My body was sore. I had never been so tired in my entire life.

I felt a rush of emotions wash over my body as I laid my eyes on you for the first time. Happiness, joy, disbelief.

Tears began streaming down my face and I couldn't find words to leave my mouth as the doctors handed you to me.

I held your small, fragile, crying body against my chest as tight as I could.

I instantly knew what the definition of "love" was.

Never in my life did I believe in love at first sight, not until I first saw you. You were more than perfect, more than anything I ever could have dreamed of in my wildest dreams.

In that moment, 11:34 am, not one other thing in the world mattered to me besides you.

Anomaly: the rejected prologue

A fractured mind will see it clear:

Places we should not dare to tread;

And creatures that ought ne’er be seen,

Some living still and some long dead.

Places we should not dare to tread

The denizens both pure and ill,

Some living still and some long dead,

With wicked schemes yet to fulfil.

The denizens both pure and ill,

To catch a lost and lonely soul

With wicked schemes yet to fulfil.

Insanity their only goal.

To catch a lost and lonely soul,

To cast a deep, unholy fear,

Insanity their only goal:

A fractured mind will see it clear.

Anomaly: the rejected epilogue

And so, he looks out at the world,

The past forgotten, the future

Unknown yet not unknowable.

He takes his last uncertain breath.

The past forgotten, the future

To be written as he sees fit,

He takes his last uncertain breath

As he sets forth to a new dawn.

To be written as he sees fit:

His life, his eternal passion.

As he sets forth to a new dawn

To embrace again things once lost.

His life, his eternal passion,

His innocence, virginity;

To embrace again things once lost.

And so he looks out at the world.

31

So many people are frightened of computers. I don’t know why.

Computers work in binary, a series of ones and noughts. Admittedly they work fast, processing 7.2 billion calculations in the same time it takes to read this sentence. But every one of those calculations is processed in binary.

Why be scared of something that can’t count to two?

32

My girlfriend dropped hints that she wanted a diamond for her birthday.

I went one better and gave her all 52 cards.

33

World’s worst wordplay: alliterate spoonerisms.

34

My redhead friend is a baker. We call him the Ginger Breadman.

35

My father always taught me to treat others as I wished to be treated.

He forgot to mention doing so would lead to so many sexual harassment charges.

36

I’m not afraid to express that, in my opinion, I suffer from doxophobia.

37

I sometimes worry that I’m too introspective.

38

She walked across the room. Our hands touched. Electricity sparked.

That’s a common problem with cheap carpets.

39

The problem with having above-average intelligence is that, by definition, the majority of people you meet are not as clever. The higher your IQ, the more difficult to find anyone with which you can share a thought-provoking conversation.

I’m so glad I don’t have these problems.

40

The next time I go on holiday, I’m booking my cat into a cattery. I’m no longer trusting her with Schrodinger.

Little Miss Muffet

Sat on her tuffet

Eating her curds and whey.

Along came a spider

To sit down beside her,

And frightened Miss Muffet away.

Miss Muffet came back,

Brought with her a sack,

And pulled out a sharp knife.

Unto the arachnid

The foul things that she did

On an evil course set her life.

Miss Muffet, she found

Her nerves were unwound

But never would she say:

The death of the spider,

It had occupied her

For only a month and a day.

With longing inside,

And her growing pride,

Muffet was led to seek

Another wee creature,

That was sure to feature,

In her growing sadistic streak.

She chose a stray cat

And started with that,

Merciless fun she had.

And finding a lost cur

She stripped it of its fur.

Miss Muffet was turning quite bad.

For more blood she’d yearn,

How quickly she’d learn

To cover her tracks so clear.

And wherever she went

In those ’round her she sent

A shuddering sense of fear.

The ending result,

With her, an adult,

(She knew it would thrill her)

To advance, in good time,

From famed nursery rhyme

To female serial killer.

The last humans in the solar system studied the death of Earth from their vantage point two-hundred-and-thirty miles above Hawaii. Long-range scanners measured the violent shift in tectonics as the planet’s inner core ripped apart. The expected devastation had been predicted as far back as the twentieth century. What the observers had not foreseen was the release of something from the core.

Energy readings and changes in mantle density plotted the escape route – circular at first, as it devoured the perovskite and ferropericlase, then moving up as it ate into the asthenosphere. It left nothing in its wake, the Earth now only an empty sphere.

The scientists knew that anything created within the five-thousand-two-hundred-degree core was nothing short of magical.

Still the anomaly moved outward, absorbing the inner earth. Some feared this was dark energy, that it would not stop at the consumption of the planet but would touch the space station and instantly transform it – and its crew – to nothing. Others posited that upon reaching the surface, whatever irregularity they were witnessing would pop out of existence. Both theories were soon proven wrong.

The first breach was detected on the opposite side of the planet. Within minutes, another hundreds-mile long fissure swallowed the Arctic Ocean. A third took out Antarctica and the fourth opened in the Pacific, north of Hawaii.

From this final break in the Earth’s crust, the onlookers were afforded their first glimpse at the entity. Twelve gigantic antennae, a translucent shade of ultra-violet, pushed forth, stretching miles ahead of the bulk to which they were attached. Its form too big for the opening, the creature pulsed until the remaining skin of the Earth split into myriad pieces.

With a gentle beat of its four wings, the lifeform swooped away from its now-discarded egg.

My bedroom is full of relics.

From house to house, room to room, I've carried pieces of the past into every new stage of my life. To my left, a collection of jewelry and clothing built upon my shifting interests throughout the years. There's a framed puzzle I found at an antique store that depicts a bejeweled maiden lying comfortably between a lion and lionness. To my right, a collection of abstract art pieces from elementary school, and some feathers I'd collected from the grounds of places I've been.

In front of me, a painting my husband has owned for years. My mother thinks it's ugly, but he and I both find it quite appealing. The bed I sit on as I type is an antique from his side of the family. He thinks it's ugly, but my mother and I both find it quite appealing.

There is a comfort in carrying the familiar with us. In the turblence of change, it helps to know that there are some constants, even if they are few.

Such a difficult challenge. Even bypassing the principal characters, there are too many candidates: Salacious B. Crumb, Wedge, Sabine Wren, K-2SO, Malakili (big guy with a big heart).

But if you held a blaster to my head and made me choose, I would opt for the Millenium Falcon. Coolest vehicle in cinematic history, but not technically a character.

So if I’m going to break the rules and put forward a non-character, I’m going to take inspiration from D_Reaper and Uschibear and vote for the sound of Star Wars. Adding to their comments about Artoo’s robo scream and John Williams’ score, I present:

I can no longer hear the 20th Century Fox fanfare without feeling my excitement building.

The silence of ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…’ before the Star Wars title thunders onto the screen to the rousing der der, duh-duh-duh der der, duh-duh-duh der der, duh-duh-duh der.

The electric buzz of a lightsabre coming to life; and the sharp crackle as it defends a Sith’s sweeping thrust.

The Mos Eisley cantina music. (Did you hear it in Paul?)

The animalistic scream of a TIE fighter flying past.

‘Utini!’

R2D2 – just about everything the beloved little droid utters. (But I have heard he is the most foul-mouthed character ever, hence every word is bleeped out.)

And finally, the most heartrending sound I have ever heard:

As Han is lowered into the carbon-freezing chamber on Bespin Cloud City, the anguished cry Chewbecca releases. Breaks my heart.

I learned to fly a number of years ago, not in an airplane, but actual self-sustained human flight. So my habit is flying. This is done by sheer force of will.

I discovered this many years ago as a boy, one who loved to run on long legs yet gifted with a stubborn curiosity. It was on a long distance run that I learned how to fly. Now people think human flight is some ridiculous act of pointing your hands like Superman and shouting, “up up and away!” but it’s much simpler than that. The secret is this: as you run you simply decide that once you push off, your feet will not touch the ground; you're simply refusing gravity. I call it flying by force of will (or FFOW).

And before some scientist starts reminding me about the laws of physics, there’s no magic involved in terms of FFOW, you still have to push yourself. Imagine riding a frictionless invisible skateboard; you run to get momentum and then glide, and to make turns you need to drag a foot and lean. It's easy to master.

I'm kind of surprised more people haven't figured this out. It's a habit that I enjoy.

Habitual, a ritual. I think it would be easier to say 'no' if I practiced, practice makes perfect, perfect. I stare at the idea of perfection in daily admiration, I yearn and long to achieve this unachievable ideal. To be beyond criticism, beyond judgment—these are meant for beings much greater than I. No human is perfect, no human can be perfect. It's written in the rulebook, and I've always been a strong advocate for following the rules.

What do I hope to gain by saying yes? Yes, yes, yes to everything, except I can't do everything, no one can. I do my best to avoid conflict, to dodge that bitter discomfort of frustration, that sharp jab of anger, that seeping slime of disappointment. I don't want to let people down, so I say yes.

I wouldn't recognize myself without others. I've heard that our soul is what remains in our identity after we subtract external influences, but I can't say I agree. My soul, if it exists, is buried somewhere inside of me, underneath a pile of unopened cards from acquaintances and long-forgotten friends. I am the sum of everyone I've ever met, for better or for worse. Maybe my soul is the mathematician solving the equation of my identity? No, mathematicians are far too busy to deal with addition and subtraction, and my identity is far from calculus, linear algebra, differential geometry, or any other fancy combination of academic-sounding words.

That is to say, I say yes. I say yes because I am grateful to others for giving me the gift of myself—no, that can't be right, can it? Can it?

I don't say no. It's a habit, this avoidance. It's a habit.

Can I reasonably blame this habit on anxiety, or do I need to assume some deeper level of responsibility? That's a joke, by the way—of course I assume responsibility, of course I know this habit is unhealthy. It's a joke, but not a very funny one. It's a joke, but I'm not laughing. I know I should say no, but it's easier said than done; isn't everything?

I tell myself I should break this habit, but the truth is, I'm not sure that I even want to. This habit, this perpetual state of agreeableness, is not without its benefits. I hate interpersonal conflict far more than compromising on my desires. I hate frustration and anger directed toward me far more than acquiescing, than agreeing.

I am not selfless. I have a self, and that self is entirely dependent on others. I know that's not healthy, I know, I know. If knowledge really were power, I'd be a king, a god, but since power is power, I sit alone atop my empty throne of introspection. I know my people-pleasing tendencies—'tendencies,' what a nice and euphemistic way to put it!—aren't healthy, I know. Is this a habit or an addiction? I don't think the two are mutually exclusive.

Theoretically, I could say no. I know how to produce the proper sounds, I know how to insert the word in proper contexts, I know how to use it in a grammatically correct manner. But, like all those academic theorists, my knowledge stays within the confines of my mind, my ivory tower, except I don't like ivory and I'm vaguely afraid of heights.

It's habitual, a ritual, saying yes, not saying no. I've gotten better at standing up for myself over the years—no, really, I have, I have, I've made progress, some progress, not enough progress, not enough. Not enough. But some. And isn't that better than none? My legs are quite long, but these steps I take toward self-acceptance and self-compassion are so small. They're almost insignificant, but not quite, because isn't any progress in a positive direction enough to be significant? Things are better than they were, and isn't that something worth celebrating? As long as we don't allow ourselves to become satisfied with less than we deserve, as human beings, then I should like to think I'm permitted to celebrate my slow progress in the direction of jubilant autonomy.

Is that alright?

A writer, let’s say his name’s Rick,

Tried to craft a new limerick.

He started off fine,

He understood rhyme,

But lost it at the end, not knowing how to end the poem and making it drag on too long, completely ruining the meter and the pace and possibly even ruining the entire challenge, the d!ck.

The poem above needs more care.

To submit it, how did I dare?

Truly ’twas awful,

Maybe unlawful,

I beg forgiveness, Uschibear.

My sentence hangs from the rafter;

There I’ll remain hereafter.

To me please be kind,

And may I remind:

The best medicine is laughter.