99 bottles of fear on the wall, 99 bottles of fear, take one down and pass it around, 100 bottles of fear on the wall. 

The breakup was inevitable. When you get up every day with fond hopes but are met with nothing but passivity—when you continually think and dream about the object of your affection and concern but there is no reciprocity — it’s only natural to finally give up.

You created more charts and graphs than you care to admit. You ordered books from professors in all the programs and practically read them standing beside the mailbox. You realized application fees quickly add up and required you to cease “treating yo’ self” for a long while. Now all that’s left is time.

My first reaction to growing body hair was pride. I noticed a spreading of downy hair across my lower legs, and I wanted to let it grow forever, becoming thicker and darker until I could clasp it in my hands, like Arwen’s silky smooth elven tresses in The Lord of the Rings. I stroked my legs as the hair grew more resplendent, happy to be maturing, and blissfully ignorant of the other developments that would follow in rapid succession; acne, bad posture, and worse eyesight.

If you are like me, you are a balding, fairly awesome-without-bragging-about-it dad, who must, at times, make the bathroom your friend. I don’t have to tell you that privacy is as rare as feeling energized by parenthood. I’ve literally had meals in there. Three courses. And more than once on a given day. And even so, they are on to me. They know my secrets. And they are not amused.