I think what I hate most are the looks. Those sideways, pitying, judgmental looks. Those arrogant looks that scream false sympathy. Sometimes, out at dinner, they won’t even do me the courtesy of whispering. They’ll say in full voice, “So sad” or “It’s a shame, really. Pretty girl like that dining out all alone.” Their assumptions are just too much to take. I wish I could show them. I wish I could scream at them, “I am not alone! I am here with my boyfriend!” But then I remember. I remember that this is what I signed up for when I started dating the Invisible Man. So, I just go back to my lobster bisque and try not to look too pathetic.

“She’s a far-gone other species, Ralph.”

Those were the only words of warning on the whole planet at that moment. Everyone else was going Whoop de dooooo! and Wheeee! and there was a lot of clunking together of heads.

“I know, I do know, Dave…” Hesitancy on the face of Ralph, like he’d made up his mind but still thought there had to be a better way. Sure, you can kill yourself anytime, but only once, and you probably won’t be able to step back and say Whew once you’ve leapt off that formidable roof.

And then there was chaos. Although it was a clear day with sunshine, people remember only occasional moderate sunshine. They recall seeing a crowd running past their windows—and joining that crowd and being part of that crowd as it then ran past other people’s windows. But window by-passing was only one of the reasons that this crowd had convened.

The crowd huddled in the Eastern corner of the village square, preferring that direction above all others—especially North. And they watched and they fell silent in order to listen.

Vicugna pacos

Everywhere I go, my alpacas come with me. How many alpacas can fit into a car? I can tell you from experience that the answer is five, unless an alpaca is driving. Unlike children, taking alpacas to the supermarket is enchanting. They want to help me reach the highest box of breadcrumbs and offer the ripest bunch of bananas pinched between their toes. With gentle nodding, they encourage me to select the high-fiber cereal for my health. When my crew of beatific quadrupeds parades the sidewalk behind me, people turn their heads and smile. Cheeky children reevaluate their Christmas lists and tug daddy’s arm. My enemies from high school cannot disguise their envy.

On June 5th, 2004, at approximately 2109 hours Zulu Time, Ronald Wilson Reagan III was killed in a targeted operation conducted by United States forces. His termination with extreme prejudice was the capstone to a 9 ½-hour firefight involving multiple law enforcement, intelligence, and military agencies, including the “Night Stalkers” of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne) and the “Sunshine Division” of the 40th Infantry (Mechanized).