If I Had to Have Sex with an Alien, It Would Be Marcia Cross

If I had to have sex with an alien, it would be Marcia Cross. As aliens go, she's not all that bad. Her eyes are still ludicrously far apart, but at least there are eyelids; her forehead is massive, enclosing a supposedly superior brain, but at least there's hair. True, her nose could pierce a steel plate, but at least the nostrils are symmetrical. From all that I am to understand about the alien abduction experience, probing of some sort seems to always be on the menu. Moreover, this probing often seems to involve one's naughty bits. The experience is widely reported to be traumatic and unpleasant. So, if abducted, I would prefer to have my alien be as becoming as possible.

If I had to have sex with an alien, it would be Marcia Cross.



In my dreams, the most important part always happens on my grandma's front yard. I could be in a classroom, and the chalkboard will just be hovering over the grass with the desks and chairs set up across the lawn. I could finally chase down the shadowy man who has been stalking me, and I will finally overtake him in my grandma's poorly hedged bushes by the porch. My dreams rarely feature, co-star, or even cameo my grandma. Moreover, my dreams rarely take place in or around my grandma's house. My dreams tend to take place at work or at home; I have boring dreams. And so, in my dreams of being at work, I am going through the tasks of my job. I pick up some files. I talk to my boss. I mutter under my breath for her demise. Then, I realize that some important task has been left undone. I realize I'm an hour late for work. I realize I have failed to make an important phone call the night before. As the other foot begins to drop, the backdrop melts away into my grandma's front yard.

Sometimes my dreams know what is significant better than I do. I may be dreaming about an evening out with friends, catching a movie and a bite to eat. That our original movie is sold out and we are forced to select another would seem to me to be the most significant aspect of the dream. But, instead, a length of time walking between the restaurant and the theater crosses my grandma's lawn. I try to remember, "Who was I talking to at that point in the dream? Who was in frame with me? Did I feel anything out of the ordinary?" This experience always leaves me unsettled, frustrated that my psyche keeps secrets from me. What does it know that I don't know? I despise the feeling that I'm being duped, that I am being cut out of the loop. These dreams can ruin my entire day, preoccupying me and making me irritable.

If, in my dreams, it is significant, it happens on my grandma's front yard.



During my inner monologue, the loudest voice of criticism belongs to Lizzy Sampson, a girl I wronged in the eighth grade. She was pretty and popular. And sweet. A social darling without a malicious bone in her body. I hated Lizzy Sampson for her beauty, her social grace. In the eighth grade, Lizzy's parents when on vacation, trusting her alone. Being thirteen, Lizzy decided to host a small party in her parents' absence. Being thirteen, she invited the other popular kids. Being thirteen, she (wisely) opted not to invite me.

Being thirteen, I was devestated and then wrathful. The week leading up to the much tauted party was filled with my careful sifting of completed assignments, secretly removing and destroying Lizzy's homework. The night of the much tauted party, despite the utter absence of drugs, alcohol, sex, even a pathetic and prepubescent game of spin the bottle, I called the police and made a noise complaint. Lizzy's parents returned to a daughter with missing homework, falling grades, and a complaint on public record for holding a racous party without adult supervision. Being thirteen, Lizzy cried and protested. Being thirteen, Lizzy was not believed. At thirteen, Lizzy was sent away to a boarding school.

During my inner monologue, the loudest voice of criticism belongs to Lizzy Sampson.



When I envision my tragic and untimely death, it is always accidental yet resolved. Often, I interrupt some act of violence being committed against my loved ones, such as an armed robbery at a local store or through some random act of mechanical failure that endangers all of our lives. I never sacrifice my life in an act of heroism, jumping in front of a bullet or shoving a child out of the path of a falling piece of steel. Instead, when I envision my tragic and untimely death, it is always a simple matter of being 'in the wrong place at the wrong time.' While keeping my eye on the lead robber, one of the secondary robbers, one that was nervous and unsure about robbing the place at all after a bad omen that morning, panics and shoots me in the gut. Or, while trying to position myself and loved ones out of range from falling bits of buildings, a large and sharp reinforcing bar skewers me through the midsection. Come to think of it, I always die through an injury to the torso - never a head wound.

Although my fatal injury is always accidental, I never succumb to the thralls of mortality, begging not to die or weeping to those around me for help. Instead, my finals moments are always calm and accepting. My loved ones gather around me, and I smile. They always try to apply pressure to my wounds or make me comfortable until an ambulance arrives. I always shake my head gently. "It's alright. It's alright," I tell them. Next comes a barrage of "I have always loved you's" and "Please don't cry's." I always finish this last siloloqy recounting some fond memory of mine involving those around me. They are never telling memories, such as the first day I met my lover or a special family event. These last memories are always small, anonymous incidents, ones that only I would remember especially. This always brings an onsurge of tears from those around me. Then, as I begin to fade, I always end with some single, small regret. "I would have liked to have seen Montana" from The Hunt for the Red Octber comes to mind.

Then, I die. The music swells and tears begin to fall on my body. Those around me don't just cry, they wail. This part is always akin to the cave scene from The English Patient. The moments immediately after my death are always filled with the sort of anguish and sadness that defies description and sound. Open, contorted mouths without sound.

When I envision my tragic and untimely death, it is always accidental yet resolved.