First the basics, it was yellow, his rumored favorite color since he had been able to discern and articulate color names. He was four years old. He loves balloons with the manic passion that is standard issue with kids. It started off as a helium balloon, rare these days given the prohibitive cost of that particular gas. So helium balloons are fun at first because you can carry them around and envy their effortless flight, then as they shrink and wrinkle each day, it’s fun to laugh at their piteous decline, then as they finally cower to the brutal beckon of gravity, it’s fun to try and hit them up in the air again in a taunting fashion, mocking the flight you once were so fond of.

The details get hazy at this point but I can confidently report that on this particular day the balloon was in its twilight, and my son’s fixation on it was approaching an inversely proportionate zenith. He was hitting this mother all over the house at a rate that would test anyone’s patience. You’re just going to have to take my word on that. This is clearly a biased account and my reserves of patience are middling at best but this balloon business had FLAGRANTLY breached the household peace DESPITE repeated warnings.

Bottom line, I had a vision of catching the balloon mid-air and crushing it in my hand, squeezing tight and confidently, wrenching from it a gaspy, terminal pop. And so that is exactly what I did, while he watched in a kind of compelling hybrid of horror and awe. The balloon’s regime was over. A tremor of guilt came over me, sure yes I heard my kid scream but inside I was miles away, maybe like on some kind of island in an oversized hammock getting gently swayed by a tradewind.

Yell indoors noticeably less

Google Blair Underwood to explain role in Men’s Wearhouse commercials

Organize t-shirt drawer, put pit-stained ones on bottom

Throw out old condiments, probably save the one expensive mustard

Stop reading comments on sports articles

Mentor a wayward youth, have him lose his way again many years later, then find salvation by re-reading some of my advice in his journal

Cause a bus driver to say, “Hey, you’re alright, man.” to me

Ride a bike with a pizza in my hands

Write Harlem Globetrotters film treatment

Buy a coat without trying it on

Find a lost dog, spurn the reward

Hand a homeless person a pristinely-wrapped Subway sandwich

Punch Papa John

Think about how insects feel for a second before going apeshit on them

Urinate inside a Foot Locker shoebox without being detected

Really think SUPER hard this time about researching my genealogy before watching a Dual Survival rerun instead

Oh hell yes, there are two prime pieces of sourdough left. I thought all I had was that death-dry whole wheat that I only bought out of guilt. How did these two middle slices make it this long? I can't even believe my luck. This is some kind of sandwich omen. 

I know I def have some turkey dregs in the meat tray, OH SWEET it's not slimy yet! I totally thought it would have a sheen but it's still mostly appetizing. This is unexpected. OK, turks and sourdough. A spicy brown mustard drizzle. Not bad, not bad. A little basic but...

Well, wait now. Are there...YES we have some cukes left! From the fancy salad! I can't even believe it. They're even sliced already. Still got some crunch too. Someone even seeded and peeled these mothers. Let's stack these up. 

Looking like kind of a legitimate sandwich here. I think I need to get a plate at this point. This is a little more formal than I was expecting. Given this new height provided by the salvaged cukes, I can't risk something flopping out the side. 

Since I'm getting a plate, I suppose I can investigate a little more. There is some brick cheese that wouldn't be too hard to slice into little chunks. I bought that recently to try and lure a mouse out of hiding. I mean, a sandwich without cheese is kind of embarrassing, really.

While I'm walking around the kitchen with a little cheese knife, is there something else I should slice up? Should I commit to this red onion I somehow have? Why not? You only live once! Why not really max out this sandwich event with the high-end tang of a fresh onion? I deserve it. The colors would really make it memorable too - the purple burst of the onion with the green flash of the cukes, the bright orange of the cheese clumps. Pretty appetizing! I would prob take a picture if my hands weren't covered in mustard.

OK, close the door. I don't want to bother HR with this. This is strictly a marketing emergency for the time being. Sorry to cut into everyone's lunch, but we don't have a minute to lose on this.

Clonch has pulled together some consumer data on our recent product line of frozen chicken wing party-packs. He has compared our slumping sales figures to that of our main competitors, and broken it down by region and store. What he found is alarming. Clonch, can you advance the...oh, I just click Enter? OK, yeah I wasn't sure if this keyboard was controlling...OK, I see. What he found is that our rank as number 9 Midwestern manusnacturer, number 8 in the sports-style snackegory according to some studies, is in real jeopardy. As the Creative Director, I've been wracking my brain about this all night and have determined there is only one way to right this ship...we need a more exciting way to spell "wings."

AND BOOM, here we go, we've shifted into a spontaneous brainstorming meeting. HOW CAN WE SPELL...This marker is garbage, I need a new marker WHY are the markers never in their little holder...OK, HOW CAN WE GET WINGS TO TAKE FLIGHT? I just made that up right now. I have a few ideas to get the juices flowing:

Wayangz

Weengas

Wyynghz

RIWHD#$%&

That last one is more of a cipher, something to really get consumers to stop and puzzle it out, feel some real intrigue. You know, to get the target demographic of teens at Target to stop in the freezer aisle, pull out their ear buds, and be like "Hold up, what's the deal with these? Hey, mom, check this out!" Ploop, in the cart. OK, seeing some blank faces, maybe it's a little early. We should get some coffee pumping. How about Wayangz? I thought maybe there'd be some implied, but legally defensible, connection to the Wayans brothers. I don't think it's "racist" so much as "racy."

Meredith, you always have good nuggets to throw out. Any wing nuggets? We can't be traditional here, folks. The traditional market is already cornered by your Tysons and your Perdues. We need to reclaim our place here. Are we still the rebel snack lover's go-to brand? The self-styled leper king of medium-to-large sports-themed party buffet foods? I feel like I don't even know anymore.

As I stand here in this damp basement, humbled and not without a modicum of shame, I issue forth a challenge. Though it may seem daunting, and it will involve effort from all of us, I henceforth decree, though we live in the same building, that together, we can successfully ignore each other's presence completely. It may not be a model well represented in many condo associations, but I know, based on numerous occasions where we have displayed extraordinary stubbornness toward one another, that we can, without exception, pretend that everyone else is dead or nonexistent.

You may be saying to yourself, "How?" "How is this possible? I hate everyone else in this building so much, and with such an abnormally aggressive vigor! Though it would represent all of my wildest dreams come to life, how can I pretend that every other resident died in their sleep while I laughed and pranced around my corner unit?" Well, I will not lie to you. It will not be easy. It will not be easy to ignore Miguel's assaulting Norte music blast around midnight, or to not gag instantly when Michelle apparently broils turds for dinner every night. It will not be easy to not scream with rage when Dennis spray paints the concrete walkway white as he clumsily tries to re-finish his kitchen cabinets. And no, it will not be easy to not topple to your death when the Kendall's choose to litter the primary stairwell with oversized children's toys. But persevere we must, for it is in our best interest. Otherwise, someone here will probably murder someone else. None of us want to speak to cops or testify in a trial. Mr. Manesh, I'm looking at you, because you would likely be killed first since your wet, old person coughs rattle the very infrastructure of the building, leading many to have already fantasized about your death in lurid detail while folding laundry in the first floor common area. 

OK! I believe in us. I have personally seen you all do things that are reprehensible. We none of us should be living this close to other humans, and in some cases, allowed to walk the streets freely. However, while we cannot always decide our fate, it is always worth attempting to thwart it. Especially when the new person in 3F is constantly leaving the outer door wide open for anybody to enter. Or when the Cardonza twins are apparently staging a production of Noises Off with all the needless door slamming. 

Assuming we're all on the same page here, let's bang out some action items before adjourning. I'll write them on the boiler room door since everyone else seems to have declared this door a public art project. First, nobody look at anybody else, unless it is sternly. This is key. Ambiguous eye contact can lead to empathy and ruin everything. Next, don't make any sounds when outside your unit but within property lines. Third, any personal belongings left unattended on common area will be immediately destroyed and thrown into the brown Dumpster out back. We're all going to have to chip in on that one. Last, for now anyway, is to strongly consider moving far away from this building. Use the internet to research a different neighborhood or city to live in, one that will miraculously tolerate your disgusting habits.