The kid-scrawled chalk on the sidewalk reads, “Free Hopscotch —>,” and the squares stretch all the way up the block.

I’m laying on my back with needles in my limbs, trying to relax. The ambient music in the acupuncturist’s office is massage/day spa/yoga music — the kind where the singer repeats a single foreign phrase endlessly, and when she’s done, she does it again. The problem with such music (she said, as though there were only one problem) is that my brain cannot focus when there’s something to translate. Of course I have no idea what language this is (which somehow makes me feel slightly racist?), and so my brain approximates.

I breathe in through my nose; out through my mouth.

“BANDCAMP!”

In through my nose…

“Bandcaaaaaaaaamp!”

…out through my mouth.

“BANDCAMP!”

Awesome.

You are a young man in love, and this morning you’re meeting a particular young girl for coffee. She’s lovely, and your elbow rests on the table, chin in hand, head cocked to the side. You are listening, really listening, and gazing upon her with admiration.

I know this scene is meant to warm my heart. You are oozing sentiment. In fact, your adoration seems calculated for public benefit. Look everybody! Now this is a Guy in Love!

I consider knocking your elbow out from under your chin, but instead do my best impersonation of a wistful smile. “Look at that,” I pretend to think. “Oh! How I do recall the days when my own love was budding and new.”

I’m sure I’ll see you around a few months hence, perhaps the day after you dump her via text message.

This is my version of a genius list Zan did a few days ago, entitled “Things I sometimes imagine against my will.”

-Feeling someone’s breath on my ear, and looking up in the bathroom mirror to see a ghost behind me.

-Being pushed onto the subway tracks by an insane person.

-Dead people sleeping in the basement, until they hear me descending the stairs, whereupon they scuttle to their hiding places.

-A hand shooting out from underneath my parked car (my bed, a low table, the basement crawl space) to grab my ankle.

-The hand grabbing my ankle is attached to a dismembered arm.

-Prison guards pulling Hank from my arms while he yells my name.

-Having one of those surgeries where they think the anesthesia is working, but it isn’t.

-It turns out the robots want to enslave us.

This is My Grandma, originally uploaded by MaggieMason.

My aunt sent me this photo when she passed away, and I keep it on our fridge. Invariably, people comment on how much they like the old-timey photo of me.