Worry Wart

I have had a little wart on my right thumb for . . . . oh, going on two years now. I was reticent to get rid of it because not only did touching it comfort me when I was anxious, but it was cute. Strangely, as attached as I became to this little guy, I never came up with a name for it. I think we had an understanding that naming it might make it harder to part ways when the inevitable day of reckoning came.

Said day came on Tuesday when I was rifling through my bathroom cabinet and came upon the Compound W I'd bought a while ago for the purpose of bidding my buddy adieu. But due to my roommate's tendency to rearrange things, the little wart's life was spared for those intervening weeks.

This past weekend I was engaging in lots of hand-holding, and started to feel the slightest bit self-conscious about my friend the wart, so I suppose that might have been part of what contributed to the decision to say bye bye. Like with most things, I am feeling disproportionately sentimental about ending this chapter of my life and am thinking back on all the things me and my wart have been through together over the course of these many months and years.

Then again, this last eighteen months or so have been kind of shitty. Maybe it was the wart that was putting a pox on my life? Maybe it is the wart's fault that I was a victim of identity theft, broke my shoulder, dated a turd-head and kept on getting UTI's?? Hmmm, the plot thickens.

It's been three days, and currently the wart has been reduced to a soggy white lump with little teeny holes in it that make me think of a honey comb. Gross/awesome. It remains to be seen whether its permanent departure will banish bad things from my life. Here's hoping.

Shalom my little wart. May you find peace and happiness in skin malady heaven.

An Open Letter To Michael Cera

Dear Michael Cera,

I know that you don't know me. I know that you are a movie star. I know that of late you have become an object of lust for a growing number of females who appreciate your deadpan comic sensibilities and lanky frame. I think I heard somewhere that you have a girlfriend. I think I heard somewhere else that she was Asian, which makes me question your heterosexuality a little bit. Also, I realize that you are nineteen years old, which makes us nearly a decade apart age-wise, and makes me feel like a bit of a pedophile.

Nonetheless, I would like for you to be my boyfriend. I don't even necessarily want to shag you, though maybe I'd feel like it once we started spending quality time together, or if I had more than one vodka-soda beverage. Mostly I would like to hang out and possibly play checkers and hold hands in a cute, chaste, middle-schoolish way. I would like for you to tell me jokes and for me to tell you jokes back and for us to live in harmony together, appreciating indie rock and shopping for cardigan sweaters. Perhaps I could make you open-faced sandwiches owing to your dental problem which prevents you from opening your mouth very wide in order to accommodate a large-sized sandwich. Maybe I could have my dad look at it, since he is a dentist!

I wonder, do you like dancing to balalaika music?

It's possible that I would even be willing to move to Canada with you. I'm ready for a change of scenery anyhow. I bet it's nice up there in the fall.

Love,

Gittles