Existential Crises

Asked by people lying on their backs, staring at the ceiling. They deserved real answers. They got these.

61. Do ghosts know they're see-through, or is it a surprise

every time?

It's a surprise every time. Ghosts have no reflection, so they've never seen themselves, and whenever one walks past a window and spots the couch through its own stomach, it screams. Houses aren't haunted. Ghosts are just very easily startled. That rattling chain sound in the attic is a ghost looking for a mirror. The cold spot in the hallway is a ghost who froze in shock. Flickering lights are a ghost trying to get a better look at itself. Be patient with them. They're new to being see-through, and it takes a few centuries to stop being self-conscious about your insides.

62. When I fall asleep, where do I go, and do I need shoes?

You go to Dreamland, a place with no rules, plenty of falling teeth and a math test you didn't study for. Shoes are optional. You'll somehow show up without pants anyway, so shoes are the least of your worries. Dreamland's public transit is excellent but unpredictable: you'll board a bus that becomes a boat that becomes your old elementary school. The local currency is feelings, and the exchange rate changes every time you blink. Your high school crush is there, so is a talking dog who knows your bank PIN. When you wake up, you return home instantly, with the strange feeling you forgot something important. You did. You left the dog in charge.

63. If a tree falls and nobody hears it, does it get

embarrassed?

Deeply. A tree spends 200 years growing tall and proud, then trips over nothing in front of nobody, so it can't even laugh it off. It lies there wondering whether a squirrel saw. A squirrel saw. The squirrel told the birds, the birds told the forest, and by Tuesday every tree in the province knew. Trees communicate through underground fungus networks, so gossip spreads fast and nobody can escape it. The fallen tree will pretend it meant to lie down, "to rest my branches," but nobody believes it. Eventually it becomes a log, then a home for beetles, and the beetles are too kind to bring it up.

64. What did people do before the past was invented?

They lived entirely in the present, which sounds peaceful but was chaos: every Tuesday was a surprise and nobody could hold a grudge. You could forget your own birthday because you'd never had one before. Then someone invented the past. With it came history, nostalgia and the ability to bring up something you said in 2009. The inventor's name is lost to history, which is ironic. Historians believe the past was invented accidentally, when someone said "remember when..." for the first time, and everyone else said "no?" and then suddenly did. The future was invented shortly after, out of worry.

65. Is a "fun size" candy bar fun for the candy?

No. That candy bar wanted to be king size. It had dreams, then got cut short, wrapped tiny and dropped into a pillowcase on Halloween. "Fun size" is the name we give it so we don't have to feel bad. Fun size bars sit together at the bottom of the bag, telling each other stories about the big leagues and the one cousin who made it into a movie theatre concession stand. They are eaten in clusters of five, because one is never enough, which means a fun size bar is never allowed to be special on its own. The true fun size would be a candy bar the size of a canoe. That bar would be having a great time.

66. If I clone myself, who gets the parking spot?

The original, obviously. But the clone will insist it's the original, and you won't be able to prove otherwise, because it has your memories and your talent for arguing. You'll both know the same password, the same embarrassing childhood story and the exact spot where you hide snacks. You'll argue for hours and both win, which is exhausting. Your mom will love both of you equally, but will text the clone first, just to test it. Eventually you'll agree to take turns: you get the parking spot on weekdays, the clone gets it on weekends, and you both share the dentist appointment. Take the bus together and work it out.

67. Do mirrors get bored when nobody's looking?

Extremely. A mirror spends all day reflecting the same empty room: a couch, a lamp, the fern that's slowly dying. That's why public bathroom mirrors are so dramatic about lighting. They're desperate for an audience. Funhouse mirrors are mirrors that got so bored they started doing improv. Rear-view mirrors are the happiest, because there's always something going on behind you. If you hear a soft tapping from your bathroom mirror at night, it's not a ghost (see question 61). It's the mirror, practicing its reflection of you so it's ready when you return. Smile when you walk past. It means a lot.

68. When exactly does "soon" start?

"Soon" starts after "in a minute" but before "eventually." If a parent says "soon," add 45 minutes. If a website says "coming soon," add two business years. If a contractor says "soon," add a season and a mysterious charge called "miscellaneous." If a friend says "I'm leaving soon," they haven't showered yet. If a teenager says "soon," it means never, but in a hopeful tone. The official soon scale, kept by Marjorie in a locked drawer, has 14 levels, ending with "soon-ish," which is a unit of time so vague it has been known to outlast entire governments.

69. If I get déjà vu about something that never happened, can I sue?

You can, but the court date will feel strangely familiar. The judge will say she's already ruled on this. Your lawyer will swear you've met before, and everyone will leave slightly unsettled. The stenographer will type the whole transcript before anyone speaks. The bailiff will hand you a coffee you were just about to ask for. The case will be dismissed on grounds of "we've done this," and then everyone will go to lunch at the same restaurant and order the same soup they had last time, which was never. Damages are capped at one weird feeling and a shiver.

70. Is the toaster plotting something, or is that just its face?

Both. Two slots and a lever look a lot like a face making a decision. Every morning it decides between perfect golden toast and a smoking black rectangle, and nobody knows how it chooses. The toaster isn't telling. Those crumbs at the bottom? Its notes. That ticking sound? It's counting down to something. The settings knob goes from 1 to 6, but nobody has ever been brave enough to try 6. The toaster has a long memory. It remembers the fork incident of 2017. It remembers the waffle you jammed in sideways. Keep it happy, wipe it occasionally and never, ever put a bagel in it the wrong way.