My tenth greatest tragedy? I committed to a bit in 2017. It’s been making decisions without me for years.
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My thirteenth greatest tragedy? I said ‘I think my joy is secondhand’ during a group check-in. Now it’s painted on a reclaimed surfboard in their mindfulness yurt, and the surfboard sends me emails.
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My twenty-first greatest tragedy? I still refill the Werther’s in the regional manager’s waiting room. I haven’t worked there since the rebrand, but the bowl acts relieved when I arrive.
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My fifteenth greatest tragedy? I bought driving gloves that said ‘Ever Onward.’ They start to slide off whenever I try to downshift my bumper car, like they’d rather not be involved.
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My thirty-ninth greatest tragedy? I told the captcha I was human. Now it sends me grids of bicycles at 3 a.m., and I get letters from the Department of Transportation thanking me for my vigilance.
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My twentieth greatest tragedy? I was thanked sarcastically once. Now I say “you’re welcome” to empty rooms, just to stay even.
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My fourteenth greatest tragedy? I live in a lighthouse on land. I have to rent fog machines to justify the light bulb bill.
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My twelfth greatest tragedy? I offered comfort to someone who wasn’t sad. Now they cry around me out of politeness.
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My twenty-third greatest tragedy? I signed for one Chewy box when the Rosens were in Tahoe. Now I log their kibble shipments in a spreadsheet labeled “Joint Timeline.”
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My seventh greatest tragedy? I said goodbye, but we kept walking the same direction. I ducked into a bakery I didn’t need, and now I have a pastry opinion I can’t justify.
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My third greatest tragedy? A weather app told me good morning; I replied “you too.” The forecasts have grown curt, as if it’s moved on.
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My second greatest tragedy? Waving back at a mannequin once was my mistake. She still stares from a winter clearance window like she knows.
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My greatest tragedy? The only robot I'd trust with my heart is the one I would never be allowed to keep. I miss you, Johnny Five.
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