Brad Pike

I wanted to communicate how great I was. They needed to know that I was the most special, the most interesting person. I was maybe eight years old.

I think it started in fifth grade biology, when I was assigned the project of caring for a snail. The snail came in a little plastic terrarium, and each student received a spray bottle to keep its environment moist and swampy.

If your memory of this time’s shoddy, don’t say, “I can’t remember much because we were high all the time,” or if you can’t help yourself, add something about being on a mountain or airplane. She will ask how you two met, but don’t say, “Through our drug dealer.”

Once I gave her my driver’s license, she then reaffirmed the fact I look young and then mocked me in that way people do when they’re being “hilarious” but are actually just awful people — rudeness disguised as jokes because it’s the only way these demons can blend into civilized society.

A couple weeks ago, I visited the Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky with two friends, and as you’ve probably guessed, it’s a museum that seeks to give visitors a biblical perspective of Earth’s early history via a literal interpretation of The Book of Genesis (with a little room left over for speculation, whimsy, and imaginative flights of fancy, weeeee!).

Some performers choose “German guy” while others choose “flamboyant gay stereotype.” My fallback character is “old man,” a man who’s old, hunches over, and speaks in a whiny old man voice about “the war” and other hilarious old person things.

Hopefully, once I murder every living thing in existence, the female manifestation of Death might finally show me some affection. I’m also thinking about going back to grad school to get my PhD.

As you comb through the ruins of our dead civilization, you might be thinking to yourselves, ‘What a bunch of morons,’ or ‘How could a species be this self-destructive?’

I remember when the chief first said, “Bury yourself in the wall and be perfectly still for twelve hours.” I was like, “Say whaaaaaaat?” because the chief had only recently been promoted, and he’s already assigning busywork, acting like he’s Con-Tici Viracocha Pachayachachic, you know?

Where is my cup? Where is it? I have a list of potential suspects in The Case of the Stolen Cup. Here is the list: you. You’re the only suspect.

You’ll be telling your grandkids about the time I scanned your groceries at the Trader Joe’s, and those grandkids will tell their grandkids, and on down the line until our dying sun swells up like an untreated tumor and burns the planet to ash (which, of course, nullifies all our accomplishments).

Unprocessed air is full of allergens. Unfiltered sunlight seeds your skin with cancer. A sunset can be seen by googling the word “sunset”. Who needs the outside?