What did I ever do to America?

U Street in DC on a Friday night. My friend and I were out on the sidewalk when a cab pulled up in front of us and deposited an exuberant young man. He triumphantly yelled out to the cosmos: 

He saw me looking at him and faltered in his enthusiasm. 

He pondered for a moment.

And then he decided:

Time for America. But not for me.

Cacophonous Vomit, Or: Having an Older Sister Builds Character

I stayed home sick this past Monday, and it reminded me of when I was little and would get sick. On quite a few occasions, I'd wake up in the middle of the night and run to the toilet to throw up. Much to my sister's displeasure, I wouldn't close the door behind me. Awakened by my vomiting, she'd gently offer this suggestion:

Granted, my upchucks sound a lot like a Wookie getting punched in the stomach.

The next day, I'd stay home to leisurely enjoy my intestinal purging, and I think my sister resented this vacation that she didn't get to share. She'd sometimes call into question the authenticity of my illness:

My sister was so compelling in her rhetoric that I'd often wonder myself whether I was indeed faking it. 

Nowadays, I still hear my sister's voice in the back of my head when I call out sick, and I wonder, "Am I really and truly sick? Is it really so bad that I can't go in to work today? Or is my sister right? Am I, as I've always feared, a faker?"

But then I say fuck it and go back to bed.

It's Been Awhile.

Sometimes my cat Archibald sits in the sink and watches me poop.

It's times like these that make me feel like I have less control than I should.

I should be able to poop without having my cat judge me;

I should assert my authority over him.

Instead, here I cower.

It is he that has the power.

And he slyly grins

While I shit.