It’s called Into the Wild . . . → Read More: That Song From That Commercial!]]> You know that song from that commercial where you think the woman is going dancing or to dinner theater because she talks about needing nylons, but instead she climbs a treacherous orange rock and looks out onto the vast landscape of Utah? Or Arizona? Either way, I found it!

It’s called Into the Wild by LP and you can trade it for your email address and zip code here.

Here it is on YouTube: LP – Into the Wild

Anyway, why does Brian hates dogs so much?

It’s Saturday night, and my best friend and I kick things off by smoking a bowl in his parents’ backyard— because since high school, on through college and into adulthood, that’s how most good nights start. (And bad nights, and mediocre nights, and nights when I wake up at 4 the following morning on . . . → Read More: Shroomin’ at My Reunion]]>

It’s Saturday night, and my best friend and I kick things off by smoking a bowl in his parents’ backyard— because since high school, on through college and into adulthood, that’s how most good nights start. (And bad nights, and mediocre nights, and nights when I wake up at 4 the following morning on the couch with the TV blaring and cake in my mouth.)

The only preparation I’ve made for my 10-year high school reunion is buying a pair of skinny Seven jeans (earlier this afternoon). I’m not successful, I’m not feeling particularly sociable or witty, I’m just gonna look the part. If I get laid tonight, better believe it’s gonna be for all the wrong reasons.

Actually, denim isn’t my only preparation. I’ve also armed myself with a fresh pack of smokes, gum, and a condom hidden in my blazer pocket. Because you never know, especially when you’re me. I usually don’t even know after the fact.

Then there are my buddy’s chocolates. And by “chocolates,” I actually mean “mushroom chocolates,” but that’s just too many syllables. And less catchy. So, there are chocolates.

Having agreed that arriving at our reunion stone sober is a bad idea, we meet up with a half dozen girls from our class at a bar on Main Street; four of whom I’ve spoken a collective dozen words (if that) in all of high school, one I’ve already told my buddy I’m planning on sleeping with, and one who, understatedly put, has blossomed. Holy shit. How—and WHEN—did she get that ass?

Since I’m already baked, not successful, and not feeling particularly sociable, I nurse a $10 beer for a half hour and stick to my game plan: innocent chit chat with my target, a few “you work in entertainment too?!” moments with the duckling-turned-swan, keep my career word total below 20 with the other four. No offense, ladies—I’m already planning on taking this one home, and—look at her, she just can’t stop kissing my cheek! What, do I have some peanut butter on there or something?

Before I can verbally cockblock myself, we’re back in the car and headed to the Moose Lodge. Have I mentioned our reunion is at the FUCKING MOOSE LODGE?! We park, spark another bowl for good measure, and take our first crescent moon-shaped bite of chocolate. (Final reminder: mushroom chocolate.)

•                        •                        •

Walking around the corner of the building, we realize it’s only been 45 minutes since the doors opened. We have zero desire to be the first ones in, let alone in the first third. Thankfully, a small crowd’s already smoking outside. Oh yeah, we can do this now! No detentions for smoking ciggies! We’re greeted with handshakes and fist bumps from a few immediately recognizable faces: the druggie skater donning the same baggy sweater and cargo pants I last saw him in ten years ago, the half-black dude with the perfect smile who’s legitimately cool enough to pull off the leather jacket/tie/baseball cap trifecta, and the ambiguously ethnic loudmouth with a waxed chest and two too many shirt buttons undone. The latter can’t stop talking about how he’s got five bottles of Dom and Veuve Clicquot waiting inside. See? Told you there’d be bottle service tonight.

Before we can finish our first cigarette, one of our classmates pulls up in a shiny black Maserati. No valet, homie— it’s the fucking Moose Lodge, not Mastro’s. He scrapes the bottom of his car violently pulling into the parking lot, eliciting a hearty cackle of “Ohhhh”s from the whole smoking section, as if he’d been caught passing notes in geometry. Perhaps this won’t be so bad, after all.

•                        •                        •

We suck it up and head in— down a narrow, dusty hallway with Warren G’s ‘Regulate’ blasting on the other end. After filling out the obligatory name tags and receiving three drink tickets apiece (my heart sinks at this reality; no open bar?), we proceed through a curtain of cheap streamers and it hits me— I’m standing in a transplanted cafeteria of the last group I actually referred to as “my peers.” (Well, if anyone had actually hung out our school’s cafeteria, that is.) I deserve a hemorrhoid for making the reference, but there’s no better way to put it: this is straight out of Napoleon Dynamite.

No one’s dancing, and the only people sitting at tables are the plus-ones: husbands, wives, dates. Remember the kids’ table at Thanksgiving? It’s like that, without all the enjoyment of being a kid. Instead of chasing the family dog with a turkey leg in his mouth and tracing crayon outlines of your hand, you sit with the other misfits and watch your significant others being eye raped by their entire graduating class. If you’re lucky, she’ll turn around once every few minutes and blow you a kiss— but it’s gonna be a long night. There are many things in life I’ve never wanted to be: a meter maid, an amputee, and now a plus-one at a reunion.

My buddy taps on my shoulder. “We’re about to get drunk in a real life Facebook group.” He couldn’t be more on. Facebook has changed everything. Even if I haven’t seen you in person over the last decade, I do know what you look like, I do know that you got married to a disproportionately hot girl, and I do know that you ate lunch at Bay Cities yesterday. All I can think is “I’ve defriended so many people in this room!”

First up, the girl who couldn’t have been more than a few months away from becoming my stepsister. Her mom was my dad’s first girlfriend after my parents split, and her family moved to Santa Monica to be closer and make things work. They didn’t. I would’ve hit it back then. Not much has changed.

There’s the cheerleader I ended up going to college with, who complained after I didn’t take advantage of her the one time we hung out and killed three bottles of Charles Shaw. She’s a single mom now. Savor small victories.

There’s the kid who paid me $500 to do a semester’s worth of world history homework in tenth grade. (I loved history, it was a labor of love. Not to mention the fact that I was only copying mine verbatim.) He’s some sort of financial consultant in DC. You don’t say.

The worst thing about reunions? The moment you see someone you’re genuinely excited to catch up with from across the room, you’re charged with navigating a sea of familiar faces and handshakes just to get to them… and that’s assuming they don’t move on their own. Thankfully, my buddy’s got a reasonable size advantage on this portion of the crowd, so I call an audible and follow him through the crowd like a running back behind his trusty lineman.

And there she is, the closest thing I had to a long-term crush in high school, pint-sized and barely looking a day over 19. (We also met in world history; naturally, I did her homework for free.) We’d actually grown close after college when we both found ourselves back in Los Angeles, but nothing ever became of it, as I’d convinced myself my salary was less than half her prerequisite. She tells me she’s just broken up with her boyfriend in New York, and for the first time all night, I realize I should’ve driven my own car. But since I didn’t— to the bar!

Disappointed in my lack of foresight, I finally make it to the watering hole, wrestling for standing space next to an unidentifiable cue ball who looks better suited to be on the other side serving me. Before I can order, he’s on my shoulder: “What we drinkin’, son?!” Boy, this may get awkward when I can’t remember who you are. There’s a reason people write both their first AND last names on their tags, you know. When he offers up his name with a handshake and a double whiskey rocks, it all comes back. When he tells me he’s “livin’ the dream, producing porn in Texas and ridin’ a redhead with double-D’s,” I’m reminded why I didn’t have much of a reason to talk to him in high school, and tonight is no different. Thanks for the whiskey, though.

•                        •                        •

A handful of smokes, shots and Nate Dogg tracks later, we’re liberally slapping fixings on tacos by the food table with our good friend’s ex-girlfriend— the one we haven’t had much (if any) contact with since they broke up after 8 years together— since sophomore year. While he had the option to attend tonight, he declined. (Likely in that for the past few years, he’s found a different girlfriend who’ll likely be more than a girlfriend someday, and who’d want to deal with any of that nonsense?) I’ve bumped into her a few times already tonight, each time muttering something along the lines of “Thank God I’m high for this,” each time slightly less coherent than that which preceded it.

“You two smoking any more tonight?”

My boy and I lock eyes like we’re in a beer commercial; there’s understanding in our gaze.

“Blunt?”

God, yes. A friend with weed is a friend, indeed.

We step outside again. Ciggy, bite of chocolate, stare at the sidewalk for a hot minute.

“Anything yet?”

“Not really, to be honest.” You haven’t been accidentally feeding me just chocolate chocolate, have you? These jeans are so tight my balls are asleep, I don’t want excess calories unless they’re fucking me up.

“Alright, I thought I had an Optimo on me. We need papers.”

“No sweat, we’ll walk to the market right down the street.”

We walk down to the market right down the street. Closed. No biggie, we kill the last of the chocolate, hop in the car and drive to the nearest liquor store, back so fast we don’t even lose our parking spot.

I should mention I finally started losing my shit while waiting in line at the liquor store. I should also mention we were the only patrons in the liquor store. Must’ve been those lights on the ice cream freezer I couldn’t stop staring at. I should’ve gotten some ice cream. Ice cream sounds good right now.

In order to keep inconspicuous (and not have to share our drugs), the three of us stand a good 30 feet from the door and start our blunt. Before it’s made a full rotation, two more have joined, but they’ve also contributed a joint. This has to be how the whole Occupy movement got started. While they’re moving in opposite directions around our mini-circle, I keep ending up with both the blunt and the joint at the same time. Plus, I’ve lit another ciggy, so I’m smoking like a goddamn factory at this point— a factory with a busted assembly line, sleeping employees and a faulty emergency system. My knees get wobbly and I can’t feel my right foot. Always a good sign.

•                        •                        •

Next thing I know, we’re back inside. I slink my way next to an absolute stunner who wouldn’t give me the time of day back in high school; from what I can gather in a matter of seconds, she’s a singer now, so she still won’t. Joke’s on her, I don’t even HAVE a sense of time right now! Plus, her older boyfriend blew a load in her eye junior year and everyone’s been joking about it ever since.

Remember the loudmouth with the waxed chest? He’s roving about with his merry gang of rich kids-turned-rich young adults, all of whom have an arm wrapped tightly around their dates’ waists. (Any tighter, and it might constitute rape.)  As promised, champagne has been popped, so I’m grabbing at glasses like a toddler for treats. While gorgeous, these girls are virtually identical, one moment half-struggling to separate themselves from their captors’ steely claws, the next giving up and laughing as one at jokes I can’t even hear.  I wonder if they’re all sisters, but I realize it’s likelier they all have the same employer. I wonder which one’s being paid the most for her company tonight. When did the  Twilight Zone take a bath in hepatitis and hair gel?

After all that bubbly, I make a mad dash (read: determined stumble) to the bathroom and piss for a solid eight minutes, though looking back, the last seven were probably just me staring at patterns in floor tiles with my dick out.

Now I’m making small talk with the tall blonde I hooked up with in my little brother’s bed the summer after graduation, when my parents were out of town and I went all Risky Business on their house for the better part of a month. (It would’ve been my bed, but my room had been designated the VIP lap dance lounge by the strippers we’d hired and I couldn’t get past the bouncer standing guard at the top of the stairs.) She’s engaged now, to a 40-year-old with an Affliction t-shirt & receding hairline; he greets me with little more than an uninterested “Yeah.” In his defense, my input isn’t much richer, so I feign interest with a flat “CongratsI’mgonnagotothebarnow” and a limp handshake. Probably better than “I put those fingers on your fiancée’s cooch for fifteen seconds a decade before you, bro.”

I run into two of my old friends from elementary school all the way up until college, formerly scrawny little cousins who look nothing alike. One’s bursting out of his shirt in muscles I didn’t even know humans were supposed to grow, drunk as fuck and bouncing off everything (and everyone) in sight with his tongue wagging freely like a dog’s. Without a doubt the most forceful hug I get all night. I jokingly ask if he’s fighting UFC, and it turns out he’s actually fighting MMA. I think back to the time I gambled $64 away from him on a putting green after school; when his aunt showed up at my house to pick him and his cousin up, she’d made him pay. Probably wouldn’t go down that easily today. He suddenly grabs the back of my head, positioning my gaze squarely on the ass of the shortest girl in our graduating class, whom, as luck would have it, I’d also gone to college with. “How good does she look?!” I’d thought the same thing when she walked in in front of me earlier.

The second of the two cousins is slightly more proportionate, but comparably trashed. He’s finally growing a little facial hair. Turns out he lives down the street from my current apartment. He hypes the fact that despite the little sex we had in high school, tonight we’re surrounded by this “pussy buffet.” (Except for “the bitches with babies.”) He points out the duckling with the sleeper ass. Dude, I know!

•                        •                        •

As far as I’m concerned, the final hour or so didn’t happen.

I vaguely remember fielding a redundant barrage of questions on whether I still play golf, how I’ve been since my accident, and if I still remember any Latin. (When I can, awesome, nope!) Another old crush’s husband whom I’d only briefly met two weeks ago at a wedding told me he’s since fallen in love with my funny status updates. There may have been a slideshow. Pretty sure they didn’t hand out an award for funniest Twitter feed. Not that I’d prepared a 140-character speech or anything, who does that?

Seeing I’ve yet to hear any horror stories about how I poured a drink on my chemistry lab partner’s chest, my blazer didn’t require a trip to the dry cleaner the next day, and there’s no reason to believe I sexually harassed anyone with my iPhone, I can only assume I kept my shit together. (Reasonably.)

I do remember leaving. I got plenty close with my original target. Call it selective memory and maybe she was only holding me so tightly to prevent me from tumbling, but she kissed my cheek goodbye for what felt like 20 minutes on the way out and her name tag ended up on my lapel. Had I been of a better constitution at that point, I likely would’ve made a bold decision or two. Crap, I could’ve left this thing with a new reputation.

On the plus side, I’ve visiting my best friend next weekend in San Francisco. Cheek kisser’s up there too.

I suppose the moral of the story is this: the best reunions require no specific date or anniversary— and much like this post, they never seem to end.

Kaleidoscopes

Goat Cheese and/or Goats

Artificial Hearts

Corn Candles

Aretha Franklin

Chairs

Baby Elephants

Suction Cups

People Named Gladys

It’s Thursday again and you know what the means! So please fill me in because I have no idea.

But what I do know is we’ve added 160 more pounds of raw, hairy manliness to Our Thursday! Prepare to fill your deepest emotional void with violence, German shepherds, Batman, neck beards, . . . → Read More: Hear Ye! Hear Ye!]]>

via Reporter-Club

It’s Thursday again and you know what the means! So please fill me in because I have no idea.

But what I do know is we’ve added 160 more pounds of raw, hairy manliness to Our Thursday! Prepare to fill your deepest emotional void with violence, German shepherds, Batman, neck beards, neck ties, neck veins and Afrin.

Just kidding. That’s terrible.

Listen, do we really need another man in the single white male-dominated bathroom? No.

Did we search for a brilliant individual to bring more content, more laughter and more vulgarity to your life? Yes.

That said, please give a warm, wet welcome to everyone’s favorite homonym, Mike White!

My Quite is a wildly talented writer whose wit delights and horrifies thousands of followers in a little corner of the world called Twitter. Follow him if you like breathing @THEmikewhite.

Mike will disseminate cutting commentary on everything from celebrities, sports and politics to the gum on his shoe, right here on Our Thursday. He premieres in one week, so look for it on your news feed and share, share away.

When he’s not writing, Mike is gyrating somewhere in Culver City eating burritos by himself and growing an impressive mustache. He looks like Bill Murray, but after a few tequila shots he might resemble Ryan Gosling and Grover holding hands.

Do you want to write or snap photos for Our Thursday? Send samples to authors@ourthursday.com.

The thing about tooth-brushing is that it rids our mouths of all the roughage and animal bi-products we put in there each day. There are remnants of In N’ Out and those Cheetos you secretly ate on the way home from the gym. Residue of morning coffee and lunchtime Diet . . . → Read More: Toothbrushes are Not for Sharing (Version 2.649)]]>

Photo Credit: Vitó

The thing about tooth-brushing is that it rids our mouths of all the roughage and animal bi-products we put in there each day. There are remnants of In N’ Out and those Cheetos you secretly ate on the way home from the gym. Residue of morning coffee and lunchtime Diet Cokes. Boogers if you’re 5, and sardine bones if you’re 95.

That said, there are two types of people in the world: Those who find sharing toothbrushes grotesque, and those who will offer their toothbrush to a friend’s cousin’s gardener’s best friend’s babysitter.

Toothbrush sharers cannot be told apart from the rest of society. On the surface they live life like anyone else. They take cream in their coffee and order their eggs scrambled. Sometimes they’ll spring for an omelet, but mainly on weekends. They watch revival films at the cemetery in the summer and wear scarves before the weather drops below 70 degrees. A shocking 60 percent have trampolines in their backyards. Less than half have tried surfing and 94 percent are in monogamous relationships.

Toothbrush-sharing couples argue that if having sex exchanges fluids and bacteria, what makes a toothbrush any different? The penis and vagina are capable of spreading disease, arguably more so than the mouth. “What’s the big deal?” they ask while feeding each other Medjool dates, wearing only their bed sheets and a sex-worn flush.

The following are real questions posted to online forums by real people. Plus my answers to each!

“My significant other and I have a great sexual relationship, but after spending the night together–and exchanging bodily fluids–she’s still freaked when I want to use her toothbrush! What’s up with that?”

Does your girlfriend chew peanut butter-filled pretzels with her vagina? Yes? OK, well what is up with that?

“Is sharing your toothbrush with your 20 year bed partner un hygienic? We are otherwise healthy, neither terribly prone to cold type ailments etc.”

You sir or madame are in luck! You’ve rolled around in each others dead skin cells for two decades and are now immune to total foulness. Have you gotten a head start on storing your shared, un-rinsed brushes in the freezer? So you can eventually harvest the bacteria to create your own miniature earth? Similar to how new moms freeze their baby’s umbilical cord to save him or her from an untimely death? After reaping what your mouths have sown over the years, you’ll sprinkle the accumulated microbes in a fish bowl filled with beach sand, landscaping stones stolen from a Denny’s parking lot and mulch. Over time, amazing life forms will evolve from the beautiful combination of junk, crust and lovers’ DNA straight from your glorious food holes and you’ll be just like God. Eventually you’ll grow one long, white beard that will connect you at the chin, bonding you for infinity and forever.

“I say it’s all good. But my husband HATES it. Lol”

Your husband gets BJs from bums behind dumpsters! Lol

“Can you share a toothbrush? I’m trying to save money by not buying a toothbrush or toothpaste what should I do?”

Vacate to the deepest, farthest, most treacherous volcano in the universe.

The Center for Disease Control and Prevention clearly states the following under Recommended Toothbrush Care:

“Do not share toothbrushes. The exchange of body fluids that such sharing would foster places toothbrush sharers at an increased risk for infections, a particularly important consideration for persons with compromised immune systems or infectious diseases.”

I am putting my foot down. Even if licking your girl/boyfriend’s wisdom teeth holes gives you the world’s biggest pants tent, sharing toothbrushes is never OK.

Excerpt featured in The Tangential
Original Toothbrushes are Not for Sharing

The boy is now a man who is happily engaged to another man. The girl is now a woman who hoards boxes of L’Oreal Red Copper #RR07, and wipes her tears on dead hamsters.

Is bubbling “i”s still a thing? Or vintage?

In fourth grade, I received a scholarship to a fancy/expensive sleep away camp for my achievements in Hebrew class. In general I wasn’t a top student, and quit every extracurricular activity attempted. It seemed that I . . . → Read More: Gingerly Impaired]]> As a child, did you think you were mentally handicapped and no one was telling you? I did.

In fourth grade, I received a scholarship to a fancy/expensive sleep away camp for my achievements in Hebrew class. In general I wasn’t a top student, and quit every extracurricular activity attempted. It seemed that I was much better suited for making Barbies and Norfin Trolls have sex behind the shed. Sure, I could grumble my Israeli Rs with the best of them, but didn’t believe I deserved an award for anything besides number of bugars collected on the wall beside my bed.

That night, the night I won the award, I slept beneath the watchful eyes of Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Devin Sawa like always, but was eventually shaken to consciousness by an alarming realization. I am mentally challenged and no one is telling me. Or I’m too mentally challenged to understand that I’m mentally challenged. It explained why I’d swallowed pennies as a toddler, couldn’t retain the rules of kickball and was convinced a giraffe had entered the house anytime my mom said “do you feel a draft?” This scholarship didn’t recognize my academic excellence, it rewarded me for being average against the odds.

I stayed up for hours, hugging my knees to my chest, recounting all the clues to my abnormality. For one, I was the only redhead in my class, and I sprouted my first pubic hairs (also red) in kindergarten. I showed them to my bumper bowling team in the back of my mom’s Pacifica on the way to a game. A loud “ewwwww” resounded through the family wagon, and I tucked them away with red (typical) cheeks and haste. At my 5^th birthday party I commanded my friends to gather in the backyard and scream “surprise!” upon my entrance. Though the beginning of my plan rolled out with perfection, I scurried back into the house and wailed into the couch. It was more terrifying than anticipated. Around the same time, I decided that I loved my dogs so much, that I’d try to be one of them. So I proudly dropped to my hands and knees and shared a bowl of kibble with my beloved Australian Shepherd/Lab mix. It was salty and crunchy and annihilated my innards. I thought, what would Daisy do? So I swallowed a few handfuls of grass then soaked a hibiscus bush with vomit. It was these types of poor decisions that proved I had a problem.

I purposely concealed any knowledge of my mental malady, mainly because I enjoyed the attention and also because I’d been taught that special needs kids are cool too. All the “I love yous” and the “I’m so proud of yous” that so often departed from my parents’ mouths were out of sympathy, and I didn’t want it to end. My mother would embrace me and sing “the most beautiful girl in the world, Rebecca Pardess, yes,” and everyone’s unconditional kindness began to make sense. I was special, different and could now sit out of P.E. with ease. I attended private school and went to a different synagogue than my friends. At the age of nine, I had found my true self.

Summer approached and my anxiety built around the reality of leaving for three weeks, knowing absolutely no one, in the “wilderness” of Ojai, California. Would the camp staff know of my disability? Or did all the campers share this same challenge? I knew I wouldn’t find out until I arrived, but the anticipation was torturous.

The day came — My first time at sleep away camp! My mom drove me to a parking lot where parents pushed their children onto yellow school buses. In my cut off shorts, white t-shirt, camel work boots, one blue scrunchy sock and one purple scrunchy sock, I embarked and sat next to a tiny boy with translucent skin and hair redder than mine. “He’s just like me,” I thought, then felt my chin quiver as my parents waved goodbye, smiling larger than I’d ever seen before.

After two hours of sobbing surrounded by raucous throughout what seemed to be the vessel of nightmares, we arrived at a large, hilly expanse of grass and a flag pole. I disembarked and before I could get my bearings, a brunette lady who I could have sworn was at least 48, but was actually 19, charged me, grabbed my hand and said “Hi Rebecca! Welcome to Camp Ramah!” and somehow, everyone started singing the same song.  How did she know my name? Why didn’t I know the song? Just how many sunflowers were in her hair? Oh, right.

Entering the cabin full of strange girls, I had no idea what to do or say, par for the course for a person like me. With my head towards the floor, I sauntered to my lower bunk, near the cabin’s side door. I knew it was mine because it said so on a 3 foot long, orange strip of construction paper.

Being a conservative Jewish camp, we’d wake up and thank God for it. Then we’d eat, but first we’d pray about it. Then we’d pray after eating because we ate, and how wonderful that we could do such a thing. Before free time, we’d pray for the grass and having legs for running or something, then talk to God a little more before going for a swim because “he” made it possible for a rich Jew to buy acres of farm land, hire some other minority to dig a hole in it, fill it up with water and dunk a few chlorine tablets in it every few days.

And of course, we prayed before bed, which involved terrible hand holding and singing. At two weeks in, I still hadn’t found a clique. I was alone and felt like an outsider. I reasoned that life had dealt me this card, and I had to play it. Later that summer I’d be taking my first trip to Hawaii, and while discussing it with my bunkmate before lights out I asked, “Do they use American dollars there?” “Are you stupid?!” she snapped. “What are you, a retard?” I was taken aback at first, but glad that someone had brought my impairment to light. That blonde, stocky girl with pit stains the size of pancakes may have been a bitch, but at least she acknowledged the giant giraffe in the cabin, and I wasn’t afraid anymore. Or so I thought.

That night, all 15 girls finally fell asleep, the cabin was quiet, the counselors snoozing in their nook off to the side. At 3 in the morning, suddenly roused by a scratch at the door, my eyes burst open as I was confronted by the treachery of the woods.  It was a bear, no, a mountain lion! Wait, a buffalo! The creature scratched again, and with every frightened fiber in my 10-year-old being, I shot up, ran to a counselor’s bedside and screamed bloody murder directly in her rat face. She responded by shrieking ax-swinging hell back at me, and we promptly woke the entire camp from its summer slumber.

It was a cat.

In my three weeks at Camp Ramah, I managed to avoid making any lifelong friendships, get a bee sting by trying to feel the texture of an interesting rock and learn the trials and tribulations of life with a cognitive deficiency.

About a year after faking my ignorance of my “shortcoming”, I realized that extreme awkwardness and apathy did not mean I had a handicap. I then figured that many people with actual inborn challenges didn’t use them as an excuse to get out of kickball or be frightened by a nocturnal house pet, and that I was actually quite the ass hole.