I love gum. And before I started dating Steve, aka the-man-who-hates-gum-especially-when-one-snaps-it-or-blows-bubbles-with-it-or-chews-it-in-his-company, I used to enjoy disposing of my gum by spitting it with a flairful thpwot in parking lots. It felt carnal, like the way I imagined Neanderthal gum-chewers did it. But Steve, pointing out the probability of the many birds, babies and Camper shoes I had likely killed, early on in our relationship made me see the error of my ways, and continues to remind me of the error of those previous ways frequently (e.g. he might say “See all of these black spots on the pavement? Gum.” to which I am to respond with chewing paused and head hung in remorse). But now my former days of naively sticky sabotogery have caught up with me. As I entered the parking lot of Sav-On pharmacy this afternoon, I lifted my foot and encountered the resistance of a blue, tacky ooze reaching up from the sidewalk like the hand of a zombie from a grave to claim my favorite flip-flop. No! I screamed inside, but it was no use. Too late, far too late. Years too late! Despite my gimpish foot-dragging efforts across the span of the parking lot, despite vigorous back-and-forth scraping on the curb in front of Sav-On, the right flip-flop will never be the same. A small bird’s nest of debris attached itself to the gum and immediately hardened into cement. Alas! So deserved, and yet, so sad.