The alarm clock sounded boldly, with no apparent consideration for the abrupt way it woke up the man in bed. The “eee-eee-eee” echoed and rebounded around the room for nearly half a minute before he grew irritated enough to unceremoniously sling his arm through the air in a wide arc that ended in a vicious slap on top of the clock. 5:40 A.M. The thin sheet covering his body felt slightly damp because of the swamp cooler in the opposite room. The ceiling fan had made the sheet cool, but he welcomed and relished the dampness because he knew that the heat of the day would be unrelentingly hot and mouth-parchingly dry.

He stared at the ceiling for a while before the warm smell and the burping sound of coffee percolating beguiled him out of bed.

He plodded down the hall in his t-shirt, boxers, and socks, his feet thump-thumping on the old wooden floor. When he entered the kitchen the image of his grandmother greeted him. She stood in her faded, flowery nightgown in front of an ancient gas stove, hunched over a cast iron frying pan that held several biscuits sizzling happily in grease. He walked over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Mornin’ Mam-maw.”

“Mornin’” she replied. “Eggs, bacon, and coffee are on the table. The biscuits got a minute yet. I’ll bring’em to you.”

“Thanks, Mam-maw.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He sat down and began eating. After a few minutes Mam-maw walked over with a small plate of golden brown, pan-fried biscuits. Crispy on the outside but moist and pillowy on the inside. She sprinkled a pinch of granulated sugar on the top of the biscuits, and then she sat them down on the table in front of his plate. She finally sat down herself and began sipping her coffee.

“What time did you get in last night, Mitch?”

He answered in-between bites, “Midnight. I got in, called Samantha, and then went to sleep. I was pretty tired. I hit quite a bit of traffic coming up through Austin…biscuits are good.”

“You know you coulda come up later. You didn’t have to rush.”

Mitch had a mouthful of food, but he still tried to talk, “Dunno. I talked to Danny this week. He said the fields were ready, and I didn’t think it would be smart to wait. If Pap-paw has to run loads to Houston that leaves you, Danny, Ramiero, and Andrew in the fields. You need me.”

“We woulda been fine till Monday” she said. “And don’t talk with your mouth full. We managed for years and years before you and Danny were even thought of, you know.”

“Well I’m here now, so it doesn’t matter.” He took a bite out of a biscuit. “Hey, where’s Danny anyway?”

“Outside. He ate before you got up. Your grandfather seems convinced that someone has been stealing oil outta the shop again. Daniel’s puttin’ locks on the cabinets, but they should be ‘bout done. They better be.” She glanced at the clock that hung above the kitchen table. “We need to get to work. Longer we wait the hotter it’ll be.”

Mitch crammed one last biscuit into his mouth and stood up. “Pap-paw always thinks someone is stealing his stuff. No one wants his old junk.” He said as much to himself as to his grandmother. He carried his plate to the sink.

“I know that. Daniel knows it, too. He uses the stuff hisself, and then he forgets.”

As Mitch rinsed his plate, he said, “You and Danny better keep a set of keys. Pap-paw will lose’em, and then no one will get any oil.”

“One step ahead of you.” Mam-maw put her coffee cup in the sink, looked at her watch, and said, “Go tell Daniel to quit messin’ with them cabinets. Ramiero and Andrew probably waitin’ out at the field.”

Mitch quickly changed into his work clothes and walked outside. The rising sun, which sat low and large in the east, already felt hot, but Mitch knew that it would be exponentially hotter by noon. Especially in the fields. He glanced over at the pecan tree where the big thermometer had hung for as long as he could remember. The “Jupe Mills” name emblazoned on the side had faded so badly Mitch could barely make it out, and the pecan tree had lapped over the top as if the tree was slowly eating it. But it still worked just fine. Eighty-seven degrees. Damn, he thought. It was only 6:30.

Mitch walked around the house to the big metal shop our back. He heard his grandfather and brother before he saw them.

“Dammnit, Bubba, I know how many cases of Castrol was in there!” Mitch thought it appropriate that his grandfather had started complaining well before they got to the fields. Set the mood for the rest of the day.

Danny walked into the shop where his brother and grandfather argued. His grandfather’s back faced him. “All right, Pap-paw,” Danny muttered. He was doing a poor job and hiding his irritation.  “No one’s going to get into them cabinets now. Not unless they got a crowbar.” Danny looked up at Mitch and winked. Their grandfather had yet to notice Mitch.
“Sons-a-bitches damn sure better not. I’ll bet it’s one of Ramiero’s friends. He’s a good boy, but those kids he brings around are double-trouble.”

Danny started to speak, but Mitch beat him to it, “Pap-paw, if those ‘kids’ are the same ones that Ramiero has had around him since I was a teenager,” his grandfather spun around at the sound of Mitch’s voice, “they’re his cousins. The only reason you think they’re ‘trouble’ is because they don’t speak English very well, and you’re too racist to learn Spanish.”

When Pap-paw noticed Mitch his features softened and a smile played on his lips. “Well hell, boy, you teach English, and I think you’re more trouble than them kids are.” Pap-paw chuckled, Danny grinned, and Mitch hugged each one in turn.

After Mitch hugged Danny he said, “Glad you’re home.”

Mitch smiled at his brother. “Yeah…me too.”

Pap-paw slapped Mitch on the shoulder. “Grab the water cooler, boys. Bubba, go see if your Mam-maw needs any help. Let’s get started.” Mitch couldn’t decide if he was Bubba this time or if it was his brother. His grandfather liked to call any male under 40 “Bubba,” which could be confusing. Danny turned for the house, which answered his question.

As soon as they got everything loaded, Mam-maw and Pap-paw got into the cab of the dented, black Ford pickup, and Mitch and Danny hopped in the back. It took them ten minutes of driving on a dusty gravel road to arrive at the field, where Ramiero and Andrew were waiting under a shade tree, and they spent the majority of the day in the hot, Texas heat picking watermelons.

Mitch loved how the deeply green vines snaked down the rows of the field. Brightly golden flowers, the precursors to future melons, dotted the tops of the vines, and every few feet or so, rested a full-sized watermelon. Some melons hid under the vines as if they didn’t have the courage to face the world. Thanks to the shade, these melons took on a dark, green color that reminded Mitch of a rain forest. Others laid out in the open, directly on top of the vines, as if to openly defy the power of the sun. For their hubris, the sun bleached the tops of these melons to a whitish-yellowy hue.

When the sun had risen all the way up, it heated the sand so hot they could feel it through the bottoms of their shoes. The sand may have looked finer than powdered sugar, but it had the color of a rich honey and the abrasiveness of table salt. When they were kids, Danny and Mitch would wear flip-flops to pick melons, and Pap-paw would let them hold on to the bumper of the pickup as he drove and they “ skied” down the rows of melons.

Mam-maw would walk down the row of vines inspecting the melons. When she found one that looked ripe, she would brush it off and give it a good thumping. If it sounded hollow enough, she would cut it off the vine with a rusty old picket knife. A bad back, ruined by years of picking, prevented her from doing anything more, but Ramiero was right behind her to pick up the melon and throw it up to Danny or Pap-paw in the bed of the pick-up. Mitch worked the row on the opposite side of the truck, pretty much doing the same as Mam-maw. The only difference was that he was strong enough to pick and throw his own melons. Danny and Pap-paw would stack the melons in the bed of the pickup truck, and Andrew would steer the truck down the rows. Andrew really didn’t have much to do except match the pace of Mam-maw, which was actually slower than the truck’s speed when it idled.

When they were younger, Mitch and Danny would take turns pickin’ and stackin’, but they eventually figured out that Danny enjoyed stackin’ a lot more than pickin’. He stacked more solidly than Mitch, and plus, it gave him more time to rile up his Pap-paw, which Danny seemed to identify as a viable hobby. Danny would systematically annoy and pester him until Mitch would hear Pap-paw irritatedly yell in his gruff voice, “Goddamn it boy, stop talkin’ to me and get to stackin’, or Bubba’s gonna find hisself with one less stacker in the back of this truck!” Mitch would giggle under his breath, anything louder risked redirecting his grandfather’s rage, and Danny would let up for a while. And then he’d start in again.

If they needed a snack, Mam-maw would use her rusty pocket knife to cut open a couple of culls. The knife didn’t even need to be sharp because the melons were usually so ripe and bursting with juicy meat that they practically burst open and split in two at the first stab. They would sit under a shade tree and snack until their hands and face were all sticky, and Pap-paw would inevitably start complaining that they were wasting the day.

They would quit picking when the stack of watermelons in the back of the truck reached the top of the cab, which usually occurred at 1 or 2 in the afternoon. They would go home with a truck full of melons, fix a late lunch, and set up the produce stand and begin selling the morning’s load.

Thus the summer passed with very little deviation. At night, Mitch would call or Skype Samantha, whom he missed dearly. Then he would eat dinner with Mam-maw and Danny. If Pap-paw hadn’t driven to the Houston market, he would join them. After dinner, Mitch and Danny would go out on the porch and drink beer and talk about nothing late into the night, until the mosquitoes finally drained them into submission. Or until Mam-maw yelled at them to go to bed. Whichever came first.

Before he knew it the season ended, and the responsibilities of life forced Mitch to head back to his job. He packed his duffel bag and loaded it into the car.

Mitch said good-bye to his grandparents. Mam-maw had packed him a lunch. Chicken salad sandwich and a zip-lock baggie of bright red melon.

Danny said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

As they walked outside, Danny said, “Mitch, I’m glad you came up. It always helps. And we’re glad to see you…I’m glad to see you. But you know you don’t have to do this every summer, right? I mean,  I know you don’t teach during the summer semesters, but I also know that Sam misses you.”

“Yeah…I know I don’t have to. Sam understands.” Mitch could tell by his face that his brother didn’t understand at all, but he hugged his brother anyway, and then got into his car. He put the key in the ignition, but stopped before he turned it. He felt as if he owed Danny a deeper explanation, so he rolled down his window and said, “Hey, Danny do you remember Wordsworth’s poem “The World Is Too Much With Us?” Mitch asked.

“Uh…” Danny shook his head side to side. “Nope. Totally slept through Brit Lit.”

“Well the beginning is:

‘The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

And it goes on like that, lamenting the loss of Nature, which, ultimately, is our loss of humanity. I guess it’s…well, we were born here, man. No matter where I am I can smell the green smell of the melon vines and feel the hot sand. But the longer I’m away, the more those memories fade, and I begin to wonder if they’re still real. I love teaching, but here…here, I don’t feel like some little part of me fades away with time. I feel part of something. I feel like this nature is mine. Know what I mean?”

Danny was silent for a moment. “Mitch, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I majored in Ag., remember? I’m just glad to see you when I do.”

Mitch chuckled. “Yeah. See you at Thanksgiving.”

Danny smiled. “’K. Say ‘hi’ to Sam for me.”

Mitch backed out of the driveway, onto the gravel road, and headed away from the farm.

Make sure you’ve read parts I, II, & III.

Thankfully, he wasn’t nearly as aggressive as last time, but he did look exhausted. Or worn out. I wasn’t sure what was different, but he definitely lacked the intensity of the last visit.

“You’ve been following my advice pretty well,” he said.

I had to admit, my life was proceeding quite well. My lack of friends concerned me a bit, and the utter lack of experience with females really concerned me, which I made sure to tell the other me.

“I know. Truthfully, it is getting a bit lonely. There should be plenty of time for that sort of thing when I…uh, when you graduate and are in the workforce.”

Whoa. He hadn’t graduated? At twenty-five? What the fuck had he been doing with our life? And for that matter, why did he look so tired and gaunt? Had he stopped working out?

He seemed irritated with my tone. I didn’t care. I pressed him for answers. “Look, I’ve been working. I’ve been working a lot.”

I didn’t understand. He should have been nearing graduation, or have already graduated law school. I knew there was no way the university had denied his admission.

“I did get in, but I received the acceptance just this year.”

I felt anger boiling up inside me. I resisted the urge to get in his face or to push him. I tried to calm myself, and through clenched teeth, I asked him why he’d been fucking around. He should have been much further academically and professionally. What the hell was I working so hard for if he was just gonna fuck around?

“Good God, calm down. I never realized I have such a short fuse. After I graduated undergrad I applied to law school and received admittance. Obviously. So I took a meeting with the dean of the law school and he expressed his disappointment that I hadn’t already done some intern work in my undergraduate years, so I decided to take a year off and work. You should think about some internships.”

I felt like he was trying to change the subject, and I didn’t think interning explained why he was twenty-five and just starting law school. I was still livid.

“After a year of working in Washington and interning for a law firm…”

Washington was good.

“I met a girl who was a journalist…

Oh, goddamnit. A girl. I fucking knew it. I stood up.

“and was investigating stories in Congress…whoa! Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing! Get outta my face!”

I wanted to tear his head off his shoulders. I reached out to grab him, but before I could get my fingers on his shirt, he checked my grab at my elbow. He may have looked tired, but he moved pretty fast. Just as fast as me.

“What the fuck!?! Will you sit down and listen to me?”

I mentally flipped a coin. He won. I sat down to listen.

“Look, I don’t want to lie to you. I met a woman in D.C., and I fell madly in love. It was extremely intense and extraordinarily confusing.” He paused and rubbed his head as if he couldn’t decide how much to tell me.  “She was wonderful…really…just a spectacular person. Breaking up with her was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but as this meeting loomed closer and closer, I knew I had to put our career first.” He looked like he might cry. His face made me nauseous.

“I broke up with her for you. And for me. For both of us.”

I calmed down a bit. He may have fucked up, but I knew I didn’t have to make his same mistakes. I told him it seemed as if school would last forever for me, too. I wanted to find love as well, but I hadn’t come this far to crack up right before the finish line.

He sat on the bed next to me. “Yeah. I know what you mean. But I’m nearly done, I guess. And I’m sure hell not applying for any more education after law school. After I get a job I’ll make room for a woman.”

I silently nodded my head in agreement.

We sat on the bed in silence for a while, and then he seemed to come to some kind of internal conclusion. He patted me on the leg and told me happy birthday.

I told him happy birthday as well. He said “See you in five,” smiled at me warily, and then he left.

I followed his advice and spoke with the dean at the law school. He thought it was a fine idea for me to seek out an internship, and he gave me the names of several organizations and law firms actively seeking interns. Many of the names on the dean’s list matched the ones I already planned to contact. I applied for several, all in Washington D.C. Two accepted, and I chose the one that had the highest number of billable hours each quarter.

The move to D.C. was uneventful, as was the internship. I had never really held a job before, and not because I eschew hard work, but mainly because it would have interfered with my studies. I found the monotony to be extremely boring and comforting at the same time. Boring because the internship never truly stimulated me intellectually, and yet comforting for the exact same reason. I could allow myself to just coast, an action which was usually verboten.

And then one lazy afternoon, while I sat in a D. C. bar nursing a scotch and tearing apart an article on tort reform, I met the woman with whom the future me had fallen in love.

She came in with two other people, one male and one female. They sat at the bar, and they began to discuss a story they were investigating for a major newspaper. I don’t remember the story. I don’t remember the details of their investigation. I’m actually surprised I remembered the genders of her two companions.

But I do remember her hair. Vividly, in fact. A lovely brown. Almost honey-like. It fell over her shoulders and moved about her profile like curtains wafting in the wind. I remember her dress. It was straight and black. And she had on black flat shoes. No heels. But she had wonderful calves. Muscled and lean. I was sure she was a runner like me. I imagined she was highly practical. The outfit surely was. Pure business, no frills. A direct, honest person. That appealed to me quite highly.

For the most part I only saw her back because they were sitting at the bar facing away from me, but for roughly twelve seconds, as he walked towards the bathroom, I saw her face.

And I will never, ever, forget it. A glimpse of beauty. Fleeting and life-altering.

Scene after scene played in my head. Scenario after scenario. I could ask her about her story. Tell her about my internship. Point out that I, too, drank scotch. Strike up a conversation. Engage her. Make her laugh. Smile. Anything, anything just to talk to her. I knew she’d be interested. I knew she’d like me. I knew these things because she’d already fallen in love with me once before.

I frantically tried to decide what to do. How to introduce myself.

In the end, I left before she returned from the bathroom. I never even found out her name.

I finished up my internship and returned back the university to complete my undergraduate degree. I applied to and was accepted into my first choice law school.

I read like a man possessed during law school. I dropped all my physical activities, except running. And even then I only allowed myself an hour each morning. While my classmates would decompress at local bars on the weekends, I would hole up in the library, intent on achieving the highest marks in the class. I excelled in Civil and Criminal Procedures and loved the seminars on Tort. The only area where I felt weak was in Property, so I made sure I studied in that area as much as I could.

By the end of my third quarter I was physically and mentally exhausted. I slept only two to three hours a night, and my diet had devolved into whatever I could eat in the library or on the way to classes. I began to get headaches for the first time in my life. When I consulted a doctor he gave me a prescription to help the tension headaches, but most times the meds were only partially helpful at best. I was so out of it I almost forgot my birthday when it rolled around. Luckily, my PDA reminded me of it the day before.
I woke up early, found my notes of my last visit, and proceeded to visit my twenty-year old self. I made sure to reemphasize the necessity of staying away from women. When I got back, I returned my notes to their file folder and sat on my bed to wait and eventually receive whatever advice my thirty-year old self could provide.

 

I waited all day. I waited into the night. I waited all week. I never left the apartment. I waited long after my birthday had come and gone. I’ve been waiting for two weeks in this two room hole of a domicile, and the thirty year old me has yet to show up.

This epistle to nowhere hasn’t helped me sort out things the way I thought it would. In fact, the opposite has happened, so I’ll just sit here and wait for the other me to appear. History tells me that he’ll show up. Either that, or I’ll eventually catch up to his fate. I’m gonna wait in this room and find out which one happens first.

As I sit here typing, the one thought that stings like a splinter my mind is that in twenty-five years, twenty-five lonely years, I only allowed myself one kiss.

Just one kiss.

Make sure you read Part I and II first.

I couldn’t believe the size of the older me. He only stood about four inches taller, but his body looked huge. I just stared. I finally asked if him if he would take off his shirt, and with a sigh, he did.

I ran my fingers over his chest. I couldn’t believe I would eventually have his body. I asked him how he got so ripped. He explained that I needed to start working out with weights every other day and begin running the days that I didn’t lift. I said that sounded like a lot of work.

“I don’t care how much work it is. Don’t be such a lazy shit. And don’t quit Karate either because when you get to college you join their karate club. You’ll win all kinds of medals in tournaments, which looks great on our C.V. Stay in shape, and try not to fuck up our body.”

I asked him if all the exercising would interfere with my studies.

“No, not as long as you realize that you won’t really be able to do any extra curricular activities in high school.”

I didn’t like that idea. I told him I wanted to be on the year book staff and on the student council. Loads of hot girls participated in both, but I didn’t tell him that.

“I don’t care. Do both if you want. I didn’t, but if you want to join, I’m not against the idea. But let’s get one thing clear: make sure you’re joining for the experience and not any other reason. I don’t want you participating just because you like some  fucking girl.”

He was good.

“Let me tell you something. the only thing girls do is hold you back. When I was in high school, I went steady with a girl for two years.”

I asked him if he had sex with her.

He sighed and seemed annoyed. “Yeah, I did, and that was the problem. Look, I fell in love with this girl and spend a lot of time with her.”

I thought that sounded cool. I told him so.

“No it’s not cool. Because I eventually had to break up with her to go to college, which was hard enough, but then I found out that while I had been wasting my time with a girl every day after high school, I could have been getting my basics out of the way at a community college. Had I done that, by the time I entered the university I would have been way ahead of the curve.”

He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he looked back at me. “If it hadn’t been for that bitch I coulda graduated from undergrad in half the time.”

I didn’t like where this was going. This guy scared me a little bit.

“Look, don’t test me on this.” He pointed at my face. I knew I shouldn’t be afraid of myself, but I kinda was. “Just go on a couple dates with one girl, dump her, and then go out with another girl. But don’t go on more than three dates with the same girl, and for fuck’s sake, don’t fall in love with them.” He stepped a little closer to me. “And do-not-fuck-anyone. I’ll know if you do.”

I felt as if he was ripping me off. He got to do all kinds of cool shit that I wanted to do. Seemed unfair. I told him so, and he seemed to soften a bit.

“Look, I don’t want you getting side-tracked like I did. You should double major in college, and it will be really helpful if you focused on school work before you get to university. I didn’t, and I should have.”

I asked him where I should apply to college. I told him I didn’t think I could get into the university he suggested.

“Yeah, you can. And truthfully, you could probably get into a better school, but that one is fairly well-regarded, and they have an excellent pre-law program. You’ll eventually apply to their law school, which is ranked much higher than their undergraduate school, anyways. Plus, I don’t want you to miss out on their karate program.”

I asked him what the other subject was that he thought I should major in.

“Something that makes you read a lot. Subject doesn’t matter so much. Literature. Journalism. Poly-Sci would be good since you’re going into law.”

I told him I liked literature.

“Yeah, I know, and honestly, it’s probably best if you avoid lit. I don’t want you to forget that law school will help you achieve our goals.”

I asked him what my goals were.

“To make lots and lots of money.” Then he laughed. I felt like I should laugh with him.

I asked him if we join a frat, or if we do anything cool while we were in college like in movies we had seen.

“Get all that Animal House Van Wilder crap outta your head. In fact, don’t even think about going out, or drinking with a group of guys, or any of that dumb shit. Truthfully, guys at college are just like the shiftless losers in high school. Just study…nothing else, okay?”

I said okay, but I really didn’t agree. I figured he knew best, though.

When it was time for him to go he hugged me and told me happy birthday. I told him happy birthday, too.

After he left, I got found the few notes I had made and visited my ten year old self. I tried to duplicate the meeting as closely as I remembered it.

The following years were a bit lonely, but I got a hell of a lot done. I did like I told myself, and I didn’t bother with the usual high school stuff. I didn’t date, and I began to amplify my workout schedule. I found that I liked lifting weights, but I was especially fond of running. I became worried that I wasn’t lifting as intensely as I would have wanted, so my sophomore year I signed up for the weightlifting elective.

I learned an incredible amount about fitness and physiology during the semester of weightlifting, but more than that, I found that simply being around a group of people stimulated me. I did have to consciously restrain myself from allowing the clique of guys to assimilate me as one of their own. I knew the older me wouldn’t have approved of diversionary relationships, so I declined an offer to join their competitive weightlifting team, and I began to concentrate more on running.

My junior year in high school I signed up for night classes at a junior college in the next town. My days were scheduled quite rigidly. Study, study, train, train, study study. Sleep and repeat. My parents encouraged me to take my time and enjoy high school, but I knew what I needed to do.

I avoided dating altogether. From the way my classmates acted I was sure that I had made the correct decision. It seemed to me that their days were filled with mindless gossip and drama, and frankly, I felt quite sure their “relationships” held them back.

The only time I ever had any problems was during my senior year. My mother said I needed to go to my prom. I told her no. She began to cry a little, and she told me that I was wasting the best years of my life by working too hard. I told her I worked hard so that I would be able to enjoy life later on.

She stared at me with confused tears in her eyes and told me I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. She had never swore at me before. I didin’t like it.  I asked her if she expected me to foolishly squander vaulable time pursuing sex and alcohol. She said I was a  fool if  I truly believed that’s what she wanted me to do. She told me she just wanted me to enjoy being a kid.

I explained I was a goddamn kid. I was a kid that knew what it took to be successful, and I felt ashamed to have parents who didn’t know what it took and who wanted to hold me back. My father stopped the fight. He told me to just shut my mouth and go to my room.

Although I couldn’t make out what they were saying, I could hear them arguing all night. I had to put on headphones so I could drown out words like “obsessive,” “compulsive,” “narcissistic,” and “emotionally distant.”

I chose the university the older me had recommended, and since I scored so high on my SATs, I had no problem getting accepted. The university expected me to live my first two years in a dorm, which I felt extremely nervous about. I knew the odds of the university pairing me with an individual as studious as myself were slim, to say the least. As I feared, the fellow the university forced me to room with was something of a dummy, but I needn’t have worried. Between the hours I spent at the library and the karate club and the hours he spent wasting away with women and alcohol, there were very few occasions in which we clashed.

The few times we did exchange words, I made it abundantly clear that I was not the type of person to stand idly by and waste words on a moron that wouldn’t understand them. I told him that I since I was intellectually unable to express myself simply enough for him to understand, I would simply pound my replies into his face. Sadly, he never tested me on this.

On my twentieth birthday, I made sure that I woke up early to see myself turn fifteen. I had meticulously written down everything I had told myself that year. I studied it quite judiciously before I left. When I returned, my dorm room was empty. I had expected my twenty-five year old counter-part to be waiting for me. He finally showed up several hours later.

Because I’m a writing instructor, I probably harbor more than the average number of language irritants. I’m not really talking about grammar and mechanics here. I’m mainly addressing how people actually use our language. For example, the introductory phrase “Having said that” has gotten quite popular for some reason. I’m hearing and seeing it more and more.

Problem is, most people use this phrase incorrectly. Most people use “having said that” as a synonym for “consequently.” “Consequently” indicates a continuation of the previous statement:

Sometimes my ass is really itchy. Consequently, I use a lot of baby powder on my heiny.

See? It’s like a math problem and “consequently” serves as the equal sign, and as I previously wrote, many people think “consequently” and “having said that” are synonyms. Here’s the thing: “having said that” is a phrase that indicates negation, and it serves to invalidate the previous claim and not provide a continuation:

Sometimes my ass is really itchy. Having said that, I think the bloody scratch marks on my ass look manly.

In this example, I know the audience will infer that an itchy ass is a bad thing. “Itchy” is usually not a desirable trait, so I need something to negate that inference. I could have used the conjunction “but,” but too many buts in a sentence that’s already dealing with my hindquarters might become distracting. So instead, I chose “having said that.”

And just to show I’m not the worst in this, here’s L.D. and Jerry bitching about the same thing:

Related to the “having said that” nonsense is the phrase “I think that’s an argument worth having.” People don’t necessarily use it incorrectly, but I’m not sure they’re aware of its nature. Interestingly enough, you’re more likely to hear or read this phrase in academia or politics, and it’s a douchy, passive-aggressive way of one person subtly inferring that the other person is a dipshit.

Person 1: We really need to cut back on the amount of porn we watch. It’s gotten out of hand.

Person 2: I’m not sure. It’s more the type of porn we watch and not the amount. But whether or not we eliminate transvestite-dwarf porn from our routine is an argument worth having.

In this example, Person 2 is implicitly asserting that Person 1’s argument is so asinine that it’s not even an argument worth having. It’s an incredibly condescending way to address another person.

When I’m in the middle of a conversation and the other person uses “that’s an argument worth having,” I want to spit in that person’s mouth. “How about that? Does your highness deem that an argument worth having?”

We should be aware of the connotations of our language because like George Carlin said, “The quality of our thoughts is only as good as the quality of our language.”

Having said that, it’s entirely possible that I’m a bit pedantic about this kinda stuff. That’s certainly an argument worth having.