In keeping with my white, upper middle-class upbringing, the only thing I’ve ever wanted is my own French Bulldog. I would give him an adorable, culturally-relevant name like Bertrand, or Cousteau, or Foie Gras, or The 400 Blows. Unfortunately, I have the maturity level of a pre-Ker and entrusting the life of another life to my life is something I’m not at all ready to do, at least until September. Just yesterday, I had a nervous breakdown when I felt that my car keys weren’t in my pocket. I patted myself down frantically and tears welled and the tongues of my pockets were yanked out and I realized that I had lost access to my favorite anything in the world. Then I realized I was driving my car, that my keys were in the ignition, that there are more things wrong with my brain than my brain can now recognize. One day, I’ll take Francois my dog for a spin in my car, and if I feel my keys missing from my pocket, I will care less.