“Touch it,” Mark said.

The body on the floor looked smaller to Logan than the frightening Mr. Hornbuckle had when he was alive. Logan remembered when he first met the old man. It was at the supermarket a few years back. Logan’s mother let him pick out something sweet while she was buying groceries. “Go find something good and hurry back,” she had said. Logan enthusiastically ran off, quickly making his way to the cookie isle. As he turned the corner to the isle, he ran straight into the side of Mr. Hornbuckle’s leg. The faded blue eyes glared down at him and the wrinkled head turned slowly toward Logan catching up with the gaze already aimed at him. Logan knew immediately it was Mr. Hornbuckle. He had heard stories of an old man who hated everyone and everything. Hatred was all he could see in those eyes staring down at him. “Watch yourself,” Mr. Hornbuckle warned. “Touch me again, and it might be the last thing you do.” Mr. Hornbuckle turned away, grabbed a box of chocolate chip cookies and set them carefully into his basket.

Now, Mr. Hornbuckle was staring at Logan once again. This time Logan didn’t see hatred. He saw panic, perhaps his own reflected in the lifeless gray eyes.

“He’s dead,” Mark said. “What are you afraid of?”

Logan’s eyes let go of Mr. Hornbuckle’s and found Mark smiling almost maniacally over this helpless man’s corpse. Logan knew that Mark would be calling him a coward next, as if cowardice was the only reason not to disrespect someone in such a way as to make a game out of their death. This angered Logan who snapped back, “You touch him.”

The others turned eagerly to Mark for his response. There was a long silence. Then, Mark said, “I knew you were too scared.” But he didn’t touch the dead man.

AJ stepped in, “Should we go tell someone now?”

Logan began to answer, but Mark interrupted. “We’re not done,” said Mark. “What about the Asian kids?”

“You really think that was for real?” Drew asked, immediately regretting it.

“Of course it’s real,” Mark said. “Don’t be such an idiot. We’ve all seen the crates.”

Logan knew that was true. He’d witnessed the crates arrive at Mr. Hornbuckle’s front door on more than one occasion. That didn’t necessarily mean he was purchasing Asian children on the black market, but Logan was curious.

Mark continued, “Look, if you’re afraid, fine. Run back home like David. But who knows how long he’s been dead. If those kids are in here, they could be starving.”

“If he even kept them alive to begin with,” Drew added, trying to cover up his earlier ignorance.

“Let’s just see if we can find them,” Mark said. “Then, we can leave and get help if they need it.”

AJ and Drew looked over at Logan, as if needing his approval. Logan shrugged, “Let’s find them.”

They left the body and walked cautiously through the Hornbuckle house. Down the hallway were two rooms. The first contained a twin-size bed with a dark metal frame. There was also a dresser, which Drew looked through for “clues”. It contained mostly old photos, some in tattered albums. There were also several random articles of clothing, most likely stored away never to be used. This room didn’t seem lived in, but the second room certainly did. It was much larger and the carpet had patches of discoloration from wear and stains. The bed was unmade, with blankets twisting around each other and hanging off the sides unevenly. Pictures of the same woman filled the top of the dresser. She was attractive with a smile that shone of kindness. Logan looked over the many pictures and could see her age over several decades.

“To Whom It May Concern,” Mark began reading a handwritten letter he had taken off the desk in the corner of the room. “I am writing to inquire about purchasing child with baseball bat.”

“What?” Drew interrupted. He turned around from the dresser with a plaid button-down shirt in his hands.

“I knew it!” Mark said excitedly. He continued reading, “Please let me know if you are entertaining offers. I am an eager collector and very much interested…” Mark stopped. “That’s it.”

With the new evidence, the boy’s were invigorated in their hunt. Across the hall from the bedrooms they found a door. It was locked. Mark was certain that behind it they would find the children bought off the black market. Now their hunt turned toward finding a key to open this door. They searched the two bedrooms again. They searched the kitchen and the dining room. AJ searched a bathroom while the others went through the living room.

With no luck finding the key, they met again at the locked door, down the hallway from Mr. Hornbuckle’s lifeless remains.

“Maybe the key’s in his pocket,” AJ suggested. The others knew it made sense that a man might carry a key on a keychain and keep that keychain in his pocket. None of them replied, though. They were all thinking what this conclusion would lead to, and each was determined not to be the one who would have to reach into a dead man’s pockets. When it was clear nobody was going to step up, AJ said, “We could go to the cops. I mean, we have that letter. They could get in that door.”

To Logan, it felt like giving up. He thought about how far they had come and how they found proof that the elderly hermit had been collecting children. Though he didn’t think this adventure was a good idea in the beginning, he wasn’t ready for it to be over. Logan now wanted an answer to a question he never wanted to ask.

“I’ll do it.” The others were astonished. They stood with silent anticipation as Logan stepped closer and closer to Mr. Hornbuckle. He arrived at the body and knelt beside it. He thought about his mom’s warning: Stay out of Mr. Hornbuckle’s yard. She never said anything about his pockets. His hand reached inside. The fabric was coarse. It scratched against Logan’s hand as he felt around inside trying to find the key.

He found nothing. Logan pulled out his hand. He got up to his feet and looked back at AJ, Drew and Mark. They were depending on him. Logan turned back and stepped over the body. He knelt and reached into the other pocket. Again, the coarse fabric rubbed against his skin. Slowly his fingers touched across metal. It was cold with sharp, jagged edges. He grasped the object and retreated from the pocket. Standing, he opened his fist to reveal four keys tied together on a small metal ring.

A short, silver key was the one that fit into the lock on the door. Logan opened it slowly, revealing a dark stairway descending into obscurity.

Drew called down, “Hello?” There was no response.

Logan felt around the wall and found a light switch. He flicked it on, illuminating the way. The others didn’t follow as he stepped downward into the stuffy basement. At the base of the steps he glanced around. Bronze sculptures of all sizes and shapes filled the room. He was struck by the incredible display of craftsmanship. A Yorkshire terrier stared up hopefully at Logan. Its eyes were loving and loyal, and the still body language had a look of excitement, as if it would soon jump onto Logan’s lap if not for being a statue.

“Did you find them?” Mark shouted down to Logan. “Are they alive?”

Logan was still mesmerized by the statues. He was looking intently at one of a young ballerina. The waves in her skirt easily and perfectly implied a twirling motion. Then, he heard Mark’s voice and answered, “Come down here. I found something.”

The boys went into the basement and discovered that Mr. Hornbuckle was not collecting children, but rather bronze statues. Mark was visibly disappointed.

“Man playing violin,” Drew read, “by Linda Hornbuckle.” The statue stood six feet. The copper-colored man wore regal clothing from the Revolutionary Era and played his violin solemnly. The thick base had a placard attached to it with the information Drew had read aloud.

Logan quietly examined each statue as the other boys talked and argued over trivialities in the background. The work was stoically moving. Now, with Mr. Hornbuckle’s death, he wondered where it might end up. As he pondered this, the others’ conversation encroached on his thoughts.

“…it’s not, though. You don’t even know how she died.” Mark was being his argumentative self.

Logan had no interest in the conversation. He realized that there was no more reason to stay. They had solved the mystery of Mr. Hornbuckle’s mysterious crates. Now, they were no longer explorers, but trespassers in a dead man’s home. The Mr. Hornbuckle he had known, the one the neighborhood had known, may have been a horrible person, but Logan thought what else he might have been to have married such a talented artist. That afforded him some respect in Logan’s mind. “It’s time to go,” he said and started toward the stairway.

Drew and AJ turned. They went after him up the stairs, leaving Mark alone in the basement. Mark waited there for a second, trying to think of something to say, before finally following the others.

The keys jingled in Logan’s pockets with each step. He thought about whether or not to put them back where he had found them, but ultimately decided against it. He planned to quietly leave the Hornbuckle House and tell his mom what they found. She would be angry, he realized, but he couldn’t keep it from her. They would need to tell an adult, so that the police will see to the body, so that Mr. Hornbuckle will have his funeral and so that his belongings, including the bronze sculptures, would be handled appropriately.

Then, at the top of the basement stairs, Logan noticed the BB gun leaning against the wall behind the open basement door.

The boys made their way to the house, carefully ducking behind fence and trees along the way. Mark was the first to arrive, touching the side of the house in victory. He turned back and waved the others over.

David, Drew, AJ and Logan joined him at the southeast corner of Mr. Hornbuckle’s home. The house had light blue aluminum siding that had long been in need of a new coat of paint. It was propped up by a cobblestone foundation. The window was just too high to be reached by the young children.

“Lift me up,” Mark commanded. David and AJ held their hands low, gripped together at the fingers, giving Mark footholds to step into. They lifted him up against the window.

“What do you see?” David asked, struggling to support Mark’s weight. “Do you see anything? What do you see?”

The window was mostly covered in a thick film of dirt. Mark wiped the glass, but was unable to remove the grime on the inside of the window. “It’s too dirty,” he said. “I can barely see anything.” He cupped his hands at the sides of his head and leaned his face against the glass. “There’s a bookshelf,” he told the others. “A lot of the books are on the floor.” He pressed his cheek into the pane trying to see around the corner into the hallway. “I think I see–”

The window cracked. Mark pushed away quickly and lost his balance. As he fell backward, the glass broke and fell inside the house. David immediately let go of Mark and began running. Logan and Drew followed after him in a panic.

“Get up! Come on!” AJ pulled on Mark’s arm trying to get him up off the ground. Logan and Drew were now watching from behind a large tree in the yard next door. Mark was able to get on his feet, and AJ helped him to the tree. The four boys waited for several minutes, staring at the broken window and expecting Mr. Hornbuckle to come around the corner at any moment wielding his BB gun or worse.

“Maybe he didn’t hear anything,” AJ finally said. “He’s really old.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping,” Logan offered.

Mark stepped out from behind the tree and said, “Or maybe he’s dead.”

“Where’s David?” Drew asked. They all looked around, but nobody could see David anywhere. AJ hollered out his name a couple of times without any response.

“We need to go inside,” Mark said.

Logan considered running. He knew that Mark was too stubborn and that nothing he would say could change his mind. He also knew that breaking into Mr. Hornbuckle’s house was a terrible idea.

“Hornbuckle would kill us!” Drew shouted at Mark. “We already broke his window.”

“He won’t kill us,” Mark replied. “He’s dead.”

“How would you know that?” Drew asked.

“I saw a hand,” Mark explained. “It was just laying on the floor. The body must be in the hallway. All I could see was the hand. It wasn’t moving or anything.”

Logan relaxed. It was a chilling thought, yet it brought relief. He still didn’t think entering the house was a good idea, but in his mind it was a far less dangerous prospect now.

Mark made his way back to the window.

“What about David?” Drew called out.

Without turning around, Mark answered back, “He’s gone, probably crying under his bed by now.”

Drew, AJ and Logan reluctantly returned to the broken window.

“You have to go in, AJ,” Mark said. “Logan is too chicken, and there’s no way Drew’ll fit.”

This was the kind of blunt talk that solidified Mark as their leader. The slight insults came easily to Mark. He would throw them around casually, and it kept the others in constant fear. Nobody wanted to be on his bad side, in hopes that he wouldn’t call them out in front of the group. It was an insidious emasculation that Mark steadily doled out, and it was effective.

The boys discussed the plan, and once everything was worked out, Mark and Logan helped push AJ up to the window. He grabbed onto the window sill and pulled his body onto it. AJ’s body rested in the window with his legs sticking out and his arms hanging inside. He lifted a leg up onto the window sill and brought himself up on one knee. It was an awkward position with his head ducking in just under the unbroken top pane. He pivoted to face outside so that he could lower himself into the house. Then, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck. His body pushed away reflexively. His leg slipped away, and his torso hit the sill hard.

Mark, Drew and Logan watched his pained face slide out of view, and they heard the thump of AJ’s landing.

“Are you okay? AJ?” Logan called up to the window.

There was no response.

“AJ?” he said again. Dark notions began formulating into coherent thoughts in Logan’s mind. As the possibility of AJ’s death was rising into the forefront of Logan’s consciousness, they heard a response from inside. It was a word muffled through a cough.

“Is that you, AJ? What did you say?” Mark asked. He was jumping up at the window as he spoke, throwing the words through it.

“I’m inside,” AJ called back. “I think I’m bleeding.”

“You have to unlock the front door. Can you do that?” Mark responded while pointing the other boys around the corner. “We’ll be right outside.”

“Yeah, okay,” AJ answered.

The wait was the most stressful time Logan had experienced. Mark, Drew and he stood on the front porch. Mark held open the screen and put his ear up against the door. “I think I hear him,” he said.

The door opened.

“You are bleeding,” Logan said seeing AJ in the doorway. His neck had blood all over it, spread around by AJ’s hand as he must have felt around at the wound.

“Yeah,” AJ said. “I don’t think it’s that bad, though.” He turned around to show the others. “What do you think?”

There was a small cut on the left side of his neck, but it didn’t seem to be bleeding at the moment.

“Looks fine,” Mark said. “A little cut, but that’s all. He walked inside.

Logan continued to inspect the wound. He was thinking that they should go back home, tell someone about Mark seeing a hand and get a bandage for AJ. Then, he noticed that he was standing outside on the porch by himself. He decided that they could at least see if Mr. Hornbuckle is really dead, and then leave. It wouldn’t take long, he thought.

Inside, AJ explained that he didn’t see anything, that he had been holding his wound for a while and then got to the door as quickly as possible after realizing that he’d probably be okay. He’d completely forgotten about the body until he invited the others into the house. Mark led them slowly on their way through the house.

There were several fallen stacks of newspapers in the foyer. They were in many different languages. The boys stepped around them and entered into the living room. An end table was turned on its side near the broken window. “I think I did that,” AJ said. The room had lime-colored carpeting with a small blood stain near the waylaid end table. They stood right next to the bookshelf that Mark had seen earlier. The books were mostly piled on the floor in front of it along with a couple of random knickknacks. And just beyond it was the hand.

“There he is,” Mark said. He walked over the toppled books approaching the hand lying stiff on the floor, attached to an arm just as stiff.

It was Mr. Hornbuckle. His body had settled onto the floor of his home in an eerie manner with his hand grasping at nothing far away. Logan could see that he was dead, and it felt as though the corpse’s open eyes could see right back at him.

Continue to Part Three

His mother didn’t like it. She never approved of Logan playing in the street. Even though they lived on a quiet residential block, she was always afraid for her son’s safety. She had two rules for Logan: look both ways before crossing the street, and stay out of Mr. Hornbuckle’s yard.

No one in the neighborhood liked Mr. Hornbuckle, and he’d given them every reason to feel that way. It was rumored that he had been a rather pleasant fellow before his wife died. That was over twenty years ago, well before any of the neighborhood’s current residents had moved in. The Mr. Hornbuckle they knew was callous and ornery. The Hoopers’ boy, Josh, swore that Mr. Hornbuckle fired a BB gun at him while he’d been skating up and down the sidewalk. Josh’s father was outraged by this and promised he’d “knock the crap” out of that old man, regardless of his age. Mrs. Hooper called the cops, who arrived just in time to witness the confrontation and keep it from getting out of hand. Mr. Hornbuckle had denied the allegation, and verbally berated Mr. Hooper for having raised, “a snot-nosed little liar that clearly takes after his mother’s gypsy ways”. He agreed to let the cops in to look for a weapon. They found none.

The other incidents were less severe. Most people avoided any run-ins with Mr. Hornbuckle, and so did he with others. However, Sally Baxter insisted everyone had good in them and was determined to bring it out of Mr. Hornbuckle. She was the only one who would say anything to him out in public. And every time he would respond with a snide comment about her weight and suggest that she shouldn’t even bother existing if she’s so determined to “look like that”.

He was a vile man. Everyone simply knew this. That only made Mr. Hornbuckle more interesting to the children of the neighborhood. The many stories of his anti-social behavior were embellished inside many a clubhouse or blanket fort. Rather than firing a BB at Josh Hooper, it was told that he’d tossed a grenade underneath the boy’s skateboard, putting him in the hospital for two weeks. And the neighborhood kids surmised that the large crates occasionally delivered to his door contained Asian children he had purchased on the black market. Guessing what he would do to them became a schoolyard game where the object was to invent an act even more outlandish or atrocious than the previous one.

So, when Mark suggested sneaking a look inside the Hornbuckle House, Logan was understandably uneasy. Unlike the traffic which rarely existed on Van Lang Street, Mr. Hornbuckle seemed like a very real danger to him.

“Just a quick look,” Mark repeated. “Maybe we’ll find one of the Asian kids he makes rugs out of.”

“Or that he boils into glue!” David added gleefully. He was a lanky blond who wore glasses. Talking seemed to be David’s favorite activity. Despite his chattiness, he rarely seemed to say anything very interesting. The other boys put up with his company because, though annoying at times, David brought a lighthearted energy to the group. Anytime someone was having a tough or stressful time, David’s casual blabbering helped them forget about that. He was usually oblivious to the feelings of others and would carry on as though everything was fine. And that had a way of making everything feel fine.

While Logan was sickened by David’s cheery speculation, AJ laughed politely. He was the most charismatic of them all. It was a natural result of his friendliness. AJ always had his light brown hair neatly combed and often wore slacks unlike the others who were typically in jeans. It gave him a kind, mature appearance, and he had a personality to match. He was the most recent of the boys to move into the neighborhood. The others had quickly befriended AJ, and they particularly enjoyed his stories of the many different places he’d lived growing up. His father was a consultant, but AJ wasn’t really sure what that meant. All he knew was that it kept them moving. His father’s latest project brought them to Nampa where the family settled into the house next to Logan’s.

“Come on. Don’t be chicken,” Mark said. He was the self-appointed leader. None of the others really liked him all that much, but he was loud and called the shots. He was freckled with red hair, something he’d been teased about often. Mark had always been aggressive, though. So, he often got into fights and was quick to throw insults back at anyone who even thought about negatively mentioning his appearance. He was smaller than the others, but he didn’t think so. He grabbed the football away from Drew, an overweight blonde boy with an underbite, and headed across the street.

Drew hesitated. He was never one to make a decision on his own. His hands still rested, palms up, in front of him, holding a football that was no longer there. Mark was already on the other side of the street, but the rest of the gang stood their ground. This calmed the fear that had arisen in Drew at the mention of Mr. Hornbuckle. It was a fear he’d never admit. His weight was regularly the topic of childish teasing, so he often made an effort to seem braver than he really was. He didn’t want to give anyone more reason to mock him. Peer pressure was Drew’s only guide, helping him stay in the public’s good graces.

Then, David hurried to catch up to Mark. The other boys looked around at each other. AJ finally said, “What the Hell,” and went after David. With that, the scale tipped, and Drew had no choice. He went too, leaving Logan behind alone.

Logan didn’t want to go. He thought about his mom’s warning. Then, he looked both ways and crossed the street.

Continue to Part Two

Colors!

Colors are your best friend. When you first begin, you won’t have that much variety. You need to get green as soon as possible! I suggest the Mardi Gras pack, so you’ll get green and purple. You’ll need ‘em.

In the meantime, if you don’t have the right colors, think of creative ways to get the idea across. Of course, this means your opponent needs to know what you’re trying to say. You should usually substitute whatever closest color you have available, but then try to point out what color it’s supposed to be. For instance, if you’re drawing Shrek in blue ink, add a notation of a yellow blob plus a blue blob pointing at your blue Shrek. Hopefully, your opponent will understand how primary colors work.

Once you purchase new colors, then there’s no stopping you! Don’t let them go to waste. There’s no reason to draw simple, black and white drawings. To get the point across, you need the image to come to life. Color will make that happen. Use the right colors, and you’ll draw the word right out of their subconscious.

Multiple Pages

You don’t have to trash a drawing just when you make a mistake. If your word is complicated or difficult to get across with a single image, use multiple images. Just hope that your opponent remembers them all. Think ahead so you can end on the strongest, most obvious image, as that’ll be the one they rack their brains over the longest.

Keep in mind that once you trash a page, it goes away. So, you might want to help that image linger a bit to make sure they take it all in. As long as you’re drawing, the image will stay on screen. Try dotting some ellipses in the lower corner.

Erase = White

You want something to be white, but the canvas is white and you don’t have white ink! Well, one option is to substitute gray, but that could be confusing in some cases. If it’s important that something is white, paint a solid background (gray works well for a neutral backdrop) and then use the eraser to paint white on top of it.

Don’t be subtle

If there’s ever a time for racism, it’s during a game of Draw Something. You have to get the point across, and subtleties will not do that for you. If it’s important that your stick figures are Asian in order to guess the word, then they probably shouldn’t have round eyes.

Tilt the screen

Hours and hours have passed, and you still can’t tell what that squiggly crap is trying to tell you. Maybe you’re looking at it wrong. Some artists might be inspired to draw landscape. So, make sure you know which way is up.

Use some arithmetic

Some words are really just two words stuck together. So, divide the canvas in half with a black line and draw two images. Put a plus sign between them. Think about this method when choosing a word. If a word seems incredibly difficult to get across, maybe you can think of a way to break it into easier parts.

Drawing arrows

When a drawing gets particularly complicated, you might have a lot of elements that are only there to support the scene. So, you’ll want to point an arrow at which specifically is supposed to be the word. Unfortunately, on a touch screen, it can be tough to get lines to match up precisely, so your arrow could end up looking like chicken scratch. Try drawing arrows in two motions instead of three. Start at the end, move to the point and, without lifting your finger, draw one half of the head. Then you just need one more swipe to finish the other half of the head, and if you miss it, at least you already have a pointy line that should get the…well, point….across.

Layers

Think about layering your drawings. It’s okay if you don’t account for a hat when drawing your stick figure’s head. The hat can be drawn on top of his head. You can make your drawing in thin lines, and then use bolder colors to fill it out. This is especially useful for drawing people wearing specific clothing or doing specific actions. The stick figure is simply a skeleton for you to throw the clothes and other objects onto later.

Cheat

I don’t condone it, but if you do want to cheat, here’s how you can do it. If you can’t figure out the word, all you need to do is quit and reload the game. But remember the letters you had! They’ll be different next time. Keep going until you’ve locked down exactly which letters are in the word, and it should make unscrambling it a lot easier.

Notice: Sometimes the game doesn’t even give you the right letters! So, before passing, try quitting and coming back into the game. You might get the letters you need then.

Don’t write letters!

This is cheating. Don’t do it. It’s a drawing game. You can’t articulate hints by writing out “This is Italy” to help someone guess “Rome” instead of trying to spell “Boot” without any B’s. If a letter or a number is part of the drawing itself, then perhaps it’s allowable. But drawing a city skyline and adding “HK” above it for “Hong Kong” is cheating as far as I’m concerned. Keep things challenging. Set some rules for yourself.

Got any tips?

Let me know your strategies in the comments below.

Fortunately, you can mitigate the feeling of loneliness. You’ll still be lonely, but you don’t have to feel lonely. Here’s how to keep from feeling lonely.

Accept It

Stop trying so hard to not be lonely. Best case scenario, you hang out with some idiots for a while, have a few good laughs, and then return to your original state of loneliness. Only it’s worse this time because now you’ve tasted camaraderie and will go through social withdrawals. Worst case scenario, you fail miserably, proving that you’re not only lonely but too lame to even deserve human interaction.

What you want to do is accept it. You’re lonely, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Once you accept it, you don’t have to keep trying to fix the problem because you’ll come to realize it’s not really a problem, just a neutral state of existence. Look at not being lonely as a “premium feature” life offers. You’re not simply entitled to it. Once you understand that, you won’t have the added depression and/or anger that comes from the frustration of not getting what you want.

Post Online

Even if you accept that you’re lonely, feelings of loneliness will inevitably surface. People want attention and validation. Since you’re lonely, you’re going to have quite the deficiency of those. Luckily, you live in 2012 and that means you have social media out the Yin-Yang.

You have to be careful here, though. Remember the first trick about accepting your loneliness. If you approach social media attempting to cure your loneliness, you’ll be disappointed. It’s all too easy to obsessively watch Twitter, just waiting for someone to retweet your ingenious observation. This is counter-productive. Do not obsess!

Instead, casually engage in social media. Pick something that suits your interests, so that even without any attention or validation from it, you still enjoy the time. For instance, you look at funny Internet memes on Reddit, which can be entertaining on its own. Or if you like learning, maybe Quora is a good place to waste the night away. Once you find a site that works for you, participate. Leave comments on Reddit. Answer Quora questions. Reply to tweets. Post a Facebook status. Enjoy writing? Write a blog post.

Now, you’ll start to get the attention and validation that feels so good. And since you didn’t set out looking for it, it feels extra sweet. Notifications will pop up sporadically. The more you participate, the more you’ll get. Still, be careful not to become addicted. (This is very tricky since you’re looking at a variable interval reinforcement schedule, for all you psychology majors out there.) “I’m just browsing Reddit for the hilarious pictures of cats. Wait, what’s this? Oh, somebody replied to my comment! I’m having a conversation!”

Avoid Going Out in Public

People are the worst thing for loneliness. Every single one of them represents an opportunity that you’re missing out on. You should avoid going out in public as much as possible. Of course, you still need to go to school or work, unfortunately. If you can somehow swing a work-from-home deal, cherish it.

Keep the excursions to a minimum. You don’t want any more reminders than necessary that there are other people on this planet.

Now, this might seem unusual. Common sense would tell you that being among people would help with loneliness. Well, that’s completely wrong. What are you going to do with those people, huh? People in public are not your friends. They’re glorified ambiance. If you knew how to interact with them in a meaningful way, you wouldn’t be lonely, would you? The best you could hope for would be some awkward eye-contact on the subway. You don’t need to be reminded of just how many people will never care about you. Nothing makes you feel more alone than being lonely in a sea of people.

Watch TV

The good news is people on television care. And they’re usually pretty reliable. These people are your new best friends. They’ll visit you often.

Don’t channel surf. We’re not looking to just pass the time here. Find yourself a good TV show to invest in, something with a good ensemble cast works best. You’ll want to immerse yourself in the characters’ lives. So, find something that’s serial, where the story evolves with each episode. Now you can enjoy having company without having to know anyone, be interesting or have a cool place. Everything you can get from real friends, you can get from TV characters. Almost.

Pillows

You’ll still need physical contact. Buy pillows, lots of pillows. You should sleep with at least five pillows. Standard size, body pillows, memory foam….whatever feels right, but not dakimakura. Don’t be a creep.

The pillows are meant to be a substitute for physical contact, not actual people. So, I’m not talking about crazy delusions here. The pillows are just pillows. But you can hug them. They’ll lie next to you while you sleep and give you a shoulder to cry on when you need one. I know what you’re thinking, and no. Don’t have sex with them. Pillows can’t consent.

To me, to examine life means to have a near obsession with an unreachable truth. I say that the truth is unreachable because, while it might be the goal, it isn’t the reward. Also, it probably is actually unreachable. But let’s say you could find The Truth. It likely wouldn’t be all that rewarding. “Now what?” you’d say, Truth in hand. And it would quickly get stale. So forget about that.

The important part, as corny as it sounds, is the journey. It’s the very act of examining life, of searching for answers and opening yourself up to an endless array of thoughts. I’m not suggesting some kind of spiritual journey here where you find joy and happiness in the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. No. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that happiness has little to do with truth-searching. Yet still that journey is a valid goal for a human being.

The goal of a species is to reproduce and survive. What is the goal of a single individual, then? Yes, they must play their part to help the species pursue its goal. But that drive is a programmed behavior due to the nature of the system. Ultimately, that individual will die, even if their genes live on. And what does that really matter to you? Do you think some Neanderthal sat around thinking that his life has meaning because years and years after he’s dead, some tiny part of his genetic code will be among 4% of my own? Yet we think like that and feel that we’re all doing our part for Humanity by working for a future we’ll never see and that may never exist.

Compared to us as a species, we as an individual don’t have a lot of time. We’re here for a few measly years, and the only real rules we have are “Try not to die” and “Try to have sex with something”. You can go around living and having sex, and that will certainly keep the species alive, but does that make it worth it? Is the value of an individual simply his contribution to society, including a society he may never see? There comes a point where you have to ask why are we bothering keeping the species alive in the first place? If what we have here is a system that’s only real purpose is to sustain itself, then what good is it? Surviving simply to exist is hardly worth surviving at all.

However, we can look at the individual. They have their lifetime to perceive and interact with the world, and then they’re gone. The repercussions of their doings hardly matter to them after that. They’re gone. They’re no more. They’re like the Monty Python parrot. So, working toward some goal past one’s lifetime seems futile. For all you know, nothing even exists after you’re dead.

To an individual, the only things that really matter are the now and what they’re doing with it. You can certainly go around searching for happiness, engaging in activities that bring you joy, riding a roller coaster, tripping your trigger or floating your boat. I’m not suggesting that this stuff be avoided, but I don’t think that it adds any real value to your life. That’s just simple fun. Having fun is hardly a reason to live.

This is where I think the Socrates quote comes into play. To me, it means that we only have a handful of decades here in order to try and figure it all out. An infinite number of sentient beings seem to be popping in and out of existence each for a tiny bit of time, each with a single mind, one awareness, against all of the Universe and its vast complexity. We shouldn’t run from it or try to simplify it into a dichotomy of good vs evil or some other easily digestible explanation. We should dive into the complexity, immerse ourselves in it and open our eyes.

Even asking the question, “Does my life have a purpose?” is part of that examination. It can be a very dark and depressing journey, and yet it’s somehow rewarding. Because of the harmful nature of it, though, I think people avoid it. We want to feel happy, not rewarded. We want to have fun, not purpose. So, it’s too easy to miss out, to live an unexamined life.

There are certainly side effects. This examination can have consequences, good and bad. Imagine someone who is anorexic, not out of vanity, but because they realize a truth of our society, that we value people by their physical appearance. Is she being vain, or is she just playing the game by the rules we rarely talk about? She isn’t deluded or crazy. She knows that she is worth more as a person by being thin than she would be otherwise. That is a fact that she faces, and that most will turn away. Who’s really deluded then? Yes, there’s probably a better answer than anorexia, but she’s not ignoring the negative aspects of this world. And that’s part of examining truthfully. You can’t ignore the negative, though that might make it easier to be happy. Or someone who contemplates suicide because they’re being bullied in school. We may say, “It gets better”, but does it? Bullying is a fact of life, and debating whether or not living is worth that pain is a valid question. The typical response to these kind of depressing, negative thoughts is to ignore them or fight them with positive platitudes because to examine them would be too painfully real. And happiness is often more important than reality to most.

When you really get in there and examine the complexity, not just of the Universe, but of your own existence, your own perception and Humanity, it can be overwhelming. It can be difficult. It can manifest as mental disorders, such as depression or Woody Allen. Yet despite that trouble and turmoil, or even because of it, that life is far more interesting than anything else going on in the world. There is a joy in the chaos, and I think it comes from the realization that your mind is being fully used. You’re not just washing it with endorphins. You’re flooring the pedal and really pushing your awareness and perception to their maximum potentials. That is why an examined life is worth living. It isn’t wasting the potential of the tiny, insignificant speck that is you in this Universe.

I rolled off of my deflating mattress. Then, the airpillow deployed, a little late. I was already out of my bed, what was left of it, and approaching the other driver’s desk. “This is all your fault!” I yelled.

Sitting calmly at a damaged wooden desk was a bald man in his forties. He was wearing a dress shirt with a tie, no jacket. He sat still for several seconds, then he moved. His head made a slight turn toward me. Awareness seemed to hit him, like the pen had that was now lodged into his left shoulder. “We crashed,” he said.

“Yeah, didn’t you see me pull out?” I looked at my watch. It was analog, so I took out my cellphone and saw that it was 9:15. My dentist appointment was in fifteen minutes.

The man stepped up from his desk. “I was just driving down the road, and you came out of nowhere.” He glanced over at my bed. “You dreamers never watch where you’re going.”

“I looked! You must have been going too fast.”

“We should probably trade insurance information, and maybe wait around for the cops to arrive. Get an official accounting of the situation, you know.” He picked a paper off the ground which had flown off his desk during the collision. “Do you have a pen?”

I pulled the pen from his torso. “Look, I’m in a hurry,” I explained taking the paper from him. “I have a dentist appointment, so how about I just give you my number, and you can call once this is sorted out.”

He didn’t seem to be listening. Instead he was focused on his wound, applying pressure with his hand. “I’m bleeding,” he said.

“I know, but I really do have a dentist appointment.”

That was true. It was my seventh dentist appointment so far this year and the only one I’d made an attempt to keep. My dentist was obviously beginning to hate me. I hadn’t seen him, but I could sense his hatred in the voice of his receptionist every time she called to reschedule. She’d always start the conversations with, “I see here you missed your appointment yesterday. Would you like to go ahead and reschedule?” Then she’d end with, “And remember, if something comes up, you can always call us and let us know.” She didn’t realize the irony of that. If something came up preventing me from making my appointment, would I really have time to call? So, each appointment went by with my teeth getting more and more questionable. I was nervous during every brush. What if they all fell out? Why do I bother brushing if they might just fall out? Maybe they’re fine…..maybe they’re not fine. It was a very stressful time in my life.

“Can you call 911?” the man asked, clearly ignoring my situation. He started pushing items around on his desk. “I don’t know where my phone went.”

I scribbled down my number on the piece of paper and handed it to him. “If you find it, give me a call.” My bed was now completely flat. I grabbed my Zune from off of what was now just a blanketed tarp. “Good look with all that,” I said gesturing to the man’s shoulder wound. “Oh, and here.” I handed him back his pen.

There were no taxis around at the moment. I glanced up and down the street for a yellow love seat. They were always difficult to find in Queens. Fortunately, a subway station wasn’t too far from here.

The couch was beginning to get crowded. At the station where I got on, it was fairly empty. I was even able to find a seat. But at the next stop, we hit some kind of morning work rush because crowds poured in, barely letting anyone who wanted to get out. An elderly woman was standing on the armrest next to me. People seemed to be looking at me, as if expecting me to give up my seat to the wrinkled woman. I knew I’d be getting off at the next stop, but the public didn’t realize that. And they were judging me. I wanted to stick to my principles, though. Since when are old people unable to stand up anyway? If she couldn’t, she wouldn’t have made it here, and we wouldn’t be having this standoff.

I sat still, ignoring their passive-aggressive gazes. That’s when a guy stumbled over to me from the other side. I hadn’t even noticed him until he asked, “Could I sit there? I have a cane.” He nodded down at his walking aid.

“Oh, sure,” I said getting up. He took my seat, and I said, “You know, having a cane isn’t really the right excuse, though.”

“Huh?” he sort of grunted.

“Well, I mean, I’m just saying, yeah it’s obvious from your cane that you have some kind of issue that might make it difficult for you to stand, which is why you’d deserve the seat.” I made air-quotes as I said, “deserve”. He still seemed confused, or maybe just uninterested. So, I continued, “You said that you have a cane. I can see that, but having a cane does not make you unable to stand. Being unable to stand causes you to have a cane. You see?”

He nodded and looked away. I was starting to get suspicious. Maybe this guy just had a cane and no underlying condition to merit having a cane. I knew I should have replied that I have asthma and kept my seat, but the couches were already slowing down.

I pushed my way through the crowd. Then, I quickly ran up the steps and out of the station, despite my asthma.

It was now 9:37. Before putting my phone back into my pocket, I tweeted about my accomplishment of having run up steps, hashtag asthma. Shortly after that my phone vibrated. At first I was overjoyed thinking that my tweet got a reply, or maybe even a retweet. But the vibrating continued. I was receiving a call. I didn’t recognize the number, so I didn’t answer it.

“Let’s have a look.” The dentist was very pleasant. He was doing a good job of hiding his hatred. I’d finally managed to make it in, and after a short wait in the reception area I’d been brought back into this room. The back of the seat moved down, and Dr. Lerner adjusted a light that shone straight at my face.

“It’s been a while since your last checkup,” he said.

I couldn’t reply since he had sharp utensils poking around at my teeth. He continued talking, asking me about my job and family.

I replied, but I don’t know what was actually said. He pretended to understand anyway.

“Everything seems fine,” he said at the end of the checkup. “No cavities.”

“So, I should keep brushing?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he handed me a sugar-free sucker. “Sharon will schedule you for your next checkup.”

I took a taxi back to my apartment. It was 10:50. It had been a long day, and all I wanted to do now was sleep. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option due to the incident from earlier. I’d need to purchase a new bed. I contemplated crashing on the floor when my phone began vibrating. It was the same number from before calling me. This time I answered.

“Hello?” I said, customarily.

“Hi, this is Detective Dan Taylor with the NYPD. We found this number on a paper at a crime scene.”

“Oh, yeah. I was in an accident,” I replied.

“A man was stabbed with a pen,” Detective Taylor added.

“Well, yeah, that happened. It was from the wreck. Desks are notoriously unsafe.”

“Would you be able to come in and make a statement?” he asked.

“No problem,” I answered.

“I’m sending a police table to pick you up.”

“Oh, hey. Don’t bother. I’ll put my statement up on my blog. You can read my side of the story then.”

And so that’s what we have here. Anyone reading can plainly see that it wasn’t my fault. And if you’re out there reading this, Desk Guy, you owe me a new bed.

I’m not a big fan of books. It’s a matter of principle, really. They’re archaic. We have movies now. There’s simply no excuse to have to read something. Yes, I know. The typical argument for books is “You get so much more out of a book! That’s why the book version is always better than the movie version.” Well, that’s why God invented television. Or Hell, why not have seven hour movies? It worked for Solaris. The point is the only shortcoming of movies is that we put an arbitrary time limit on them. They could give us everything a book can, and so much more, in a quicker, more efficient manner.

That being said, I am not as faithful as I would like to be. I have in fact read books. A Kindle Fire was even recently introduced into my life. I immediately saw it as a threat for I’d always known that literacy was a looming danger in my life. It has made reading just convenient enough that I’ve done it on occasion. It’s too easy to read on the subway. I blame the utter horror of humanity. If people-watching wasn’t so damned depressing, I wouldn’t need a wordy distraction. But one can only stare into so many dead eyes before the soul completely erodes.

Aside from the many flaws inherent in reading, I think the most repugnant aspect is in the readers themselves. There is an air of pretentiousness that seems to go hand in hand with knowing things, even fictional things. And that’s just not cool. Now, if you want to impress me with your knowledge of astrophysics because you read stuff about it, alright, I’ll give you that. But don’t think you’re somehow a genius because you notice that Flowers for Algernon struggles with the idea of ignorance being bliss. You’re far too smugly happy with yourself to be an actual genius.

Still, I don’t mean to put anyone down for choosing to read. If you choose to read and not be pretentious, then fine. It’s when you cross that line, as oh so many of you do, that it becomes unbearable. And you’re hurting the reputation of all literate people with your attitude. To illustrate this, let me recount a friendly run-in I had with a reader once.

I invited several people out to dinner, on me. Not that I’m pompous, though I am, but it seems like if someone is treating you to dinner, you could at least pretend to not hate them. Well, Anastaysia was not going to enjoy my free food without letting her true feelings be known. I introduced myself, and she was already unhappy before anything even transpired. It was like she smelled my illiteracy. “I’m Anastaysia,” she said as if the introduction was a chore.

There were other people to communicate with, so that’s what I did for the most part. We ordered our food, and everyone got to know each other. We were having typical, casual conversations. That’s when To Kill a Mockingbird came up. I had mentioned it while talking about work since a particular project revolved around it. I was in no way commenting on the book when I brought it up. It was merely a fact within the reality of my existence, and I presented it as such. Yet as soon as I said, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, Anastaysia wrinkled her nose and asked, “To Kill a Mockingbird?” as though I had just suggested she try a slice of pineapple kangaroo pie. Despite how fun it sounds, you’d probably be disgusted if it were shoved in your face.

Now, for the record, I do in fact love To Kill a Mockingbird. However, I didn’t state this to begin with, so she had no reason to be turned off by me mentioning it. For all she knew, I was about to lay the smack down on Atticus Finch. If I didn’t have the benefit of the others in attendance as an audience, I wouldn’t have gone down the route I did. One on one with Anastaysia, I would have communicated with her, instead of at her. But what followed was a mock conversation that she didn’t realize was a joke.

“Yeah, To Kill a Mockingbird,” I responded. “It’s my favorite book.”

Still looking shocked by my obvious stupidity, she simply said, “To Kill a Mockingbird is your favorite book?” She acted in disbelief that anyone in the world could possibly consider To Kill a Mockingbird (A Pulitzer Prize winner, mind you) their favorite book.

Again, just playing with the ridiculous conversation her condescension had led us into, I said, “Well, to be fair, I’ve only read three books.”

Her high-brow response was, “You’ve only read three books?” with the same staccato cadence of her previous question.

She wasn’t giving me much to work with. It was like playing a game of Questions Only with someone who thought that meant just repeating everything I say as a question. So, I had to move this conversation along. “Yeah,” I answered. “To Kill a Mockingbird, Animal Farm and Holes.”

She didn’t talk to anyone after that until just before the check arrived. She set down a couple of bucks and made some excuse about having to leave early to do something. (Probably to read!)

Clearly this chick hated me, and I don’t believe I gave her a reason to. Usually I do, so I don’t care so much when someone hates me. But this was completely uncalled for. Her only basis for hating me was that she couldn’t understand sarcasm and therefore believed I’d only read three books in my life. You’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but apparently you can judge a person by how many books they’ve read. And that just seems silly to me. Despite her supposed literacy, judging from her witty banter, I’d have to assume that she’s not all that intelligent. So, a lot of good all that reading has done her.

Anyway, to get back on track, books are stupid.

We give them undue credit. As I mentioned, books are archaic. They’ve been around literally since the beginning of recorded history. We’ve made so many advancements since then. I thought that the audio book would have rendered them obsolete, yet they’re still chugging along. Now, as we live in the days of high-speed Internet making more video available than can be watched in a generation, books seem even more outdated. I understand writing as a necessary foundation for building a story, but you aren’t supposed to read Romeo and Juliet, for example. It’s a play because it’s so much more than a book could ever be. Yes, technically you can read it because it is written, but movies have scripts too. So why aren’t they literature?

If for some reason, reading is your thing, fine. I’m not one to stop a person from flying their freak flag. But I do take offense to people thinking that their freak flag should be the emblem of the world. That’s why it’s called a freak flag, because you’re the only freak that cares to wave it. Don’t go around generalizing “the book is always soooo much better than the movie”. If books were so awesome, why hasn’t Samuel L. Jackson starred in one? Exactly.