The Strangely Normal Instance of the Twelve Missing Socks

A short story, fresh from the second row of the aimlessly extravagant corn field.

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Priscilla Lemonluck could feel a stranger sitting on her face. Its name, Consternation. The usually smooth swath between her black feathery eyebrows was puckery, too tight, and strained; her thick lips — voluntarily distorted to bespeak the emotions she harbored — hung heavy to the left. At the back of her two front teeth is where she rested her tongue, sliding it in and out of the sizable crevice she’d opted not to correct with the suggested four years of braces. It wasn’t the pain she feared (although Cooper Lyons, her best friend and three-houses-down-next-door neighbor, had mentioned more than once after a tightening that it was like having an angry barracuda, a chain-link fence, and a rubber slingshot living in your mouth all at once). Dreadful as all that sounded, Priscilla wouldn’t have minded the gruesome reconstruction of her mouth if what she wanted was to have teeth that looked like everyone else’s. She didn’t want that, though. Not even a little. And so, at the age of nine and three-quarters, Priscilla determined with arbitrary zeal that her teeth were off the table (at the tim she didn’t quite know what that meant, but on enough occasions had heard her father, Judge Lemonluck, use the phrase — this usually accompanied by an austere scowl or impassive hand — to understand it meant strictly and formidably NO) once and for all. These teeth of hers had personality and character — something that would surely be mitigated with reparative orthodontics.

This is neither here nor there, however. Priscilla fancied a real problem: missing socks.

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29 and 11/10th’s

Or perhaps it might be easier to just say . . .

Easier, but not nearly as kind.

Yep, I’m turning 30, people. Watch out.

I don’t know what it is. In my head, I see my birthday going something like this:

Okay, maybe I don’t have a law degree, own a snazzy off-white blazer, or work in an office full of colleague executives, but you get the idea, yes? A birthday should entail exorbitant amounts of doting, the culmination of one’s friends in the same room, compliments in which people specifically bring attention to my lack of crow’s feet and frown lines.¬†And a cake — preferably a rainbow-chip funfetti cake.

But somehow my birthdays usually end up looking more like this:

Party for one?

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