#202 - D.M.

You were the private instructor to learn from, so my parents made me take a lesson from you instead of my usual guy. I can see you: confident, stiff, with technique but no spice. One lesson was enough: I refused to go back to you.

#201 - N.F.

We'd meet in that tiny room in the back of the guitar shop; I can still smell the valve oil, intoxicating in the narrow space. Your music was smooth as silk, mine was edgy and syncopated; we let our styles mix as you taught me technique.

#200 - W.S.

A hobbled old man, I always felt a little creepy when you'd hug me hello. My mother would snatch me away and change the subject. Years later, I found out about how you molested your kids, and I wondered why your wife stayed with you.

#199 - R.S.

Every Christmas eve, we'd go to your house on the edge of the ghetto and pile our coats on the bed in the back room. You'd always give me a big hug - you smelled like soft perfume - and send me off to play with kids I didn't know.

#198 - K.M.

At some point you drank rubbing alcohol because you couldn't get anything else. It damaged your brain, made you forgetful and obnoxious. My grandma would tell stories about your youth - the youngest sister and her antics. I'm sorry I never really met you. 

#197 - W.W.

You shoveled soup into your mouth as I intently studied my polished fingernails. Ph.D. student, marathon runner, husband to one, boyfriend to six, sexual deviant, cocky asshole. Your braided hair went down to your ass, and my sense of disgust went down to my stomach.

#195 - J.S.

Tall and almost bald, with a little dog that you dote on and fun tattoos. You give me wonderful poetry - Bukowski, Brautigan, Baudelaire - and I'm fascinated by the intelligence of a man who sells snow blowers. NOW who's wearing the mask?

#194 - A.R.

Even though you're my cousin, I've never had much of an opinion about you. Then you married that loud, obnoxious woman and somehow had these three adorable little girls, and I figure there must be something awesome about you, because your daughters are amazing.

#193 - R.M.

You drop your son off at the sitter around the same time I drop off mine. I smile and say hello, and you mumble something unintelligeable. To other parents, though, you're sweet and personable. What the hell did I do?

#192 - D.A.

I was sleeping with your brother, who was a dick. You'd find me curled up downstairs, studying some textbook; you'd gently pry it out of my hand, put my feet in your lap, and talk to me for hours. I picked the wrong brother.

#191 - W.L.

You stand on your porch, beer in hand, and chatter as people in dirty clothes parade in and out of your house; your children wander in the vicinity. You make it a point to invite my son over to play, which is nice, but... no.

#190 - A.C.

You were tall, brilliant, and had long, straight brown hair that swept down your back. The four of us had sleepover parties with uncontrollable laughter and wicked gossip. Then you went to Catholic school and we never saw you again.

#189 - J.D.

It was a snow day, and we holed up in your parents' house, ordered pizza, and worked on our Spanish project. The summer brought softball and co-ed pool parties! Today, you're an Army wife with a new baby and far too much allegiance. Where'd you go?

#188 - J.S.

The pictures you took were shocking and horrific, but famous in some circles. You found it hard to actually talk to people, and it was obvious I made you nervous. You only opened up when you were talking about horror-film-esque themes. It got old fast.

#187 - S.A.

Big, bouncy, brown curls. Huge brown eyes. Your family came from Pakistan, but you came from Toledo, and we struggled through grammar classes and education seminars together. You never actually taught and headed right to grad school. I miss those whispered confidences.