Adventures in Baby Flying

When I fly, I can't help but to think of the miracle of life.  And when I'm done thinking about bacon-wrapped scallops, flying usually makes me think of kids.  They're everywhere these days, but when they're in the airport, on the airplane, occasionally I'm forced to cohabit with them.

With babies on the plane, I try to be understanding.  Appreciative even.  Logically speaking, we, the human race that is, need babies to keep this whole clown show going.  I mean, I’ve watched the National Geographic Channel.  I know how it works.  Some of us must simply bite the bullet and agree to pump out and wrangle these knee-knockers for the good of mankind.  And I suppose, conceivably, these same people also have cause to fly at times.  So when I see a tired mom plodding down the plane aisle, baby draped about her neck, toddler dragged belligerently behind her, I give her a little nod of appreciation.  She usually seems pretty creeped out by this, but I think she knows what going on.  She’s carrying the load.  She isn't some selfish miscreant totally lacking in social consciousness and self awareness, she's a modern day Frodo Baggins, bearing the ring to Mordor for the good of all Middle Earth.  Thank you Mama Frodo, thank you for your sacrifice.

That being said… there were some seriously annoying-ass babies aboard my recent flights back to school.  For anyone about to take off soon, you might just want to jot down some quick notes here for a rough guide book into Air Baby Land. 

"I've had enough of these mother f^#$@!* babies on this mother f^#$@!* plane!"

First, let's talk about the white tiger of babies on a plane, the rarest of rare, the double pink Starburst in the baby pack that make all the rest look like lemons--the sleeping kid.  I love this kid!  He gets aboard and some combination of recycled air and fat guys grazing his head as they pass through the aisle conks him out.  The same thing happens for me.  This kid should get an award for his valor in service, an accommodation at least.  He should get to fly in the cockpit with the pilot, he should get to be the pilot, he should get to be the president!  Hail to the Chief, of my heart anyway. 

Then there is the classic stereo-crier; the kid who sounds like he’s being punched in the face for the entire trip.  The crying kid on my plane never stopped sobbing and screaming, exploding at the mouth with snotty, gurgling discharges.  She sounded like she was drowning, literally drowning in her own tears and snot, crying out in labored pig squeals.  And she was angry about it.  She actually sounded angry, she sounded like an angry pig, like she was trying to express her outrage over being forced into this pressurized metal tube and was pissed off even more because no one was getting that.  Some babies cry out in fear and confusion, but not Baby Angry Pig.  She was straight pissed and wanted everyone know it.

Baby Angry Pig approximation.

I also had a Narrating Kid on one of my flights.  A Narrator Kid isn’t upset like a Crying Kid or unconscious like the harrolded Asleep Kid.   He’s fine, but feels compelled to spend every moment on the plane babbling.  Flying with a Narrating Kid was like flying with a dysfunctional Garmin that tells you exactly where you are at that very moment, every moment. 

“We’re moving!  We’re moving!  We’re moving!  We’re taking off!  We’re taking off!  We’re in the air!  We’re flying! We’re flying! We’re flying! We’re flying! We’re flying! We’re flying!  We’re eating peanuts!  We’re flying!  We’re flying!  We’re flying!  We’re landing!”

The Narrating Kid on my flight was so fucking excited about every moment of his life that I was begrudgingly envious of him.  I wished that I could be as excited about anything as he was about everything.  But mostly, I was annoyed.  Unfortunately, like the Crying Kid, the Narrating Kid’s parents were too busy visualizing the glorious day when they would release their burden into the bowels of Mount Doom (college) to have the social awareness necessary to have asked their kid to just shut up for a second.  Where's a Ring Wraith when you need one?

But again, it’s a small price to pay for the continuation of our species.  I might have to put up with the Angry Pig and Kid Garmin for a few hours, but their parents have years left with these guys who will eventually morph into Biting Kid and then finally Kid Who only visits once or twice a year because he’s just really busy and last week he had this thing, and see, it just makes more sense to wait another two months until Christmas and God, can you just let it go already!  That kid sucks.   

Why You Should Always Give out Fake Numbers

There are some things that you only get the chance to do once; seeing Haley’s Comet, watching a perfect game in baseball, stuff like that.  Answering a ringing payphone is another one.  It's the kind of thing that is only accomplished in movies, movies made prior to 2003 because that’s the last time anyone used a payphone.  Just spotting one on the street is like finding a horse-drawn carriage—ooh, ahh, it’s so weird to think that people once used these.  How quaint!  Seeing someone using a payphone is incredible and hearing a one ring is straight unbelievable.

When I heard one ringing while on the way to the bar with my friends the other night, I had to answer it.  In full disclosure, I did this under the influence of peer pressure and alcohol, but I think this is the gist of my conversation with the payphone;

Me:  Hello?

Payphone: Where are you?

At a payphone outside of a Bank of America.  Were you trying to call a payphone outside of a Bank of America?

Get here.

Did you know that you’re calling a payphone?  You’re calling a payphone.  Are you from 1987?  Are you a time traveler from 1987?  What’s Michael J. Fox really like?

Just get here already and be naked?

(pregnant pause) What?

Get here now with your clothes off, all of them.

And you’re at a bar?  With people there?

C’mon.

Are your clothes off?

C’mon!

Are other people’s clothes off?

They will be if you get here.

Is there some kind of contest going on?  Like some kind of naked contest?  Like the first ten people to get naked at the bar get a free beer?

At this point my friends are wondering just who is on the other end of this phantom payphone call and why I’m still talking to her.  Perhaps I’m buying drugs.  They’d understand if they knew about the naked part.

You promised that you’d come!

Well with that attitude, I won’t.

I’m sorry.

It’s okay.

You promised that you’re coming.

Okay, I guess I promised I'm coming.

And take your clothes off.   

So what, you want me to take my clothes off before getting to the bar?  Like take them off on the way to the bar?  On the street?  See, I’m confused.

No, you just need to take them off.  Off, off, all off!

So keep my clothes on?

C’moooooooon!

Okay, you get started now and I’ll catch up.

Love you baby.

I know.

Click.

Han says answer first, shoot questions later.

Score, a total Han Solo “I love you” moment.  I could check off another thing off my once-in--lifetime list.  So what happened here?  Did this girl misdial?  The product of a drunken mashing of keys?  Probably not.  More likely some guy gave her a wrong number, but did he do so knowing it was to a payphone?  Was it just some cosmic luck of the draw, or perhaps even more unlikely, did he actually examine this payphone to use its number for just such an occasion?  Maybe it was the bar randomly calling payphones, hoping passer-byers might pick it up and flock there for the promise of naked people.  Whatever this had been, I was glad to have been a part of it.

My friends and I continued on and when we got to the bar I discovered I had forgotten my ID and thanks to living in a college town, I had to go back to my car to retrieve it, which took me by the payphone again, which was ringing again.  Praying that it might be the same caller from a few minutes ago, letting it ring all this time undaunted by the lack of a voicemail pick-up on this “cell phone”, I ran over to answer it before it stopped.  I picked it up; 

Payphone: Where are you?

Me:  I know, I know, but see I ran into King Arthur on the street, and well, we had a lot of catching up to do.

Oh, okay.  C’mon get here and get naked?

Now have other people gotten naked yet?  Because you said—

You promised!

Hey you promised first!  I think…  

What?

I’m on my way.  Hey, say my name.

Tyler!

Ug, my name would be Tyler.

And say your name.

Kellee!

To me, it just sounded like  Kellee spelled her name with a "double-E", and possibly with a "triple-L".

Well, Kelllee, Tyler is on his way.  He promises.

Yaaaaay! 

And you know that one thing I said and/or did last night? 

Yeah.

I didn’t really mean it.

I know.

Good.

I have to pee.

Hmm, are you sure?

(pause for thinking and/ or urinating) Yes. 

Okay, just checking.

So you promise you’re coming?

Apparently.

Don’t make me cry.

No, you don't make me cry!

Love you.

Hmm, what’s something else Han Solo would say?

Tell Jabba I got his money.

Okay.  See you soon!

Click.

I didn’t pass the payphone again that night or go to Kellee's bar, but I’d like to think that somewhere there’s a really infuriated Kellee yelling at a really confused Tyler in a bar and everybody's naked.  For me, the moral of this story is always give out fake numbers to payphones so that some stranger can be entertained for a few minutes and later write a blog post about it.  It's pretty cliche, I know.  

More of Gravy than of Grave?

So a funny thing happened to me on the way to the end of the semester...

I’m sitting in the back of this coffee shop I like to work in.  The place used to be a bank or a school house or something back in the olden days where the shape isn’t quite right for the shop so it has this one brick annex that kind of juts out from the rest of it.  It’s an island, just two booths and table that most people don’t know exists, or if they do know, they avoid it since it doesn’t get heat from the continental portion of the shop.  That’s why I like to work there, because I can be by myself, not because I don’t get any heat. 

 So I’m sitting here with my coat on reading for class when this middle-aged schlub, sloshing his soup and coffee around on his tray sits down at the table right across from me.  Can you imagine the nerve?  Like we’re just supposed to sit here and acknowledge each other’s existences or something?  Pff! 

Then he starts talking to me.

“Is that literature you’re reading?” he asks like we’re people who talk to one another.  Like this is a movie.  Like this is some fantasy world where perfect strangers (ah, what a great show) strike up conversations like we’re suburban housewives from the ‘50’s—“Hello, Mabel, love your petunias”, “Oh thanks Gladys, now have you heard, just what Ethel put in her garden?!”  This is a coffee shop and like when riding the bus or standing in line at the grocery store, it’s eyes straight ahead and mouths shut. 

Me! but with less books and coffee.

 I’m reading a chapter in A.O.J Cockshut’s (no, that’s really his name) book about Charles Dickens’ autobiographical references in A Christmas Carol (no, I’m actually writing a paper on A Christmas Carol in December).  I don’t feel like debating him on the oh-too-frequent liberal use of literature so I humor this guy believing that doing so will allow me to get back to my icebox reading.

“Yeah,” I say.  Good humoring.

“Uh huh, see it’s a crock that you have to do that.  I mean what is it even?”

“Just some critique on Victorian lit.”

He takes his coat off and swivels his chair around to me.  Oh God, is this going to be a thing?  Like an actual thing we’re going to do?

“See that’s just the problem with college nowadays, I mean, when are you going to use that?  Why are you going to need    that uh, critique?”

Oh great, a practician is trying to talk to an English grad student—a creative writing grad student—on the lunch-pale merits of studying lit.  Why don’t you and the rest of the world get a table, why don’t you?

Sigh.  This is going to be a thing that we’re going to do.

“Sir, I am a graduate student of English and Creative Writing, and how dare you—how dare you, sir, I say!  Literature and writing are important components to understanding the very civilization which we enjoy today and doing well in it, regardless of profession.  It is the heart and soul of society, sir, its heart and soul, I say!”  I tell him, or something to that effect.

“Oh yeah, I agree,” the soup-slosher says. “I just mean you got to be reading the right stuff, you know, like—you ever read [insert name of some author I  have never heard of, ever]?”

“No.”

“What?  You got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not kidding you.”

“What?  And you say you’re a grad student here?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?  I graduated here in ’78.”

Yeah?  If I had been drinking at that moment I would have done a prolonged spit-take all over his face.  What does this guy mean he “graduated here”?  Like he graduated from using Velcro to shoe laces?  He graduated from this coffee shop when it used to be a school?  Could he have actually received the same degree that I will and then, what?  Now just rambles around town picking fights with coffee shop patrons?

Wait, suck the spit back in.  Maybe he’s a professor at one of the other colleges in town, or maybe even at mine.  It’s a big department and I’ve skipped out on most of the socializing opportunities.  Academic folk can be pretty eccentric.

“So are you a professor around here?”

He takes a long, sorry slurp of his coffee smacks his lips.

“Me?  No.  I thought about it sure, but naw, not me.”

Oh God.  I feel like Scrooge asking the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come about the name on the tombstone now.

“So you teach high school then?”

“I’m night manager at Walmart, three nights a week.”

I think I need to take a drink because this certainly warrants a spit-take.  It warrants like three or seven spit-takes, right in Professor Walmart Nights face.  I knew the job market was tough, but what the hell?  Is this to be my fate?  Drifting through the streets where my dream died, degree in hand, trying warn current grad students from repeating the mistakes of my past?  Was I wearing the chains of my past bad decisions and just didn’t know it?

+

= soup slosher

This Jacob Marley son-of-a-bitch starts going on about [what’s-his-name who wrote what’s-his-book] and I’m just staring at him in horror, slowly positioning myself into the fetal position at my booth.  I’m not even really listening to him anymore as I call out.

“Oh Ghost of Jeremy Yet to Come, are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only? Say it is thus with what you show me!”

“Well, kid, I’m not exactly your future, see I didn’t actually get a grad degree.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t.  I just got my BA in English from here.”

“Well uh, gee, spirit, that seems like it would have been some useful information.”

“Yeah, I know, but I like people to think I’m more impressive than I really am.”

“I know the feeling, continue.”

“See, I did get my undergrad here—an English major, but that’s about where things stopped for me.  I mean, there’s not a lot you can do with a BA in Englsih—well hey, look who I’m talking to!”

A forced chuckle.  “Uh yes, I’ve heard  But see my case is just a little bit different than--.”

“--Well, I got to get going, floors to wax, puke to clean up.”

“In that order?”

“Ooh, you’re good.  You’re good.  You should work at Walmart.  I bet you could become a full manager in no time.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

“No see, I’m getting my MA in English and Creative Writing, maybe even a PhD in it!”

“Right, well if you ever need a job, you know where to find me.  You could join our book club!  Right now it’s just me, Kirby from home appliances, and a cardboard cut-out of Jeff Gordon.  We could use another keen academic mind like yours.”

“Wait, things can still change!  You’re a shadow of what may be only!  Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead, but if the courses be departed from, the ends will change, yeah? 

“You know where to find me.” 

I have been reading way too much Dickens. 

A Part-Time Job

When I arrived at grad school, I was surprised to discover that everyone had a plan. I too had a plan, of course, naturally, sort of, not really—I had an idea, of what I wanted to do.  I wanted to write and I liked the idea of younger, less experienced people also belieiving that I could write and trusting me enough to train them how.  These two things seemed connected to me somehow and I had hoped grad school would invaritably cause them to crash together in some happy, academic collision.  Everything else was in the details.  That’s what my Graduate Director had told me upon my initial visit, or at least, it’s what I inferred from our fiftenn minute conversation.  I think it was in there somewhere. 

Floundering under the weight of deciding my professional and academic livlihood before Labor Day, I naturally took a part-time job tutoring two Korean high school students in English.  I had never tutored prior to grad school, but as part of my assistantship I had just spent five days training how to convince college freshman not to begin papers with “from the beginning of time” or end them with “in conclusion and summary”, so I felt qualified (enough) to accept the job. 

The first few weeks were rough.  All of our meetings were arranged by their mother who spoke less English than they did and I tried my best not to fall into the ethnocentric trappings of talking to an ESL speaker as an American who spoke only English.  I found my voice rising in volume every time I repeated myself .  By the foruth attempt, I was almost shouting.  I know I talk with my hands, but I caught myself attempting bastardized forms of sign language or maybe shadow puppet shows the longer conversations lasted.  Every time I felt I had offended her, she’d just smile and apologize for her confusion.  Some might have taken these shared moments of misunderstanding as a bridge to empathy, bringing us close together in a way, but I assumed she was cursing my ignorance beneath her tight smile.  I would if I was her.  Eventually, I began limiting the number of words per exchange to siphon out the extraneous adjectives and prepositions, which of course seemed offensive.  We managed.

The exact opposite of this, is the impression that I wanted to give.

 I met two days a week with John and Mary for an hour each.  That’s what their mother said their old tutor did.

“What did the old tutor do for two whole hours?”  I asked, “Were field trips involved?”  She didn’t know, but through another skinny smile told me she was confident that I’d know what to do.

I was sure I did not, but convincing myself that I was their best and possibly only option in central Missouri, I justified my ineptitude and decided I’d figure something out.

John was a fifteen-year-old sophomore who was studying for his TOIFL exam, which would test his grasp of English and determine his fate with every American university he applied to.  John mostly wanted to know about different American expressions and turns of phrase, many of which arose during our sessions. 

“It’s all good: what is it that is good?”

“Well, whatever it is that you’re talking about.”

“And all of it?”

“Sure.”

“And what about all of these bridges in the future?”

“The what in the what?”

“You say we’ll cross some bridges when we come to them.”

“Oh, that’s just a way of avoiding something until you have to deal with it.”

“And a bridge helps?”

“No, you want to avoid the bridge, avoid the bridges.  You know, forget it.”

“And when you say rule of thumb—“

“—It just means a commonly accepted way of doing something.”

“But it’s on the thumb?”

“No, uh, have you ever seen Boondock Saints?”

“What’s that?”

“Nevermind  You know, it’s all good.”

Occasionally, we’d go through some flashcards or look at a paper he was writing for class.  One time he asked me to show him how to take history notes—“Don’t bother reading anything in those pastelle-colored boxes,” I told him, “That’s a fool’s game.” 

One time I brought a grammar worksheet that I had hastily printed off of some website.  After reading though it, we didn’t end up using it, but I think he was impressed that I brought it.  At least his mother would be.  I was impressed anyway.  Overall, John seemed content with our sessions and again, I figured he was learning more than he would have without me.

Mary was thirteen and a bit tougher assignment for my extensive college tutoring skills.  Mary didn’t want to talk about Twilight or cool American slang as I thought she might based on my experiences with John.  Mary wanted to go through drafts of school assignments and edit them for grammar. 

“You sure you don’t want to talk about which team you are?  I bet you’re Team Jacob.  You look like a Team Jacob.’

In our early goings, I found the most difficult part was trying to describe how Mary could revise her assignments without having her furiously scribble down an exact copy of my words.  I figured that her teacher might be able to tell the difference between a seventh grade ESL student and an English Masters student, or at least I hoped it.

I tried breaking down sentences.  I tried drawing little pictures to explain what the different parts of speech were.  I got it down to a series of explanations and questions that only partially annoyed Mary.

“So a preposition is a word that connects two nouns together, and like the picture shows, it’s anything that you can do if a boulder is in the middle of the road and you need to get past it.”

I had thought I had remembered seeing this played out on Sesame Street before and getting a kick out of it.  Therefore, I felt a thirteen-year-old should respond similarly.  I didn’t count on the grammar book she cracked open.

What's not to understand? 

“What about often?”

“Well, yeah sure, that’s a preposition too.”

“And until and always?”

“Yeah so prepositions can also do this thing with time, you know, they can show when something happens, I guess.”

“Could you be of the boulder?  Or within?  I don’t think you could.”

“So around, over, through, those are pretty good prepositions!  And I don’t know, maybe if you were like a ghost, you could be within the boulder.  Hey, do you know Shaddow Cat on X-Men?  She could be within the boulder.  Do you know Shaddow Cat?

Blank stare.

“Let’s move on.” 

Usually after each session, the mother would follow me out the door as I left to discuss next week’s session dates.  My assumption was that she felt it was rude to “talk shop” in front of her children, or maybe she just wanted to keep our meetings as surprises to them!  During one of these pow-wow, she explained that John and Mary were going to be particularly busy with extraciricular activities next week, which as I knew of course, looked great on college applications, and would have to take a week off from tutoring.  I said I understood and was somewhat relieved myself as I too was entering a busy stretch in the semester.

It later occurred to me that we never set up dates for when our tutoring would resume so I called her a few days later.  No answer.  I called her the next day and left another message.  About two weeks later I finally got a hold of her.

“So when do you think you’d like to pick up tutoring again?  I don’t want John and Mary to forget too much of what we’ve been working on.” 

Surely, John’s turns of phrase were getting a little rust and Mary might be getting clarity on prepositions from someone else by now.  I didn’t want her learning about these things on the street. 

“Oh, yes, actually we let you know.  Thanks, bye!”

I had gleaned that “actually” was used by the mother to preface a statement that politely opposed the previous statement.

EXAMPLE: 

“Would you like to pay me double for all subsequent tutoring sessions?”

“Actually, no.  I would not like to pay you double.”

It’s been over a month since that time and I’m beginning to really wonder just how busy those kids can be.  I mean, I was seriously considering using my graduate degree to become a professional tutor, but now actually, I’m not so sure.  

5 Grad School Observations

You are not in college

You are not an undergraduate anymore.  Undergraduates suck and you do not suck, as much.  If you’re at a state school, undergrads flock by the hundreds, clogging up roads, sidewalks, bars, libraries, and gene pools while never taking their eyes from their phones.  Most of the time, it won't even seem like they have anywhere to go.  Maybe they just walk around for hours in circles, checking their facebook walls.  You will run into some.  It’s not your fault.

It might be wrong to refer to them as a plague, but is it inaccurate?

Free food is better than not free food

This is one truism that remains from college, only amplified.  In college, you had a pre-purchased meal plan paid for by scholarships or loans that you wouldn’t have to worry about until you were out of school.  In grad school it’s just you and the measly stipend they throw at you at the end of every month, if that.  Learn where and when the free food is on campus, or make friends with someone who does.  Also, lose your shame.

Everyone is smarter than you now

Getting into grad school probably made you feel pretty smart.  Attending grad school will make you feel pretty dumb.  You realize that your undergrad professors who made their profession seem so attainable were really just holding back, and they were pretty smart to begin with.  You realize this because many of them have already done everything that you’re now expected to do.  Your classmates will bemoan the same sentiments, but then rattle off the most insightful analysis of bunch of books that you've only vaguely heard of before.  Then they’ll tell you they already have their thesis picked out and are working on it, but really, they're so behind.  You will feel dumb, like really dumb. 

You are not in college: part II

As an undergrad you might have made weekend plans, gone out on certain nights, were involved with other activities, but in grad school you read and then read some more and then write about that.  And then you do it again.  Actually, as a grad school student, you should be doing all of those things too.  Going out to the bar to have a drink with some folks, watching a movie, with people, you know, stuff that reminds you that you're actually still human despite being expected to robotically churn out work at a furious pace.  As long as you can learn to become efficient with your work load (not this guy) then you can be a grad student with some semblance of an actual life.  Otherwise, you'll drive yourself insane.  Don’t drive yourself insane. 

It will all be worth it in the end

But when does it end and where?  And define "worth it". 

_____

In my last post I may have inferred that now in grad school, I should/ would be more diligent in posting.  Mistake. 

The work load is definitely a factor—it’s a big factor—but perhaps more important is the kind of writing that I’m doing in this blog.  It’s lazy, conversational—enjoyable—but sloppy and not the kind of writing that I should be focusing on.  In future posts, whenever those are, I’ll try to step it up.  That’s my promise to you, the reader!

I Wish I Could Go Back to Not College

I’m not unaccustomed to moving—I’ve done Pittsburgh, PA to Greencastle, IN for college, to St. Louis, MO for AmeriCorps where I continued to move around on a regular basis, and now to Columbia, MO for grad school.

Each move has had its challenges, learning how to do laundry in college, figuring out how to do it at a laundromat in the real world, and discovering that there was no laundry in AmeriCorps.  There was only that which was Febreezed and that which could do without.  Easy stuff.  The hard part came with acclimating to the new location, but more than that, accepting and embracing a place until it somehow became home.  It’s the difference between visiting somewhere and living somewhere, between being content and being happy.

It's just like a washer, minus the water!

If the saying goes, “when in Rome, do as the Romans” when visiting somewhere, in terms of moving there I’d say, “when in Rome, fucking love being Roman”.  If everyone else is drinking the Kool-Aid, you’re draining the punch bowl.

This past Labor Day weekend I drove back to St. Louis where I seamlessly melted back into my old life.  I stayed at my old house, ate at my old haunts, hung out with my friends; I felt like I had returned home after visiting grad school for a few weeks.  Dangerous stuff.  Mixing up realities is a high price to pay for even a great weekend like this one.  But not everything was exactly the same.

I celebrated a good friend’s birthday out at the bars where I realized that while everyone else was buying drinks, my tuition waiver didn’t even cover rail whiskey.  I helped some friends move into a great new apartment where they will begin their married, career-driven lives together and while people were going out for lunch, I stayed back to read and eat a Hot Pocket—just one, the other one was eaten for dinner.

It’s really an inconvenient time to begin pining for the Real World, because baby, I’m far from it. 

I'm a winner!

I’m back in the bubble-wrapped cocoon of a college town where nothing gets in or out, where I reveled as an undergrad and loved it and never wanted to leave it.  But I did leave it and I’ve since drunk the Real World Kool-Aid and have become addicted to a whole new brand of drug.  Oh, the irony.  Now, I have to find a way to kick it and adopt Columbia and grad school as my new home. 

As the great poet laureate of our generation, Robert Thomas so elegantly mused, “I wish the real world would just keep hassling me.”