u/AlligatorMass

Last night I had a dream Frank Horrigan grabbed me the shoulders and said I had insulted America because I wiped my ass in front of him.

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Is Todd saying this mod is canon? (I haven't slept in nine days.)

Sho I never expected Trump charging into a goblin’s nest to not get some goblin vomit and schloppin’ blood on him. I just don’t wanna catch him in bed with a goblin…but if he’s in there rolling around hacking him up and he’s got a goblin guide, you know taking him into the cave, I’m not expecting him to not get dirty, especially up to his ankles. I don’t wanna see him kissing goblins, having political succubus with goblins. I don’t want to see him ingratiating goblins…y’know, we made the joke that once he gets into office it’s one thing if he has some establishment folks to guide him through the Mines of Moria, if you sue the Lord of the Rings analogy- if you’re not a J.R.R Tolkein fan you won’t know what I’m talking about, but I think most people are for the movies…it’s one thing if he has a guide that’s kind of a bad guy to take him through the Mines of Moria or under the mountain…but if you- y’know if you catch him kissing goblins or if you catch him in bed with a goblin that’s a problem. If he’s faced signs onto the TPP, that’s in bed with a goblin because- uh- wer- were gonna have a new sch- scale here- I’m actually gonna have it made digitally, where it’s on a scale of goblins- y’know is he charging into a goblin’s next, hacking him to pieces, or is he just going- y’know- around the goblins, is he kissing goblins- even though you stab them you give them a kiss…or is it catching him in bed with a goblin…and then the final scale: is Trump gonna have babies with a goblin and actually help the New World Order and turn against us like Darth Vader? Is he gonna marry a goblin? You just went about another level of the scale- not just in bed with a goblin, marrying a couple.

I hope that you're living a perfect life with no surprises and an unchanging schedule because the school doesn't recognize extenuating circumstances and has no policy addressing such. During my time at PVCC I had to deal with military complications (FYI PVCC is NOT veteran friendly! No one even told me that there was a veteran's lounge until my last semester there and most professors acted like my training dates conflicting with assignments was a problem of my own devising), divorcing a cheating wife who "attempted" to use the inadequacies of the virginia social/legal system against me (props to albemarle county for being puppets), and then after I started dating again, the suicide of my girlfriend, a fellow PVCC student who felt like calling me up while I was in class and sharing the damage of that moment with me as she freed herself of her own. These events took me away from my studies and resultingly, in order to meet my requirements, I had to repeat many of the classes that circumstance, during these troubled times, left me wanting in. And, by the time I graduated, I had repaired all but one class which were affected by the evils in my life. This remaining class was from the same semester in which I had to bear audible witness to my girlfriend's voluntary departure from this world, and the class was not offered again while I was there. When discussing this with Dean Renshaw, I was informed that there was nothing to be done about it because the only policy the school had in that regard was their "Blank Slate" in which a student must start from scratch. So I swallowed the hit to my gpa and held on to the fact that I was finally done with my four programs which ranged in-between a 3.25 and a 3.4, but discovered that this was the gift that keeps giving, when VCU denied me the virginia in-state transfer grant based on that one class!

Not only did I find PVCC to be severely lacking in policy, but also in institutional structure. They had no Office of Academic Integrity/Honesty and when I felt obligated to report a pair of students who were discussing a way to cheat the Blackboard system, there was no one with that direct responsibility to receive such a complaint! After being bounced around, I was finally advised to email Dean Walsh, but nothing became of it. I even made the point to inquire of my professors at the time if an email with the pertaining content were pushed out, to which all emphatically answered no, while stating that it would have been nice to hear! On this, and other occasions, I would attempt to email the school president, but received no reply. Not even an automated response or a follow-up from his secretary. By the time that I left PVCC, it became painfully obvious that he only ever came out of his office for a photo-op.

The financial aid office was a true gem as well! For each year that I was there, I had to fight with them as though the money were coming out of their accounts. The worst thing was that they were in the habit of passing your paperwork around and didn't maintain similar work schedules or a common filing system. So, you might be told by an individual that they need a particular document from you before they can further process your Financial Aid Request, meanwhile it's lying on the desk of a coworker, behind the locked door of an adjacent office. And, don't even attempt to ask the front desk employee about the state of anything! They're clueless and like to give you the runaround.

I would not have ever been able to stomach my time at PVCC if it were not for the passion and investment of key staff and faculty members who were able to remind me in every class, that WE were working towards something better! 

If your grades justify it, transfer to a university immediately!

First, I want to start by saying I miss you. Though our relationship did not last past the week, the brief fire that was left in my heart, ignited by your feelings for me, allowed me to push forward and get a better grasp on my life. With that, let me remind you why I fell in love with you.

It was Saturday. It had been a gloomy day to match my distraught mood. I hated my job. Only fair for life to throw it's bullshit weather in my face to add insult to injury. I was driving 94 into the cities during rush hour. To my knowledge, an accident had occurred a few miles that halted traffic faster than girls seeing Justin Bieber walking down the sidewalk in front of their school. (Maybe that isn't a good analogy, the guy seems to be a prick now-a-days. Let's say Fabian Johnson from the US soccer team. Guy has a chin of a God.)

You were next to me in your car. A white Prius. Windows down, singing to some God awful song from the latest boyband bullshit they play on city radio stations. Normally, I would reach for the closest garbage object on my passanger side floor and chuck it at you. (Seeing that I never in my life could convince someone to ride with me in my rusted out truck, I never bothered with cleaning it.) However, something caught my eye. You had a Tamagotchi on your key chain.

"My God," I said to myself, "I am in love."

Little did you know. Tamagotchi key chains were my everything. It was the only possession I carried over from my childhood, aside from my welts my father left me playing with "such girly things." My heart swelled with emotion, my mind buzzing around in a hundred different ways I could confess my love for you. I wrote poems in the short moments I stared across the highway at you. Your beautiful red half attempted dyed blonde because you were probably insecure hair just touching your shoulders. Your ears too. Such perfect ears. Those of you who make a study of such things know what I am talking about. Your lips, such elegant and supple lips, I wanted to stick-

A sudden honk jolted me out of my daydream. What fucking prick would dare interrupt me while I fantasized over such perfection. I looked ahead and noticed the traffic flowing again. You started to speed up to 15 leaving me breathless and longing for your sight again. I had to act fast, less I loose you to the herding of cars.

I floored the pedal slightly going into your lane.

The sound must have echoed across the highway for miles. It seemed time slowed down and all eyes starred at us. Because I starred at you, and your Tamagotchi. Both were ok.

"You fucking bastard!" You yelled. Although you seemed upset, I knew you too were in love. For I held up my own keychain, revealing a blue Tamagotchi from 1997. It did not stop you from frothing at the mouth practically.

"It's ok. My insurance will pay for your shit car." I explained casually.

"You fucking better!" You exclaimed.

"Listen, let me get your information and I will call you later tonight and we will get this figured out." I said as I handed you my information. After a few minutes of you yelling at me out of love, you left, leaving me with your name, and phone number.

I didn't even have to buy you a drink.

For the next couple hours I prepared everything. I set out all 46 Tamagotchis I had collected over the years. I polished all of them, and there they sat, awaiting your arrival. Somehow, I convinced you that I was a good person and would like to make everything up to you by making you dinner. It must have been my amazing SWAG that hooked you, because you accepted. (It also could have been you found out that I didn't actually give you my right info, and you wanted to get that from me.) REGARDLESS, you came. And I was about to as well.

You opened the door. I sat behind the door and slammed it shut as you entered. Your scream was as if Sirens of the ocean called to me. I hushed you after several knocks to my forehead and explained what was going on. You stared at them. Obviously awe struck, for your first words were, "Oh my God."

I then asked if you would like me to get you anything, before we made our marriage official through Tamagotchi Life.

"The bathroom." you replied.

I led you to it and sat back down at my table awaiting for your presence. It was understandable, and person seeing such a glorious collection as mine would make a person wet themselves with excitment.

3 hours passed. You sat in there. I knocked on the door a few times wondering if you needed a Tamagotchi to play with while on the toilet. No response. After 3 hours I forced my way in explaining that sometimes the door did get stuck and I was coming in. You weren't there. Like magic, you disappeared. I shut my window not wanting to get the cold air in.

S. PLEASE respond to my calls. I have missed you. Bruises still line my face from our meeting that night. I need to show you my pets. My Tamagotchi pets. I fear I might loose it again if you don't.

Please respond with the color Tamagotchi you had on your keyring as the header. I will always wait for you

P.

Me: Classically beautiful near-runway model with the grace of a dancer and the laugh of a fairy, who inadvertently left her iPhone in the backseat of an Uber while in a sushi-hurry.

You: Untraditionally handsome, bespectacled, sharp-nosed man's man who found my iPhone in the back of your Uber 2 minutes later on your way home. Your name is Kevin.

Me: A desperately hopeful optimist, confused at why you would answer my misplaced iPhone and give me your address as we made arrangements for me to pick it up in 5 minutes only for you to not answer your door and abruptly stop answering my calls and texts. It was only 9pm, after all. (Checked Find My iPhone--you were an honest soul who was where you said you were. Maybe you just abruptly fell asleep?)

You: (Are you high right now, Kevin? Because that could explain a lot. No judging here. I hope you enjoyed your night and that you didn't leave any valuable personal belongings in my/your Uber.)

Me: Up half the night worrying that I was missing calls regarding both of my grandmothers in the hospital and my children spending the weekend with their dad 700 miles away. Also, I have another 2 years left to pay off that iPhone so please please please answer your phone in the morning.

You: Smoother than Don Draper, you invite me to your flat for the iPhone exchange. You seem concerned about my grandmas and recognize what a unique position you're in to come to my aid. Like a venture capitalist in the final hour, you swoop in and restore my confidence that I can still FaceTime with my parents and my children and in the nick of time. You're my hero today, Kevin! KE-VIN! KE-VIN! KE-VIN!

Me: So grateful from the bottom of my heart that you noticed my iPhone in the backseat of my/your Uber and rescue it from the clutches of the frankly quite non-intimidating and lovely driver whose phone number and license plate I already knew, but that's cool because you live barely two miles away and it only cost me $25 per Uber trip (surge pricing) I made to get to your flat (remember last night? No, no Kevin you do not because if you hadn't passed out you would have answered your door when I knocked, 5 minutes after we spoke on the phone. That was one $25 Uber trip. This is the second $25 Uber trip.).

You: Your dark hair disheveled, your wrinkled undershirt, and nearly threadbare pink boxer shorts are both endearing and a confirmation that you were sooooooo high last night. Good on ya, Kevin. Virtual fist bumps and stuff. But mostly I can't wait to see if my kids texted me with last night's bedtime "good night" or a "hello" this morning. It's totally cool that you didn't plug my phone in so that I would have a full battery all day (that's asking a lot, even from me) for the charity 5K walk and goat festival (#goatchella) I told you I'd be at all day. I am just incredibly relieved to have my iPhone back in my hands that I could almost kiss you, Kevin! Mwah!

Me: After trying to mobile-power charge my iPhone for the two hours after you so blessedly handed it back to me, I'm realizing there may be a problem. Actually, two problems. 1) Grandma had a stroke (I found out the next day, because. . .) 2) My iPhone doesn't seem to be working. At all, whatsoever. Actually, three problems. 3) The inside of my iPhone case is full of water. This is unexpected, given that SF has had no measurable rain in 1xx days and my tears were only flowing into my cleavage, not onto my iPhone which was not on my person anyway.

You: "I have no idea what's wrong with your phone. It was in my pocket the whole night. My iPhone is just fine. Are you sure it wasn't full of water when you left it in the Uber?"

Oh, Kevin. Kevin in Hayes Valley who gave me your real phone number and address which I still have, I think we can guess what happened here.

Why didn't you answer your door that first time, back on Friday night? We could have been soulmates for all you know--I've helped others get their iPhones back too. I feel like I get you. You're a good person. A good man. (You could use some new boxer shorts which don't scream "I'm ready to meet my Tinder match" though.)

Did all the alerts from BART's Twitter account ("10 min delay at DALY due to equip prob") disrupt your evening? Or did my 7 year old's "good night mom!" texts harsh your mellow?

What exactly was the trigger which caused you or someone within arm's reach of a stranger's purple-encased iPhone to dunk it in a bucket of water? Believe it or not I like to think you dropped it into a toilet bowl full of your piss, because if you're going to purposely fuck someone over at least make sure their clueless hands smell like ammonia.

My working theory is that you used my iPhone to take dick pics until you realized my phone is locked and you couldn't delete them. Sadly, I am probably the most compassionate and understanding person ever and if you would have explained a little, I could have entered my passcode then and there and stood there while you deleted your dozens of bad decisions. Believe me man, I've made bad decision too. I'd pay it forward if given the chance.

If only.

Do you even realize that I had a "period tracker" app on there and now have no idea when to expect my period? Maybe I'm just PMS'ing. Does it sound like I'm PMS'ing? All the women I know think that it's very helpful for a man to suggest that she may be PMS'ing. With baited breath I wait for your assessment. (Now? What about now? Maybe now? Probably now. Fingers crossed!)

On a more serious note, I still had some photos of my kid's Make A Wish experience on that phone. That I hadn't them backed up yet is my fault. That they are forever lost? I blame that on both of us. So really Kevin, thank you for teaching me a valuable lesson in data storage and douchebaggery. Suddenly your shabby-chic boxer shorts and concerned nodding as you handed me my lost iPhone aren't as endearing.

I can't know for sure exactly what you did to my iPhone, but I know that it was perfectly dry and in great condition when I hustled all my bags and myself out of my/your Uber, and then it was immediately in your possession.

My phone and everything on it is ruined and gone. To replace it cost me $400 that I don't have. I'll spend the duration of my wireless contract paying off that part of my credit card bill.

The good news is that now a week later, my grandma who had a stroke is being discharged to a rehab facility and my other grandma is stable after her double mastectomy. No, I'm not making this up. This is the kind of real life stuff that happens after we move beyond the whole "turn 23 and spend the next ten years getting drunk and high and moving from tech job to tech job before we finally do call Mom and she reality checks us with what we've been missing while we've been out making the world a worse place."

The bad news is that you're a mother fucking douchebag, Kevin. I figure you already know that, but fuck you anyway. You're a punchline in my life and your integrity and character are as rounded as a bag of dog shit. Good luck in all your douchebag endeavors--there's nowhere to go now but up.

I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.

One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I'd flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I'll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.

And so on the morning of that New Year's Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.

I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that had coagulated around my heart. It didn't, of course, so I started back to the apartment.

And then I saw you.

You'd taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. I'd never seen anything so beautiful.

When I joined you under the balcony, you looked at me with your big green eyes, and I could tell that you'd been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you'd been better. I asked if you'd like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you. Before I could smile, you snatched my hand and led me on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Neisner's.

We sat at the counter of that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we lamented, and you confessed over pecan pie that you were engaged to a man you didn't love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe a Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year, hence the dress.

For my part, I shared more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn't mention Vietnam, but I got the sense that you could see there was a war waging inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.

After an hour or so, I excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the mirror. Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I'd done from the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I should return to the Smith & Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity would be the real disgrace.

On the way back to the counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge's gavel, and a future -- our future -- flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were gone. No phone number. No note. Nothing.

As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to Neisner's every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really stopped wondering.

I'm an old man now, and only recently did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on Facebook. I told him I didn't know anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your profile, I'm not sure I would recognize you. Time is cruel that way.

This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. She's the one who led me here to Craigslist and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing well of the cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of lost sleep, that our connection wasn't missed at all.

You see, in these intervening forty-two years I've lived a good life. I've loved a good woman. I've raised a good man. I've seen the world. And I've forgiven myself. And you were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit into my lungs one rainy afternoon, and you can't possibly imagine my gratitude.

I have hard days, too. My wife passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I'll receive a gift. The sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin to fall. And I'll remember.

So wherever you've been, wherever you are, and wherever you're going, know this: you're with me still.