“I’m not my name. My name is something I wear, like a shirt. It gets worn. I outgrow it, I change it.”

“My eyes change color depending on my mood and what I’m wearing. If I’m wearing an acorn brown shirt, my eyes look like squirrel fur. And if I’m wearing no shirt at all, my eyes look more nude and flesh-colored. I guess my ex girlfriend, Zelda, said it best when her friend asked her what I look like and she said: “He looks like you’d imagine him to look like, if you had no imagination.”

“I should change my job title to Retail Psychologist and get some impressive letter after my name.”

“I glance down at the over-sized t-shirt and socks I’m wearing. “You’d be sadly disappointed if you actually saw what I wear to bed.” “You know, clothes are overrated as far as I’m concerned. I’m good with you totally doing away with them when you visit me.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Noel...” I say his name like a warning.”

“If I had my clone take a test for me, it’s likely I’d misspell my own name. And I’m terrible at remembering people’s names—even if that person is me.”

“Was I wearing my 'I'm done with my virginity, please get rid of it for me' T-shirt?”