File it under... "OMG! I just remembered!"

For whatever reason, at some point in my childhood, I used to have conversations into a walkie talkie with no one. I never had an actual imaginary friend, I don't think. I had a very close set of friends (Frisbee, the bear; Ben, the bear; Joel, the Cabbage Patch Kid), but none of them imaginary. And I'm almost positive I wasn't talking to any of them on my walkie talkie, either. Just someone out there.

Of course, no one real or imaginary ever responded either.

Why?

Because I didn't have a walkie talkie.

I used to have conversations into a travel-size Head and Shoulders Shampoo bottle and pretend it was a walkie talkie.

Where other children had imaginary friends, I had imaginary toys.

Over and out.

File it under... "I Wish"

I love kettle corn.

Let's be clear, I'm not referring to so-called impostor kettle corn that you can throw in the microwave and make in 3 minutes. That is not kettle corn. It might say kettle corn on the box. It might even occasionally (read: almost never) taste like the real thing, but it is decidedly not the sweet/salty snack I'm referring to. You can't pull a fast one on me, Mr. Redenbacher...if that's even your real name. I know your game and I'm here to tell you, nothing you put in a box will ever taste as good as the real deal. Real kettle corn is a glorious food; one that simultaneously raises my blood pressure, my glucose levels, and my spirits. I had a conversation with a friend last night about how regular popcorn, no matter how good, is never as delicious as it smells. This is not the case with kettle corn. In short, kettle corn is perfection.

And the point to all this?

I just think that if, by some miracle of modern science, we were ever able to choose a default flavor for our saliva, I would choose kettle corn.

...

Kettle corn. Kettle corn. Kettle corn.

File it under... "The Contemporary New Yorker's Guide To Not Being An Asshole"

Dear New Yorker,

If I am standing on the subway and I can count the number of individual white deodorant flecks in your armpit hair, your armpit is too close to my face.

All the best,

Alex

PS: Thank you, however, for having the decency to wear deodorant.

File it under... "My Inanimate Life"

Hey Rasta Mop, how you feelin', mon?

Rasta Mop

File it under... "Really?"

I could understand the abbreviation if it were an issue of space, but "Black Olives" clearly debunks that theory. I'll give this box-maker the benefit of the doubt and say maybe it's just a really tiny "i":

File it under... "Talent" (2)

You know when really hot people try to make ugly faces? You know, like for a joke picture or to make someone laugh? And they succeed, but only sorta...like, their inherent hotness still comes through? They can try all they want, but they're still attractive. Imagine Scarlett Johansson trying to make an ugly face. All you can really do is look at her and go, "Stop it. You're still Scarlett Jo-f*cking-hansson. No one's buying it."

Well, my point...I mean, all I'm saying is...I don't think I'm an unattractive person...but I don't have to try very hard to make some really ugly faces. Like, really ugly.

File it under... "Talent"

My gaydar, at this point, is so attuned that it now extends to fictional characters.