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Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.

WHEN SOMEONE TELLS ME THEY DON'T HAVE A NETFLIX ACCOUNT

WHEN MY BOSS ASKS IF I'M SICK

WHENEVER MY OFFICE PHONE RINGS

WHEN I TRY TO HIT ON SOMEONE

THE MINUTE I GET HOME FROM WORK

WHEN SOMEONE ATTRACTIVE ASKS FOR MY NUMBER

WHEN I REALLY WANT TO MAKE A YELLOW LIGHT

HOW I FEEL ABOUT OVERTIME

WHEN I TRY TO LOOK SEXY WHILE DANCING