I only remember one in ten dreams. I split open my chin the week before kindergarten class photos were taken. A cop looked at my driver’s license and asked me what my middle initial stood for, and I had to tell him it stood for nothing. A cop gave me his business card and told me to call him “whenever, for anything,” while I was in my car at LAX airport to pick up a friend. A cop yelled at me for “sitting there, fat, dumb, and happy.” I don’t wear my retainer, my glow-in-the-dark blue retainer. I turn statements into questions and questions into statements. In eighth grade, my mother threw away my favorite pair of Converse without telling me, because they were too full of holes. I had fluorescent yellow shoelaces in them. My sister hit me with a Ken doll so hard his painted-on hair came off, or this is the way I/we tell it. I had a stuffed polar bear named Ali, whose fur I was always clearing from his shiny black eyes. As a member of the Save-the-Manatee club, I adopted a manatee when I was twelve; her name was Lily, and she swam so slowly in the Everglades. I really made use of my elbows as a kid. I can’t smell anything, ever. I can only raise my left eyebrow. I don’t like fires, or saunas, or baths, or hot tubs. I feel a kinship with cacti. I die when I eat nuts. My grandfather used to have a special whistle he would whistle whenever he arrived anywhere. I am seduced by left handers. I am a Pisces. I am year of the (water) dog. I had an orange belt in kung fu, but it’s long since expired. I don’t find skydiving that thrilling. I am a late bloomer, I think about six or seven years behind. A man sitting next to me in a public library in France moved his newspaper aside to expose his penis to me, and I was so cool, so nonchalant about it, waiting minutes upon minutes before getting up out of my seat. I like the word sordid next to the word sorbet. I like the delicate shape and wobble of nasturtium leaves and poppy flowers. I can eat many jars of marinated artichoke hearts in one sitting. I played the piano for ten years, and now all that’s left in my muscle memory is Chopin’s Nocturne, Op. 9, No. 2. I didn’t start sleeping with a pillow or putting liquids in my cereal until I was in my late twenties. I saw my first firefly six years ago. I claim to be annoyed by tall people who walk too fast because their legs are too long, but this has only ever been the fault of one tall person in my life. I don’t have a talent, yet. Twice in my life I have disappeared with men for too long, and the cops have been called. I fantasize about upending beverages and plates and trays of food over people’s heads. I spilled an entire glass of ice and diet coke over a sleeping baby’s face. I spelled ‘background’ without the ‘g’ for a very long time: ‘backround.’ And ‘crossaint’—I swore there was a saint involved. In elementary school, I would write the word ‘but’ with two t’s, and my teachers let me get away with it, because I was such a star student. I had a pair of pink leopard print cotton pants that I loved in first grade. I love many things about chameleons: their slow motion, their wandering eyes, their grumpy mouths, their funny hands, their skinny arms and legs. I may or may not blush. I was in Bowl Club in high school; I am a very bad bowler. I like the feeling of getting into a sun-warmed car after being in too-cold air-conditioning. I like the soft-as-clouds feeling of relief that is stepping into snow boots after being in ski boots. I’m not positive what getting your ears boxed means, but I read it first in Huck Finn, or Tom Sawyer. I read Gone with the Wind when I was twelve, and thought I was the shit for reading a thousand-page book, even though it wasn’t a particularly exciting read. I have five cousins. I have one sister. I have two nieces. My hometown was built on many anthills. The sound of my second-year college roommate peeling oranges in our dorm room and dropping the peels into the trash can used to drive me unreasonably crazy. I sleep on my back. I have been doing yoga, on and off, for eighteen years. I own three yoga mats. Maybe four. I own one dart board. I own two sets of darts, one on each coast. I dyed my hair black a couple of times in my early to mid twenties. I’ve lived in six cities for six months or more: Irvine, L.A., Angers, Newport Coast, Toulouse, Brooklyn. I think of a ripping sound when I think of a mango, the feeling of fibers being torn through teeth. I think the word ‘persimmon’ sounds soothing. I can’t drive stick. I believe I can carry off anything I feel like wearing. I believe in word banks. When I was young and listening to and judging my mom for her swearing, I imagined my future swearing self as more a ‘damn’ person than a ‘shit’ person, which has not proved to be accurate. Names of streets I have lived on: Avocado, Flintridge, Brigadier, Cavaillon, Bressigny, Grande-Bretagne, Glenrock, Brockton, Clark, Hyperion, Manzanita, Laveta, Hart, Stockholm, 9th, St. Johns. I prefer Manhattan clam chowder. I discovered a love for chicken wings and cocktail shrimp late in life. Some memorable past Halloween costumes: K-Fed, panda, pineapple, Bloody Mary, Pris from Blade Runner, Georgia O’Keeffe. I equate pain with healing. In times of crisis I turn to the biggest clichés: tattoos and haircuts. I think foods that combine both chewy and crisp textures are the best. In my thirties I have gotten good about making my bed, and flossing, and taking my vitamins. Most of the time I mix my whites and colors all in one load of wash. The city I grew up in just turned 45 years old, a couple of years ago. Mascots of past schools: Bears, Conquistadors, Trojans, Bruins, Lions. I’ve had two encounters with ghosts, one seen, and one felt. I have a matching tattoo with someone who lives far away, and this makes me both happy and sad. I have no piercings, although when I was young I thought I would be the type of person to have a million ear piercings, and although I had my ears pierced two short-lived times, when I was eight and when I was eighteen. I had sex with one guy who had his nipples pierced, and one guy who had his penis pierced. My duvet cover has a long story. I have a cactus named Jordan Cactuslano. I co-owned a Chia pet named Ralph Macchia-o. I’ve named multiple plants Milou. I like to say all the things I have done “for a living”—I recommend books for a living, I pour water for a living, I fold napkins for a living, I smile for a living, I make copies for a living, I clean up kid vomit for a living, I sing head-shoulder-knees-and-toes for a living, I edit horoscopes for a living, I bake tuiles for a living, I pipe out meringue seats for a living, I cut cakes for a living, I gift-wrap for a living, I note down what you’re wearing for a living, I gesture to things with an open hand for a living. I asked a lone cab driver waiting outside the Missoula airport at midnight, Are you for me? I lied to my diary. Ever since my short-lived diner waitressing gig at the House of Pies, I’ve preferred my chicken noodle soup with lemon juice squeezed in. For several years, every once in a while, I’d sit down in my bedroom and count how many people I’d had sex with. I have bad eyes. I have dry skin. I wear a size 7 shoe. My nickname in second grade was The Dictionary. Sometimes I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. I’ve had my heart broken twice. I sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. I have many parallel lives. I used to dream of being a glassblower. I couldn’t stand the heat, so I got out of the kitchen.