There is never enough light in the day. There is never enough light in the night, for that matter, either. This fact is more noticeable on a night when it’s a new moon. Be very cautious during a new moon because not only is it extremely dark, but that’s also when legend has it wolves turn into werehumans. Never under any circumstances do you want to be bitten by one of them, or you might start doing crazy things like wearing clothes and paying taxes. I don’t know about you, but I enjoy going around in the nude and haven’t had any tax collectors at my door for years. I’m not sure why. Perhaps others think there is too much light in the day when I do that.

In all seriousness, though, there are many things to like about the night. The perfect time to get to first base is when it’s pitch black. However, when stealing a kiss, check it’s your girlfriend and not a skunk. Although, I’m sure skunks make good kissers. Pepé Le Pew, need I say more? It’s just that, in the dark, it’s hard to be sure it’s a skunk, not a cat with white stripes painted down its back. No cat is going to get my tongue! In any case, you better beware because if you feel her nibbling on your ear, it just might be a werehuman instead.

Another great thing about the night is nightmares. Where would we be without those? Am I right? Once, I had this nightmare. I was transformed into a werehuman and hit by a car while chasing a fire truck. Ever since, I’ve been afraid to commit arson anymore, fearing that the dream might come true. I ask you: Now, who will make sure there’s enough light in the day, let alone the night?

When I was a kid, I wore No Fear T-shirts. Ironically, as an adult, I now fear many things, even getting a stain on my shirt. Whenever I find myself in even the slightest of conflicts, my fight or flight instinct kicks in, and I almost always opt to jump on a red-eye flight over getting a black eye. I will take a trip to just about anywhere besides the grocery store to fetch a bag of frozen peas to prevent my eye from swelling. Furthermore, everyone knows when you have a black eye that only black-eyed peas work. Thanks to recent supply shortages, who knows if they will have any in stock. Whenever I need to go to the supermarket, there is always a certain level of apprehension that goes along with it because you never know who you will bump into. If you bump into the wrong person, they might give your other eye a matching shiner. Another reason I dread going to the store is that I suffer from an eyes-are-bigger-than-my-stomach condition, which is only worsened by the fact that they are both already swollen at this point. Now, since I didn’t submit to my natural tendency toward chicken-heartedness, I’m buying black-eyed peas, a whole chicken, and a 10-pound burlap sack full of potatoes to go along with it. After said shopping spree, and with the rising cost of groceries, comes the worry that I will not be able to pay my bills for the month. Now, instead of a No Fear T-shirt, you might see me wearing the burlap sack with two raccoon eyes digging through your trash can. That is definitely something to fear.

They say you should never start off on the wrong foot — but if you’re anything like me, you’ll start off on a couple of wrong inches at least. And speaking of feet, why do we call it a foot when most people’s are less than twelve inches long? Unless you wear a size fourteen, in which case, congratulations on finishing clown school. I was a clown school dropout, which is how I landed in the high-stakes world of sandwich artistry. Oh well, I guess if the shoe fits, right? I promise this won’t turn into some kind of running gag.

But starting off on the wrong foot isn’t just for relationships — it happens in the kitchen too. Burn your lettuce? Wrong foot. Mistake mayo for tartar sauce? Definitely the wrong foot. Drop an entire foot-long sub on the floor and invoke the five-second rule? “Hey, you sunk my battleship… no, wait — my submarine… sandwich. Either way, I lost.” That’s a wrong foot, a wrong knee, and probably a wrong elbow.

Now, I’ll admit I’ve had my fair share of wrong-footed moments outside the kitchen too. I like to keep souvenirs and gifts from girlfriends in a shoebox — I’m sentimental like that. I mean, is there really any other way to be sentimental? But more often than not, those girlfriends would end up walking all over me. And yes, I promised this wouldn’t turn into a running gag, but I never said I wouldn’t stumble my way into a walking joke.

One particularly pedestrian relationship left me with a shoebox full of memories and a smoldering desire for closure — quite literally. After the breakup, I decided to set fire to the shoebox — or at least I thought it was the shoebox. I was so sad I swear I had to listen to The Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” a hundred times just to feel better. Turns out, I accidentally torched a shoebox full of my recipe cards instead. So now, I’m not only down a relationship but also my instructions on how to make my Yellow Submarine Sandwich. Let’s just say I ended off on the wrong foot, the wrong fire marshal’s list, and quite possibly the wrong setting for flambé. My kitchen’s seen more smoke than a sock pirate ship under attack — and if you’re wondering, yes, that’s the same scoundrel band of sock pirates that stole my laundry. Lucky for me, it’s easier to escape them when your sandwich doubles as a submersible — complete with pickle torpedoes.

So, whether you’re navigating love or foot-long subs, the lesson remains the same: make the best impression you can. And if you do start off on the wrong foot, at least try not to burn the shoebox. Or the lettuce. And definitely not the submarine.