The Monday Catchup

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It is written in the contrails of airplanes slicing through the sky. It is written in the frown lines on your professor’s forehead when you ask a stupid question (yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question). It is written in jacuzzi bubbles rising to the water’s surface, breaking, releasing their hot air. Chris Raffa. Chris. Raf. Fa. Three perfect syllables. One perfect man. I’m here to wipe his record clean. He DOES think women are funny. It turns out he thinks I, specifically, am not funny. Fair point Raffa. How was your weekend?

“Terrible now that you brought me up again in a Catchup.”

“Chris it’s only because I want your attention.”

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The Monday Catchup

experiences_beach.jpgSpring has sprung, and I’m coming to you live from the hot hot hot beaches of Playa Del Carmen in Mexico. I’m not happy. Not only did I get a big sunburn on my chest this morning, but I’ve noticed that there is some serious warming happening. Why else would the beaches be so hot hot hot in MARCH? We know what happens from here. For one, I can see at least six category-five hurricanes on the horizon from my beach perch. Their respective names are: Andrea, Barry, Chantal, Dorian, Erin, and Fernand. Chantal is my favorite. Much to my chagrin, the warming has also caused an earthquake right here; a rift in the ground is forming between my legs. The longer I type this, the longer a deep, searing sensation emanates from my burn and the more I think about how I should really jump to one side. I’m having a hard time deciding between the right half of the beach and my family. Now I’m doing a split over a 50-foot wide fissure, and my pants are probably gonna rip. Hello, doctor? I’m gonna need some medication because I’ve got a serious case of the Mondays. How was your weekend?

“Well it was spring break, so really it was more of a break than weekend.”

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The Monday Catchup

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This catchup is about rare, strange, and special things that come about once in a lifetime, like this catchup and oxford commas. It’s also about other rare things I know about, like beauty, love, and your weekend. I know about beauty from when I looked in the mirror for the first time. I thought, “I need a word to describe the opposite of what I am seeing.” I learned about love when I looked up the word “lope” in the dictionary while writing a diary entry about when I saw a tall, thin dog running. Life is mysterious and fun that way. I learned about your weekend by asking, “How was your weekend?”

“Mid-week weekend was great! Actual weekend was a bust.”

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The Tuesday Catchup

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One time when I was five years old I found a slug next to my house moving toward the bushes. For ten minutes, I watched it, its eyestalks sensing its environment, seemingly independently of its body. I watched it secrete the mucus layer on which it travelled. A truly marvelous invertebrate, I thought, completely unlike any other organism I had ever seen. I unscrewed the cap of the saltshaker beside me and, despite having heard that I should never do so, I emptied its contents onto the slug. The slug writhed and contorted the length of its body. Its previously perfect skin began to pop and hiss as it turned crispy, from a bright yellow to a golden brown. In that slug I saw myself. As I watched it die, I felt the sting of the salt on my back, all the moisture in my body osmosing through my skin. I fell to the ground in pain, and I saw in the bushes what I could only assume was its slug family. We lay dying together on the moss for what seemed like an eternity. In retrospect I realized I learned something valuable that day. The ability to know something, to really become acquainted with it, to love and even name it, and then dispassionately let it go to become closer to death, would prove useful throughout my life. Anyway, that’s how I got into comedy writing. How was your weekend?

“Isn’t it too late for that question?”

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The Monday Catchup

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Excerpt from “A Christmas Carrel” a play by me directed by me and starring me

NARRATOR: When Scrooge awoke, the church clock tolled a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy (BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG!). Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the blinds by his bed were drawn up by a strange figure.

SCROOGE: Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?

FIRST GHOST: I am!

SCROOGE: Who and what are you?

FIRST GHOST: I am the Ghost of Kenyon Past.

NARRATOR: As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood in the busy thoroughfares of a college campus. It was made plain enough by the dressing of the place that here, too, it was Christmas time. The Ghost stopped at a certain door, and asked Scrooge if he knew it.

SCROOGE: Know it! I spent countless hours here. I remember these walls, this cubic furniture, the ceiling made of windows. This must be the place … I miss it. Olin and Ch–

FIRST GHOST: Don’t say it. It will be too painful for you. Yes we are here. Smell the books. Hookup in the stacks. Talk too loud on the third floor. You loved this place and took it for granted.

SCROOGE: Spirit! remove me from this place. Haunt me no longer!

NARRATOR: As he struggled with this memory and the intense pain attached to it, Scrooge realized he was a first year who had no reason to be jaded about a place he never set foot in save for during a visit day or tour. Man who the hell do you think you are? How was your weekend?

 

“Saw someone eating a cheesestick the bad way. Ruined my night.”

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