It was my sophomore year at college, and while my fellow classmates were busy studying for finals, I was training for our local taqueria’s first hot-pepper–eating contest, knocking back as many habanero peppers as I could before passing out. I didn’t have any career plans then and must’ve changed my major at least a dozen times, but the idea of becoming a hot-pepper–eating champion put a fire under my ass, the likes of which I would never experience again. Rather than concocting some elaborate story as to why I was pacing our dorm at midnight while completely sober, I decided to confess my aspirations of becoming Boston’s first hot-pepper–eating champion.

It’s not that I don’t like the set pieces, the wardrobe, or even the screenplay. But frankly, all that to recreate Nosferatu in our bedroom is becoming a bit much.

The Great American Mall is a lesson in extinction. Discovered in Minnesotan suburbia in the 1950s, the species became endangered nearly 60 years later due to digital evolution, economic recession, and general ennui of the American people. Despite attempts to rekindle public interest in these commercial giants, the malls endured for only 15 more years before fading away entirely, their coffin nailed by the rise of other, more advanced commercial species, namely Commercium Virtualis, whose impressive gestation period and compact scale captured the hearts of the nation.

Just last week, my health care company put me on hold and switched on its automatic music long enough for me to hear “Parsifal” in its entirety, something I have never accomplished at an opera house. And opera is only a small part of my health company’s repertoire. Where else could one hear the entire oeuvre of the Captain and Tenille before being told that a representative would be available shortly and being switched to Chris Bottie and Diana Krall? It is like to listening to a college radio station or WBAI without the politics.

I like jogging even though it hurts my ass.

I jog alone. Always have done. Always will. I have no desire to join those run club cults. The ones that require $500 bowel movement tracking GPS watches, taut and tanned legs, spongy art gallerist trainers, banal flirtation between lonely souls, post-run oat flat whites, and sex-freak vests.