On­line, hash­tags are every­where. Soon enough, they’ll be com­pletely ubiq­ui­tous.

That’s fine and all. It’s not the point.

The point is: some peo­ple use #hash­tags in every­day con­ver­sa­tion.

Ver­bal con­ver­sa­tion.

Imag­ine some­one say­ing out-loud:…

You run.

They’re right be­hind you.

You run faster.

They have dogs. They have knives. They have guns. And they all want one thing: a piece of you.

He came up be­hind you.

He put the gun to your head.

“Run,” he said. And you did.

And you’ve not stopped.

Are…

“Al­ways count.”

The gag­gle of de­tec­tives and po­lice­men all stare at you in rapt at­ten­tion.

Ex­cept one. He thinks he al­ready knows every­thing. He whis­pers some­thing to the ju­nior de­tec­tive seated next to him, but is shushed–the ju­nior de­tec­tive…

You al­most trip.

You don’t know why you came up here. You don’t know why you want to cry. He’s not here. He’ll never be here again.

You look down.

The floor­board is loose.

You don’t re­mem­ber floor­boards. You thought his bed­room had lam­i­nate, fake-wood…

Some wor­ship gods. Some wor­ship peo­ple. Some even wor­ship food.

You like the idea of wor­ship­ping food. Your mouth wa­ters as you en­vi­sion melted brie on crack­ers.

You’d to­tal­ly wor­ship that.

Then there are some who wor­ship the num­ber thir­teen.…

It’s been two weeks.

You go to visit her, but she’s just lay­ing on her couch (why does her of­fice have a couch?), eat­ing a gi­ant pan­cake.

They killed him. Does­n’t she care?

She should be out look­ing. Out hunt­ing them down!

“You’re bor­ing.” That’s…

There he is again.

What’s he say­ing now?

You wish he’d just go away. You’re busy. He’s like an an­noy­ing fly.

You tell him to come back later.

And when he does, you’ll tell him the same, if you bother to an­swer him at all.

Be­cause you don’t re­ally want…

You de­cide you need some stooges.

Where do you find stooges? Do you put out an ad­vert?

“Wanted: Three Stooges.”

You’re not cer­tain that would send the right mes­sage.

How much are stooges paid, any­way? You won­der if you can pay them with smiles. Your…

What if he was like all the other boys?

Per­haps he would­n’t be dea–

Gone.

He can’t be gone. He’s just play­ing. Pre­tend­ing.

Per­haps he’d have some posters up or some­thing.

Per­haps he’d love sports?

Per­haps he’d have a foot­ball or bas­ket­ball–or bet­ter…

You want to shake her hand.

Not re­ally. Eleven year olds are so dis­gust­ing. Al­ways the snot on the sweaty fin­gers!

You won­der if you’re ac­tu­ally think­ing of five year olds, but for you, they all kind of blend to­gether.

She’s not so bad as that, you…