“Do You Remember My Name?” Says Man Who Doesn’t Know His ame, But Maybe If He Asks Everyone Someone Will Tell Him and Give Him a Hug and Call Him Silly Then Make Out With Him.

As the night settles, he lingers in the corner of the party. Waiting for the opportunity to strike. What is his name? Every woman knows of course, as he previously introduced himself to most. And how could they forget? Eager like a college student stuck in a pyramid scheme of door to door sales, he reaches for a clammy handshake that leaves no hand dry. “Nice to meet you, my name is…” 

The time is nye. He has finally introduced himself to every woman at the party, and every single woman he has ever spoken to in his life (besides his dearest Mother, Darlene). Will they remember his name? His Mother would know, but he also can’t even remember her phone number. Peeling his body off the corner of the wall, he manifests a cigar that reeks of faux intellect. Lighting it in the living room he puffs out a cloud, darkening the light seeping from the windows. He later ashes inside an ern he bought specifically to hold all of his frien—cigars. His burnt out cigars. 

Leaning down at a girl queuing up songs on spotify he croaks, “Do you remember my name?” His lips curl into a menacing smile, smoke escaping through cracks between his teeth. The girl does nothing, only staring at him with slight recognition. “You kind of look like a John or a Jim or a Brian or a Steve or a Phil or Kevin or a Sheldon or a—” he walks on, not satisfied with her answer in the slightest. But he hasn’t been satisfied since freshman year of high school, when he finally got his one turn at seven minutes in heaven.  

He walks to the back porch to find a girl pouring herself another drink at a table. “Do you remember my name?” After downing a concoction of vodka, sprite, loose tobacco, and the rest of a fruit punch beatbox she replies, “You listen to Mitski?” He always wears his Mitski shirt at house parties just in case. This is something he remembers. But this girl does not remember his name. He’s starting to get worried now. Where is he? 

He bumps into a girl on his way back inside and moans (non sexually) (at least, we hope not), “What’s my name, again?” She pauses for a moment, “Well, do you remember my name?” She asks. He did not. He spent the entire night hoping some vulnerable girl would remember his name after the three seconds of introduction. Here he was - not knowing the name of someone else he met for three seconds. Immediately he thrashes at his flesh and bursts into flames like the stogie he once smoked. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. His name will never be known, as he knows no one else’s. Suddenly, like moths to a flame, everyone rushes to gather the remnants of what’s left of his Mitski “Laurel Hell” Shirt. Hopefully, someone will be crafty enough to sew it up and sell it for two times its original price on Depop. But who will buy it? Who will buy it?