I recently took to buying the Sunday newspaper. I recall pondering, that with so many papers meeting their inglorious fate, someone ought to attempt to salvage at least one of them. It sounds like a monumental mission, though.It might just be a wave of nostalgia for the good old print media, but if that’s the case, a part of it involves reconciling with aging and cherishing old-fashioned values and routines. Whatever the reason, my grandma always instilled in me the importance of committing fully to whatever I do, embracing it wholeheartedly, and striving to uphold the highest standards I set for myself -this is entirely irrelevant to my story, but I wanted to mention it. My granny used to buy me my Karmatron and the Transformers comic books from the corner store every Sunday. So, in a way, it feels like things have come full circle now; perhaps that’s where this newfound habit originates from.

I brewed some coffee and strolled to the corner store in my pajamas to grab my copy of the Sunday edition. “Beautiful,” I thought as I held the extra thick and hefty weekend exemplar between my fingers, bringing it up to my nose to take in its deep, fresh newsprint aroma, still warm from the press.

As I made my way, I envisioned myself walking my girlfriend’s adorable mutt. Though I have neither, every fiber of my being yearns for one or the other, and it felt liberating to pretend. It was a scorching, hazy late morning, and the loud rumble of motorcycles and convertible sports cars—emerging from their winter slumber year after year in the hot season—was already getting on my nerves, and those of my imaginary four-legged friend. I recall muttering a couple of swearwords to myself so loudly that I inadvertently bit the inside of my cheek. Or perhaps I wasn’t muttering but outright swearing and cursing. The elderly woman passing by shot me a disapproving look, reminiscent of the one my kindergarten teacher gave me the time I accidentally punched little Laura on the nose for not letting go of the building block we both had grabbed from the bin simultaneously; I knocked the poor little thing right down onto the floor. In that precise moment, the dog leash and the poop bag dispenser hanging from it, along with my imaginary girlfriend’s imaginary dog, morphed into a weapon; looking like a toy, it was a futuristic handgun. Sweet gleaming chrome, I could see my reflection on its smooth surface. It resembled those depicted in cartoons and sci-fi tales, capable of turning the targeted object into goo.

My daydreaming spiraled out of control, verging on maladaptive. “What was in that coffee to make me soar higher than freaking Walter Mitty on a hot air ballon?” I wondered. Since that question was more rhetorical than anything, I found myself pointing the gun at the noisy vehicles around me and Marvin, as I decided to name my furry companion, in reference to a well-known Martian. With a single pull of the trigger, I made everything vanish. Where there initially was a Ferrari or a Lambo now laid a gray, steamy mound of muck. I can’t begin to describe the immense satisfaction of this whole experience, complete with the ASMR sensation my body relished in, from the resonating blopping sound the shot objects emitted. Before I knew it, I was firing frantically and indiscriminately at pretty much everything and anything on wheels. I might have gone a bit overboard.

To be continued…