It was the weekend of a big football game and my friends and I—never ones to miss an opportunity to eat in excess—set out to get Pokey Sticks in honor of the momentous occasion. For those of you that don't know, Pokey Sticks are the king of breadsticks. That's all I can say. I don't know what it is about them or what it is that makes them better than most. I mean it's just bread, cheese, garlic, salt . . . ?  I don't know. It's a mystery. I, personally, feel it has to do with whoever is making them. From the looks of the staff at our local pizzeria it would seem that the longer the hair, bigger the stomach, and dirtier the hands, the more exquisite the flavor.

But back to the story. Sam, Casey, and I had set out to get Pokey Sticks. We decided to walk in order to save money and the weather seemed nice enough for a stroll. Everything was fabulous. It was the night of the big game, we were young, happy, and about to experience a carbohydrate overload of epic proportions. The sky looked a bit cloudy so we brought along an umbrella just to be safe, though, we were certain we wouldn't need it. Yes, nothing could have been better and as we skipped along we were the embodiments of hope, joy, and the promise of fulfillment. The trip there went smoothly. We arrived right on time, picked up our two steaming boxes of greasy jubilation, paid, and were on our way home. No problem. And then . . .

Oh. Shit.

It was as if the clouds had been watching us the whole way, noting our barely-controlled glee and rubbing their hands together as they plotted against us. It started raining with a ferocity that rivaled The Perfect Storm. Always quick on my feet, I immediately opened the umbrella and Casey and Sam rushed in beside me like chicks under their mother's wing. We walked this way for some time, hobbling together with our shoulders hunched, Sam clutching the boxes of Pokey Sticks with single-minded resolve. However, with the three of us under one small umbrella our progress was slow and awkward. At last it became too much for Sam and with a hiss of exasperation, she exited the umbrella's shelter and walked in front of us in the rain, completely unprotected.

We came to a stop at a traffic light, Casey and I snug beneath the umbrella—dry aside from our feet—while Sam stood before us, Pokey Sticks clutched to her chest, dripping wet and glaring. If anyone got too close her head would snap around, spraying water from the ends of her hair, and she'd stare the intruder down like a lion defending its kill from hyenas. A man and his drunken friends were waiting beside us and without warning his hand shot out and took hold of the box Sam was holding onto like a life-raft.

"Gimme that!" he said, tugging. "Give that to me! NOW!"

Sam didn't react with fear, anger, outrage, or any of the other emotions appropriate for a mugging. No, Sam merely held onto that box, her knuckles white as her fingers dug into the damp cardboard, her drenched hair hanging into eyes that hinted of impending mania. The Pokey Stick tug-of-war could only have lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an age before the man, obviously sensing that Sam was about to snap, let go of the box and scampered away. Victorious, Sam surveyed the man with distate, watching through narrowed eyes as he and his friends fled the scene.

Throughout all this Casey and I never intervened, instead viewing the exchange with detached interest. Obviously Sam had been possessed. That's all there was to it. She had been possessed by some Pokey-loving demon and she was going to kill the man with her bare hands. It didn't seem real. We simply could not process what our eyes were telling us and as a result had no emotional reaction whatsoever. All we could do was blink and wait for the excitement to pass.

At last the light changed and before Casey and I knew what was happening Sam was already halfway across the street, muttering angrily to herself as we approached our building. Once back into the dry splendor of our apartment Casey and I wisely hung back, watching as Sam dried her hair with notable agression.  When it finally came time to eat, and we all sat down around our meal, we let Sam have the first pick.

It seemed only fair.

Now that I know today might be my last, 

I'd like to reflect on my much too short past. 

I think, perhaps, it would have been nice, 

To have eaten that extra helping of chicken fried rice.

Or better yet to have sampled the pie,

That I'd been so certain would go straight to my thigh!

And let's not forget that time I went for a run,

When I could have been drinking Mai Tai's in the sun. 

Oh if only I'd known! I'd have been more of a glutton,

And not worried so much about fastening up that last button!

At least, as it is, all that's left will be sinners,

And no longer must we stand in super long lines for dinners!

We can waltz right in and order the lot, 

There'll be no more waiters so we won't even get caught,

When we sneak in the back and steal the finest champagne, 

And drink it all up and then dance in the rain. 

We'll all be free to do as we please,

I'll drink a bottle of wine and eat a whole wheel of cheese!

Yes, perhaps it won't be so dire,

When all of us left get damned to eternal fire.

For at least, my friends, we'll all have had fun,

When Judgment Day comes on May twenty-one!

My sophomore year of college I had a project that involved copious amount of adhesive and cutting. My weapon of choice was an X-acto knife. It was brand new with a razor sharp blade and a stainless steel handle—the tool of a true craftsman. It was the Sunday after St. Patrick's Day, and the situation was dire. My youth had blinded me to the necessity of time-management and as a result I spent my entire spring break luxuriating in the bliss of freedom. My project remained forgotten until I was back within the realms of campus and panic struck. I knew I could not finish in time. How could I? Drawings needed to be cut out, labels written, charts glued and arranged on the presentation board, all this and done in an aesthetic manner to boot! It was too much!

My roommate, Casey, helped me—bless her heart—talking to me in soothing tones the way one might speak to an animal that is on the verge of a frenzy. Her boyfriend, Jason, was coming to visit and I had only met him a handful of times. Our poor dorm room looked like the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, with me amidst the mess, hunched over my work and wielding my knife with single-minded determination. There was no help for it. No thought or effort could be spared on anything that didn't involve the project.

I spun around on my bottom like I was on a swivel chair, trying to get to the board behind me with the most efficiency, and the knife impaled my right calf. The entire blade sunk into my leg and with a shriek of alarm I pulled it out again, clutching my leg and repeating Casey's name over and over again in rapid succesion. It wasn't that I had felt the knife go in, but heard it. It was the quick POP! that indicated to me skin had indeed been punctured. I couldn't look, didn't want to look. Instead I stared frantically at my friend, watching as she hopped back and forth from one foot to the other, squealing incoherently. Her sudden lack of calm and poise was unsettling to me and I began to cry, still holding my leg, head bowed down to rest upon my bent knee.

It was at this time that Jason made his grand appearance. I looked up as the door opened and, to add insult to injury, took with me an impressive line of snot that connected nose to knee. Embarrassed by my display of emotion and bodily secretions, I tried to hide my state of disrepair by pivoting away and returning my head to my knee.

"Nice," Jason said, not unkindly. A Kleenex materialized at my side and I glanced up to see him holding it out for me. I muttered my thanks and removed one hand from my leg to take it, wiping my nose in an attempt to regain even a modicum of dignity.

"How bad is it?" Casey asked from her position near the door.

I knew it was time to look. Drawing in a deep breath through my nose, I slowly removed my hands from the wound. It was about a quarter inch long, but gaping, and the sight of my skin pulling away from the raw, pink seam of exposed tissue did nothing to help matters. As if by reflex I reapplied pressure and looked up to Casey and Jason for further direction.

Casey stared back at me, obviously deep in thought, and then she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back, her face an eloquent mask of determination and authority. "Let's go to Jenny," she said. Jenny was our resident assistant and was also studying to be a nurse. Jason helped me to my feet and Casey led the way, marching in front of us like a general bringing her troops to battle.

It was at the capable hands of Jenny that butterfly strips were applied and I was given the seal of approval, hobbling back to my own dorm room without assistance.  This was the best care that could be afforded to me. (The hospital had a 24 hour waiting list thanks to the those who had enthusiastically participated in the St. Paddy's Day festivities.) Immediately upon the return to our room I set back to work, lowering myself gingerly to the floor and picking up the knife from the spot I had left it. It had been a clean cut, straight in and out, with hardly any blood. This was good. I was pressed for time as it was without having to clean up a murder scene as well. Casey told me later that her first thought upon seeing that I had stabbed myself was, "Oh my God I'm going to have to finish her project for her . . . "

Fortunately I was able to finish on my own, albeit rather late at night with Jason and Casey watching from their perch on the top bunk. As I scrambled around on the floor, pasting things on the board with my right leg dragging behind me, I kept assuring them that I wouldn't be much longer. "Aaalllmost done!" I would say. "Neeearrrly finished!"

Finish I did and the next day I conducted my presentation. I limped my way up to the front of the class only to realize I had pasted one of my drawings on the board crooked. All things considered, it was hard to care.

A year ago I moved into a new home. It is a lovely home, but with a grim past. The previous occupants were a woman and her colony of cats with a few dogs thrown in for good measure. I obtained this information from a neighbor who was all too willing to divulge these gory details. Apparently the woman had so many pets that the person she was renting from was finally obliged to evict her. This being said, what I encountered upon the purchase of my home was not for the faint of heart. It was probably what Cruella De Vil's house looked like after housing the thousand kittens it took to make her most recent coat.

It was awful. 

During renovations I smelled, touched, and saw things no self-respecting homeowner should ever be forced to smell, touch, or see.  Bleach was employed on every surface, cat hair and the like removed from every crevice, walls were wiped and painted, floors refinished, and carpet laid. When the dust had settled and I was finally able to stand back and view my work, I patted myself on the back for a job well done. I had turned the lowly hovel into a nice little home. I named it Milton and life was good.

Until disaster struck. [Cue thunderclap]

I was in the basement doing laundry. My basement is not the coziest of places. There is one main room where resides my washer and dryer and two smaller rooms whose doors look like they were used in that house in Amityville Horror, or perhaps to restrain Cujo. So there I was, peacefully stuffing clothes into the dryer when I heard a sound from outside the door. I froze, shirt still in hand and hairs tingling at the back of my neck. It was a soft sort of sound, like a cat's meow. Now let me take a moment to tell you that I do not care much for cats. Even prior to Milton's sanitation I felt thus. I am allergic to cats, cats smell, they are mean, and they never like me. To me, every cat is that cat in Pet Semetary—a cat that, in my opinion, remains the most horrifying of all movie villains. There have only been two cats ever to meet my approval: my childhood cat Max (God rest his soul) and one Adso Johnson, both of which were/are more like dogs than cats. So when I heard the sound of a cat in my home it scared the bejesus out of me. 

After my brief moment of paralyzing terror, I finished my work and ventured back upstairs, using my peripheral vision to scan my surroundings for malicious felines. Once safe within the confines of my home I carried on as usual, pretending I'd never heard anything at all. I went into the bathroom to wash my face and as I turned off the water, behind the closed door, I heard the sound again. And that's when I knew. The crazy cat-lady had obviously buried her precious babies beneath the dining room floor so as not to be parted from them and now they were haunting me. It took all I had to open that door, knowing that I would see a ghost cat with gleaming yellow eyes sitting on the floor at my feet, tail twitching with the anticipation of attack. But when I opened the door nothing was there. I spent the rest of the night in a state of high agitation. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge after the ghost of Jacob Marley visits and tells him he can expect three more. 

After a considerable adrenaline rush enabled me to run downstairs to retrieve my laundry, I hurried into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. Apparently I felt that if I was contained in my room Ghost Cat could not reach me. As is usually the case with scary situations, my imagination began to make it even scarier. I began picturing myself getting up in the middle of the night and glancing into the living room where I would see Crazy Cat Lady herself sitting on my sofa surrounded by her army of cats. I would stand frozen in my hallway, transfixed by horror, while they stared back at me, blinking solemnly. The woman would pet a cat on her lap and the others would sit still watching me, tails swishing. And okay, wow, that scared me even more! I got into bed and pulled the covers up over my head like a giant five year-old scared of the monster in its closet. (Now is probably as good a time as any to tell you that I'm twenty-three, not five.)

Since then I've never heard the sound again and have been able to push my fear of Ghost Cat into the back of my mind. But for that whole week that was what I feared. Not burglars, rapists, or vampires like most normal people, but Ghost Cat.