Look at this worried bacon:
Do you see him? Isn’t he cute? I traded five dollars for him at Comic Con in Brooklyn a couple months ago. He has brightened my life in so many ways. I am not sure why he is worried but if you click on this sentence, you can see more of him.
You’ve seen him in my room. I know you have. He sits on the ghetto shelf above my bed, the one that I affixed to the wall with a staplegun and the wrong sized carpenter bracket? That one, yeah. The shelf where if you put your cigarettes on it, it falls down? The shelf, I am sorry to inform you, can and will only support the weight of Worried Bacon. His troubles are so heavy.
I don’t mind that you’ve never made mention of him, though I am sure you’ve wanted to. But you’re so quiet that I did not expect you to waste words on a Beleaguered Pork plush toy.
I know I promised I’d never write about you, and I’m not really doing it now, really, if you think about it. I’m only talking about your proximity to my belongings. I was thinking the other day that everything in my room represents a person or a place in my life. No space is wasted, though I know you think I’m a packrat, a clutterbug.
I was looking around, trying to pair you up with something in my room. Something, I was sure, something would symbolize you in an appropriate manner.
The beer stein full of matchbooks from Korean stripclubs? No. They don’t really mean “You.” You just wanted to use them as props for your circa-70s Spy Movie. Throw in the cigarette butts lying on the floor and we have “Scene 2: Abandoned Bedroom in the Throes of Squalor and Memory.”
The bathroom wallpapered with pages torn from a Salvador Dali picture book? No. You’re a much better artist than him, and I feel SO weird saying that, but it’s true. When you draw, you make me cold. Does that make sense?
The antique typewriter? I thought about this for a minute, because you’re writing movies and all, but you don’t use a typewriter and you’re certainly not old.
Maybe the styrofoam cups full of all your spare change, to remember the time when we sat down on the floor with my Battery-Operated-Magical-Spare-Change-Sorter and proceeded to absolutely ignore it, dump all your earnings onto the floor, and sort it by hand? Nah. Representative of time spent with you, but really you’re more well-contained than several separate cups of loose nickels and dimes.
So I settled on the Worried Bacon, because it’s my favorite thing in the room, or at least it’s in my Top 5. And when you’re in my room too, slathering Calamine all over yourself to cure sunburn, or squinting your eyes at me in the harshest of ways, or judging my squalor, or laughing self-consciously at an unfunny joke I just made, or inspecting my ankle for signs of a sprain, or being pissed that I keep trying to cook corndogs for you, so are you.
Are you aware that I cannot stand for you to be uncomfortable, even though you can’t stand for me to try to be helpful? That I am a warrior, a mercenary, an indentured servant put upon this earth to get up while it’s still dark outside and make coffee and ensure that you are covered with a blanket at all times while you sleep? You’re aware that I recognize worry and consume it ruthlessly, right? That I dispose of drama, transform it into a comestible, and do away with it upon sight?
Keep it in mind, loverboy. I am Deadlier Than The Male. Click it and weep. You haven’t got a chance against me and my mental harpoon.