Why 2018

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Okay, it’s a new year and that means it’s time to ponder the meanings of things. It’s February, and it’s been a while since I’ve wondered why.

So, I have some questions. The first is a two-parter.

Part 1: Why, when you’re having a good dream, do you wake up right at the best part? Look. Life is hard, and dreams are a pleasant escape … at least they should be. But this girl who I’ve never met before, likely an amalgam of several people I actually know, I find myself madly in love with. We’ve had some clever banter, or an adventure—depends on the dream—and I lean in for the kiss. And it’s gonna be a legendary kiss. I lean in. Our eyes close.

And I’m staring at the glowing numbers on my clock radio. 4:17 a.m. Why am I awake? And where did she go? I didn’t even get her name or number or anything.

Which brings me to part two. Why can’t I go back and pick up where I left off? It’s still night. The alarm hasn’t gone off. Yesterday was a rough day. I should get to kiss the girl.

But NOOOOOOOOOOO.

I get that life’s not fair. I know for a fact my freakin’ muse isn’t fair.

Why can’t my dreams be fair?

YA Author Tom Hoover on Questions with a Lack of AnswersAnd while we’re asking questions, why did my grandmother’s baloney sandwiches taste better than the ones I made? I mean, I stalked the woman, wasting precious cartoon-watching minutes, jotting down the ingredients, the order—all of it. But mine tasted different.

It’s the dream girl all over again.

Can’t kiss her; can’t have the good baloney sandwiches.

Is there no justice in the world?

And speaking of which, why is justice blind? I want her to see so vengeance can rain down on the alarm clocks and baloney sandwich-making infidels of the world. If she’s blind, is it justice at all? Or is it just a freakin’ coin flip? My sister put mashed potatoes on my glasses while I slept when we were younger and has never been punished for it. Oh, the humanity.

And seriously, that guy who announced the Hindenburg disaster, what the hell does that even mean? Oh, the humanity? As if a flaming ball of gas is in any way, shape, or form humane. Or did he mean that the people who were killed were humans? As though there were another option.

When he got home that night, did his wife say, “Seriously? ‘Oh the humanity?’ I married a moron.”

Okay, I’m getting a little off topic.

What did you ask me again?

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