Dear Creepy-Ass Personal Trainer at My Gym

Dear Creepy-Ass Personal Trainer at My Gym,

Hi. Wow, this is awkward.

Okay, so I get it that you're in better shape than I am. I really, really, really get it. Your size XXS T-shirt looks fantastic (wow your nipples are big). You have a very square, tough-guy jaw. I guess, if I wasn't such a lazy bastard, and if I didn't like food so much...I'd want to be just like you.

BUT--I kinda want you to leave me the fuck alone.

I know, I know...I get a free session once a month. I realize that I'm paying for this service, but I want you to stay the hell away from me "bro." See, I got two rules: I don't trust people that are taller than me AND I don't trust people who have necks wider than their heads.

When you came up to me, while I was on the elliptical and started talking to me about my shorts...yeah, that freaked me the fuck out. I kinda wanted to punch you and then run away.

So, no. I don't want my free session this month or next month. That whole "don't call me, I'll call you" thing? Yeah. Just keep waiting for that call bro.

Sincerely,

Jason

Pencil Mole

I’m sure you’ve heard of a “pencil mustache,” but have you ever heard of a “pencil mole”? There are some things you just can’t take back. Life isn’t done in pencil; it’s done in pen—un-erasable. A suntan, like the one I just got in Hawaii, fades over time…disappearing like swirling water down the tub drain.

Tattoos. I’ve never wanted a tattoo. Tattoos are permanent, like pen. You can’t erase pen, unless you get those cheap “erasable pens” that leave those smeary ripped pages at the bottom of your backpack.

A beanbag chair is neither made of beans, nor is it a real chair. It’s more like a Styrofoam pillow. My sister had a pink one. I remember bashing her over the head with it, repeatedly. She’s linked to me forever, like a pen mark. This is not something that you can see, but it exists…it is there. Just like my “pencil mole.”

How can I explain it? One day I had smooth white skin, and now I don’t. I guess that’s how I can explain it.

I was sitting in the beanbag chair. Amber was there. We were roughhousing because that’s what we did. It wasn’t a pen—it was a pencil. I heard it snap under my skin before I felt the pain. It had been lying near the swollen pink “chair.” There was bubbling blood, red and viscous. A warm streak of magic marker red.

I thought the mark would fade. I thought it wasn’t permanent—after all, it’s only pencil. But as the days drifted by I came to see—came to realize—that my new mole wasn’t going anywhere. So there it sits. It almost looks like a regular mole. But it’s not.

A pale, lead-colored dot on my left foot, my angry big toe. No amount of scrubbing will make it go away. And I guess, that’s okay.