Imagine my surprise this morning when I received an email notifying me that Big Tara, bane of my childhood, has added me on Facebook. Memories came rushing back, and I hesitated to click into her profile. In the end, I managed to do so only after consulting Wikipedia and reassuring myself that internet cables are much too thin for her gargantuan thighs to fit through.

Holy mother of—

She’s hot!

Wait, is this the same Tara of almost 20 years ago? The one who was given special treatment on our school trip to the national museum because their biologists thought she predated homo sapiens?

Gone are the hair, the fat, the possible tail. In their place, a toned, tanned body worthy of a supermodel. Indeed, in looking at her info, it seems she did go through a brief modeling stint in the late 90’s before giving it up to have children. And her children! They’re friggin’ gorgeous.

What happened, Tara? Through what portal did you crawl through, dragging your knuckles across the ground, only to strut out back again, hands on your shapely hips? What form of dark magic is this?

I don’t even know what to say to her. I had thought maybe she added me to apologize for her wrongdoings, but we’re way past that. I want to see her naked.

Oh god, I want to see Big Tara naked. What is wrong with me?!

Okay, calm down, Sir Kevin. Play it cool. Maybe send her a poke. Maybe send her a free gift. Then maybe visit her on Pet Society so you can scrub her down.

Oh god, I’m turned on by Pet Society.

My guidance counselor once told me that my penchant for schoolyard gossip and rumors would be detrimental to my own personal development, but my curiosity for secrets of all kinds has led me directly to my career in international intelligence and surveillance.

“North Korea doesn’t just like nuclear weapons,” I once wrote in an 800-page report on the motivations behind the actions of the communist state. “North Korea likes likes them.”

In a footnote, I added, “They would totally snog.”

When my supervisor, a balding middle-aged man, learned about my history, he confided in me that he too shared the same habits in school. From then on, our correspondence took on a more casual turn. When I reported to him that terrorists were sacrificing themselves believing that 72 virgins awaited them in heaven, he remarked on the page, “OMG that’s so pervy!”

And when I showed him a photo of said terrorist, he exclaimed, “Ew, he’s like 40!”

Even I would say he took things a bit too far. For one thing, he was at least 55 himself. And there was something unsettling about the way he would hold his fists to his chin, hopping, whenever he got excited. See, my child-like expressions were subtle and classy. His were a 55-year-old man hopping with his fists to his chin.

After a couple weeks, I began distancing myself from him. He, however, did not make it easy for me. One day, he tried to give me a homemade bracelet. The next day, he tried to lend me his diary. I rejected both items, unable to see myself following down the same path as him. Finally, I told him we had to stop hanging out together. Enough was enough. The last straw came when he presented to me a poem in which the beginning letter of each line spelled out FRIENDSHIP.

It has been many years and I have not seen him since. I suppose I can admit that on some days, I miss the times we shared, the innocence of those moments. I no longer keep in touch with him, but from what my friends tell me, he’s in some punk rock phase now. I think he’s dating a black dude.

Before the arrival of gods, before the existence of matter and energy, in that abstract fluid of nothingness, there existed a figure who stood as tall as galaxies, and whose strength burst forth with the power of supernovas. As mere human beings, it is impossible for us to exaggerate his vigor. Indeed, as human beings, our very existence resulted from one of his bursts, which today we call the Big Bang.

The figure, whom I will refer to as Doug, was always proud of the name Big Bang, but it was not the way his wife remembered it. To her, it was an uneventful affair, marked by disappointment and regret that maybe she should’ve gone with someone else when her youth still afforded her such opportunities. As things stood, or rather as they didn’t, she found herself worried.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, “Is it me?”

“No,” Doug replied. “I don’t know. Stress from work, maybe.”

“Work? What work? We live in a perpetual vacuum.”

She then added, “There’s somebody else, isn’t there.”

“Gosh, how many times have I told you. Sal is just a friend. Just leave me alone.”

“Well, maybe you can at least finish yourself off.”

Her comments were hurtful, but Doug knew this was a fight he could not win. He dragged himself over to a little corner of darkness, shamefully accepted that this occasion would be one of solitude. As he began, he could only think that he had been honest about work. He had been trying to create worlds, build life. As he continued, he thought that if only he could complete his project, his wife would understand what he was doing all along. Then something happened that had never happened before. His success arrived like poetry.

In his research regarding world creation, he had come across works detailing the physical elements of the universe, heavy texts describing the optimal placement of planets, and mechanical sketches regarding the construction of living beings. But this time, time having not existed until this very moment, he came across the stars.

I am not so blind as to not realize that this topic is subject to crude metaphors or, perhaps worse, an epic allegory of erectile dysfunction, but this is genuine human sorrow, derived from the fact that the moment I finish writing this, I will have to throw away a banana for having turned stale. It sits on my desk now, unaware of its fate. This is for you, banana.

I remember like it was yesterday: my girlfriend and I were walking through the supermarket when suddenly I remembered my mom had called me earlier, telling me to add more fruits to my diet. In browsing through the produce section, I sought a fruit that was cheap and easy to prepare. At 28 cents a pound, none compared to you.

For two weeks you sat on my desk, not complaining when I chose to eat your siblings first, patiently waiting your turn. When I watched TV, you never complained about it being too loud. When I was doing my homework, you did your best to not distract me. Our friendship, if you don’t mind me calling it that, was so strong, you often reminded me of my good childhood friend, Margaret. Indeed, on more than one occasion, I would get confused and mistake you for her, much to my embarrassment.

And throughout this past week, even as your skin lost its original yellow luster, you never rushed me. Even when I grabbed you, and we both realized you were no longer as firm, you did not raise your voice. You believed, deep down, that I would come around to eating you. Of all the fruits I’ve ever had, you always were the most selfless.

And when I first entered elementary school, when I did not yet have any friends, you were the first to step up and introduce yourself. I was shy, did not say much, but you welcomed me into your heart nonetheless, and in doing so, made a little boy so happy he could cry. But I suppose all good things must come to an end, and if I did not treat you the best way that I could, if I ever hurt you in any way, I am sorry.

I’ll truly miss you, Margaret.

The townsfolk thought that by having me tarred and feathered, I would die from humiliation, but they only helped me complete my human-rooster transformation.

I roamed the night as a feathered vigilante, serving justice to those who taint this city of mine. In the darkness, I scoured alleys for criminals, all of whom cowered at the sound of my name. Who am I? I’m Roostero.

Regular people were easy enough to deal with, but occasionally, freak accidents introduced more troublesome supervillains. The worst of these was the Human Hen, whose demonic powers included Continuous Nagging. “Clean your room” she would say, before launching into a more focused beam of commands: “Washthedishestakeouthetrashstopeatingsomuchicecream.”

That attack was particularly strong. I remember collapsing from its impact one weekend afternoon, when I had every right to waste my time. I fell to the ground, my entire body aching, unable to continue the fight. Luckily for me, a nearby group of schoolchildren tossed bread crumbs onto the ground, which I hungrily devoured. Replenished, I gathered all my energy and proceeded to turn myself into a 50-lb frozen turkey. Nothing the Human Hen said after that had effect anymore. I remained an immovable force. When she was finally tired, she simply left, defeated. The schoolchildren cheered my name as I transformed back into my human-rooster form and ran away while flapping my arms.

Those were the old days when vigilantes still garnered some respect. Now, all I hear is how we think we are above the law while the rest of the city rots away.

One day, the world will look up and shout, “Save Us!”

And I will look down, and whisper, “GRRAWK!”