We're All Damaged

by Matthew Norman

Believe it or not, the thing I regret most about the whole shitty evening is that I didn’t have the presence of mind to look our waiter in the eyes, clear my throat, and say, “Yeah. Question. Can you . . . tell me about Bacon Time?”

Instead I told him probably the biggest lie I’ve ever told anyone in my life. “No,” I said. “We’re fine.”

An old woman I don’t know who was wearing a bathrobe in a parking lot handed me a message she claimed came from my sister who doesn’t exist. There are some potential red flags there.

“There are two types of guys in this world,” she says. “Guys who know that ‘So It Goes’ is a Kurt Vonnegut reference, and guys who I want absolutely nothing to do with. I’m glad you’re one of the first ones.”

“Go see your father,” she says. “And hey, while you’re at it . . . maybe put on some pants. You know . . . shoot for the stars.”

“Bylaws?” I say. “A covenant? Did you retire to Soviet Russia? Is the Führer gonna show up, run us all out of the house, load us onto trains?” He sighs. “You’re mixing dictators, Andy.”

Sometimes people throw things away. That doesn’t mean those things aren’t really, really good. Most of the time, it just means that person didn’t know what they had.”

I’m nervous that she’ll do badly, that something will go horrifically wrong and she’ll look like a fool. But I’m also nervous that she’ll do well—really well—and she’ll look like someone who belongs on Fox News. I have no idea what I’m rooting for.

Facebook is the literal manifestation of all our regrets, looping and looping, for free, on our computers and phones. People who should be gone and safely out of our lives forever are there again, one cryptic little glimpse at a time, reminding us of all the things we should or shouldn’t have done.