H

e’ll be born in March. March is undoubtedly 
the best month for him to be born, because he 
can still be included in the elementary school 

calendar of class birthdays, he’ll share an astrological 
sign with Kurt Cobain and he’ll be mentioned in the 
same breath as both a lion and a lamb.

His ears will be of equal size, rather than uneven 

and with a single, pointed side. This will help with 
his insecurity, but mostly avoid the cognitive disso-
nance of, as a Jew, being asked incessantly if he knows 
Santa Claus. Because, yes, a pointed ear must mean 
he is an elf. And OK, sure, he’ll tell Santa you want a 
Nintendo DS.

His voice will drop early, so he won’t 

sound like Timmy Turner while the 
rest of his friends sound somewhere 
between Thom Yorke and Ghost-
face Killah. He won’t be asked 
tirelessly where his Fairly Odd-
parents are, or his pink hat, 
or his pink shirt. He doesn’t 
even like pink.

He’ll decide that if he 

really isn’t into this girl 
in his math class, he 
really shouldn’t date 
this girl in his math 
class. 
Screw 
the 

homecoming 
dance 

and its 1950s need 
for fertile couplets. 
This will allow him 
to avoid the uncom-
fortable 
hand-hold-

ing 
and 
awkward 

teeth kissing in the 
basement of her par-
ents’ home. And then 
he won’t have to break 
up with her in the hall-
way before math class. 
Because then she will cry 
over integral functions and 
her friends will, rightly, hate 
him.

He’ll turn off the volume 

on his computer the first time 
he visits the silent library. Or else 
Future’s “Freak Hoe” will play with 
full vigor thanks to an accidental slip 
of the hand, to his personal horror and 
the room’s collective confusion as to why this 
slight white kid is listening to Future.

He’ll always manage his time and he’ll never be 

late. He’ll know that if class starts at 9 a.m., he should 
not exit the shower at 9:15 a.m. Or 9:30. Or 9:45.

He won’t forget to text his friends for two, three 

months; OK, maybe it was longer. Because he does 
actually care about them — and how in the hell is he 
going to explain the reasons he couldn’t remember? 
Because he really should have remembered, instead 
of being too preoccupied by the way he just said “Hey, 
what’s up?” on the street, or whether this or that per-
son actually likes him or is just pretending, or if he 
shouldn’t have said that thing that he said last Friday, 
or how he ended up in the middle of an intersection 

with his face against a Ford Taurus while thinking 
about it all. And so he will never forget to text his 
friends. And they won’t get upset at him for failing to 
do so, thinking he has better things to do, like run into 
a Ford Taurus.

He’ll decide that any message sent after 2:30 a.m. 

will inevitably lead to regret, in one of its billion jaded 
forms. He will refrain from them altogether.

He’ll be direct. He won’t drag his I-Mean-I-Guess-

We’re-Dating along for a month without contact 
because he’s too afraid to tell her that he wants to end 
it and simply hopes that she will come to the under-
standing on her own, without confrontation. He 
won’t have a tequila-driven argument with her on her 
birthday, denying said strategy, saying “Oh, I was just 
busy.” Because that’s shitty. And he knows it.

He’ll be outgoing at parties. He won’t feel so awk-

ward that he resorts to rereading the most useless 
corners and memes on his small screen until the 

words and the pictures no longer make sense. He 
won’t stand around, assuming it’s the world’s job to 
make him friends, not his own. He won’t then walk 
out unannounced, so everyone thinks he died or, 
worse, threw up in someone’s bathroom. 

He won’t like boys. Like boys in the way he thought 

— he was told — he should only like girls. It will be 
clearer, simple, easy: perfect. He can avoid having to, 
when the subject is reached, laugh nervously and say 
something inconsequential about last Saturday or the 
weather. He can just smile when an ex tells him her 
greatest fear is dating a boy who “turns.” He won’t sit 
on the floor of the shower for hours, holding his head 
because he thinks this is a sentence for solitude for 

the rest of his life — that wastes water. He won’t 

be afraid everyone would think, for God knows 

why, him more Chér than Cuban Linx.

***

He’ll be born in June. June is 
undoubtedly the best month for him 

to be born, for summer is his favor-
ite season anyway, he’ll share an 
astrological sign with Tupac and 
he’ll be mentioned in the same 
breath as Jeeps and the sand.

He won’t wish his ears were 

smaller and rounded because 
they’re different, which is 
good. He’ll know his voice will 
eventually drop and he won’t 
be Timmy Turner forever. 
He’ll see the first girl he royally 
screwed over is with someone 
better. And she’s happy. And so 
is the second. And the others, 
he guesses. And he’ll figure out 
how to turn off the sound on his 
computer and he’ll try his best 
to be punctual and he’ll try even 
harder to remember the people 

who care about him and he prob-

ably won’t stop sending texts after 

2:30 a.m. but damn will he try, and he’ll 

work on introducing himself and asking 

people’s names and remembering people’s 

names and remembering the things they tell 

him, and he won’t fucking wish he wasn’t bent 

because there’s so much other shit that he could 

be worried about and he might be alone forever and 

live with a husky in the mountains of Colorado, but 
he also might not and it might not be what he always 
thought it would be or what he always wanted it to be, 
but he’s getting used to it and he just needs some time 
and damn he can even marry and maybe not even be 
hated and maybe just fucking maybe even be happy. 

And so he won’t care if everyone thinks him more 

Chér than Cuban Linx.

And he wouldn’t change a thing.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016 // The Statement 
7B

by Matt Gallatin, Daily Arts Writer

ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA

A World Rosier Than Mine

