You can win a cottage on Papua New Guinea.

I once read a romance novel about a girl named Gretchen who ate cheese, and her father was a pirate captain, and one day when they were sailing through the Magellan Strait, there was a squall and her ship wrecked on Micronesia, which is practically Papua New Guinea, and she met a man named Juan.

And Juan loved her.

And she loved Juan.

But her father said, “NO! NO, Gretchen! He’s a heathen!” (I looked up heathen on Wikipedia once. It means: a person who does not belong to a widely held religion, which I don’t get why it’s so bad but that’s what it means.) But Gretchen didn’t listen to her father. She listened to her heart. And she and Juan ran away together on a sailboat and then they sunk and died.

Dead.

I cried and cried and cried when they held hands and slowly submerged into the sea. I want to die like that.

I entered the Papua New Guinea contest twenty-four times.

I wondered if Bart knew about Papua New Guinea.