One: I wonder if you know what it’s like to be a bear.

Two: I too know a thing or two about opera glasses and the way they distort reality.

Three: I see that you’ve been wearing your mother’s shoes. Honey, it’s okay to wear them around the house, but if you get those heels caught in the walkway outside, they’ll snap, and your mother will Chu you out.

Four: I forego my morning meal in the hope of losing that last four pounds of who I used to be so the world can see me as I really am.

Five: I’m alive with anticipation of your new release. I’m sure this time you’ll get picked up by a major label. Are you sure you don’t want me to call my friend, the one who sells jingles?

Six is the only number less appreciated than four, except in China, where four is poorly regarded.

Seven: I remember my seventh birthday party. I had a stomach virus but wouldn’t let that stop me from eating cake and ice cream until I puked. Of course, even without a stomach virus, I probably would have eaten ’til I puked.

Eight is the number of times I’ve spent more than $100 on dinner for one. Wouldn’t it have been more fun to spend that same amount of dinner for two?  Hola, chica! La mujer de mis sueños, where the hell are you?

Nine kinds of regret fill me, but I pull gently on each one until they all come out, then I fold them into neat packets, douse them in kerosene, and light them on fire