I sometimes wonder.

Wonder. Woman.
Like who doesn't?

I sometimes wonder if my brothers remember that time I punched a hole through the screen door because they wouldn't let me in to eat popcorn.

I sometimes wonder if Kevin Murphy's Dad still thinks I'm an asshole.

I sometimes wonder if Lynda Carter would have instantly fallen in love with me if we had met on the set of Wonder Woman (even though I was eleven, and pudgy, and lived in Saskatchewan). In other words, I sometimes wonder woman.

I sometimes wonder if the killer whale at Marineland in Niagara Falls remembers me.

I sometimes wonder if someone with a warped sense of humour has put my Dad in charge of controlling the weather from heaven.

I sometimes wonder if Mr. Sapara, my Grade 8 music teacher, has any recollection of making us put our heads down while he played records at his desk and tried to keep the room from spinning for an entire semester before he went to rehab.

I sometimes wonder if my cousin Mark is still selling drugs or if he found his real parents.

I sometimes wonder if Donald Trump has some serious as-yet-undiagnosed disorder. 

I sometimes wonder if my neighbour down the street (whom I've never met) with the plastic ghosts hanging from the tree in his front yard is just waiting until Halloween rolls around again or if he's died in there and nobody has noticed or if he's actually a lottery winner and he's trying to keep the crazies away or maybe he has like a 192 I.Q. and he laughs at the rest of us dolts who seem hell-bent on decorating for this and that and the other thing ad nauseum monotonia and now I'm wondering if he's reading this or if he has a blog and he's written about his pathetic bandwagonesque decoration-obsessed neighbours and now I'm wondering if that's actually a word and if it isn't it should be.

I sometimes wonder if my brain has a saturation point.