjuring up a response.

“Uh,” he finally said. “I’m not a troll.”

I looked around, and I realized he was telling the truth. The cave I had imagined was only a tiny guard post flanked by fences, and his greasy, tangly hair was a smooth, silky blonde. You could even say he looked like Brad Pitt, but I wouldn’t know. White people all looked the same to me.

This was, of course, an unexpected turn of events. Most of my border-crossing strategies were made in the assumption that I would be confronted by a troll. Especially demoralizing was having to accept that, in coming this far, much of my energy had been spent on carrying my Level 17 Mace of Troll Bashing. Now it only hung down from my waist, a Level 1 Hammer of Whimpering Impotence.

I scurried to come up with a solution. “Then perhaps,” I said, “there is something else I could offer. Maybe some pesos are in order? I can give you three.”

“I cannot be bribed with money, sir. You will have to leave and come back through other means.”

“You know, this is really disappointing. I think you have thoroughly ruined my day.”

As I turned around and started walking back into Mexico, I could not shake off the feeling that this had been a monumental waste of my time. And to think I left Enrique Gonzales at home for this. That was my chihuahua.

“Wait,” the agent said. “I said you could not bribe me with money. But let’s talk about, you know, food. How about you bring back some nachos, salsa, and children, and we’ll go from there?”

“Wait, what did you say?” I said.

“Bring back some nachos and salsa.”

“No, that last bit. I’m pretty sure I heard you say children.”

He hesitated. “You sure I didn’t say.. churro?”

I knew it! I whipped out my Level 17 Mace of Troll Bashing, and at once, he screamed so loudly that nearby coyotes joined in the howl. He cowered in the corner, begging me not to hurt him, crying that he had little troll children to feed. Watching him from that angle, I felt sorry for the guy: I was pretty sure he had to put up with a troll wife too. I sighed, tied my mace back onto my belt, and continued on my journey.

I took a deep breath, and the American Dream filled my lungs. A bald eagle soared in the distant sky, as if to welcome me into his domain. I could already smell the beautiful women of Santa Monica.

And as I walked towards the Promised Land, or at least the bus stop that would take me there, I was occupied with only one thought: man, this would be the life, if only I could get my work visa approved.