“I met a man with no forehead and receding eyebrows. He had ketchup crusted on his eyelids. I can't remember what we talked about, I just remember him smelling like chicken feed.”

“I met a man named Birthday. I didn’t tell him when I was born, because I thought that that one day in my life, a day I don’t even remember, might define his own identity, and I didn’t want to make him cry.”

“His breath smelled like a one-inch tall man wearing stinky socks used his tongue as a treadmill. Talking to him only reminded me how out of shape I am.”

“On his deathbed, my grandpa told me three things to remember for after he died. First he said, "You can't own a cat. Ever." Second he told me, "Friendly boys make friendly friends." Finally he said, "You were adopted, just like your father before you, and his father before him." "So," I said, "you were adopted?" "Of course not!" he replied. "Your father's not my son, just like he's not your father." And to this day I am still confused. I have no idea why I can't own a cat.”

“I don’t want to ever see her again, because I want to always remember her as she was—young and beautiful. She won't remember, because she was 88 when we met and suffering from dementia.”

“If it’s invisible, I can’t remember if it’s there or not. And not only that, but I can’t even remember what it is.”

“I met a guy who had an interesting job. He was a meat cutter, or a meat slicer, something like that. I probably butchered his job title.
”