I’m playing sand volleyball and I’m gay (obviously). But everyone thinks I’m straight and keeps trying to hook me up with old polish women who are having a bake sale. I can’t buy any of the products because none of them are gluten free. This makes me angry but when I try and yell I simply make a batch of lemon squares. The more I try to yell the more I make lemon squares. One polish woman in particular has taken to me, her name is Perogi, and I’m convinced she’s stuffed with potatoes and cheese. I smear some sour cream on her when she’s not looking but she turns away before I can proceed, and all the other women are impressed by her fashionable use of dairy. Three days later I’m walking by a newsstand and a GQ for teen girls has her on the cover. I curse into the night, and it begins lightly raining whoppers (the candy not the burger king sandwiches). They hurt, and aren’t my favorite candy, but I eat them anyway. I’m ashamed that I consumed something called “malt balls.” Then I wake up.