The Nonexistent Nerd [Single White Nerd]

The day I ceased to exist stood out only in its unremarkability. I woke up, did fifty jumping jacks, some squats, a few pushups.  I watched some porn on the internet, shook my head in disgusted titillation, and hopped into the shower. I emerged, dried, pulled on some faintly wrinkled khakis and a button down shirt, and drove to work.  I parked my car in the overpriced garage a block from the office. I walked to the office and went up the elevator. Utterly unremarkable. Boring. I slid my key into the office door and unlocked it. Just like I did every morning. I opened the door and walked in. And the lights didn’t come on. The office lights were connected to a motion sensor. The lights would usually click on as soon as someone, anyone, entered the room.  I entered the room and they did not come on. Maybe I hadn’t entered the room emphatically enough. I stood in front of the sensor and jumped up and down. I did a jig. Waved my arms. Nothing, nothing and nothing. Assuming that the sensor had malfunctioned, I finally reach out and turned on the lights. They clicked on bathing the beige room in fluorescent light. Victory. I settled into my chair, clicked on the computer and immersed myself in the day’s work. First I returned a few emails, then reviewed some spreadsheets.  Within minutes, the snafu with the lights had been buried under a flow of information and electronic communication. About half an hour into the day, my co-workers arrived. I absently noted that the lights clicked on just fine for them. “I thought the lights were busted,” I called out as Olivia, a petite slip of a girl who sat in the center of the office less...

Natalie Hall is Hailing the Chief [Fierce Anticipation]

Fiercely Anticipating: Presidents’ Day weekend. It’s here! That glimmer of hope right in the midst of our seasonal affective disorder*! The Federal Holiday that no one remembers! The perfect little blue balls-inducing holiday weekend: too short to merit a vacation, but long enough to keep us from realizing we should stop slaving away for our corporate overlords and open a cooperative beet farm in Oregon! This is a nice one because we don’t have to deal with all the tediousness that marrs our other three-day weekends. I don’t have to be proud of my country, I don’t have to remember anyone, and my facebook feed won’t clog with inspirational misquotes and do-gooder cyber shaming. (Our first President was as boring as he was wooden-toothed, and as such, he is not remembered for his pithy sayings. “Bad seed is a robbery of the worst kind: for your pocket-book not only suffers by it, but your preparations are lost and a season passes away unimproved.” Pull that one out on Monday and see how many likes you get.) There are no parades to block traffic, no fireworks to pretend to care about, no enforced group meat-charring to attend. This is perfect for me, because I hate mandatory fun and I strongly dislike pool parties. As you can probably guess, I have big plans for this weekend. The idea is to drive up to San Francisco, hang out with friends, see Pina in 3-D, and while lingering over artisanal beers, meet a 6 foot tall Indian architect who loves Shakespeare, sandwiches, and casual relationships. What’s going to happen is this: on Friday evening I will don some soft, non-binding sleep wear, open a bottle of wine, and peruse the photo albums of my facebook friends who mysteriously...