That nails are a ruse to deflect attention from too much skin; that sleep’s a lazy therapist not putting enough hours in; that the brains of gifted communists are kept somewhere in flame-retardant jars; that in the end, I actually won’t have spent enough time hanging out in bars; that maybe the universal translator isn’t absurd, maybe AI will eventually anticipate every alien tongue; that one day the people will turn around and say we don’t want to hear another new pop song; that rainbows should lower their expectations; that my organs are sentient and frequently bicker about my limitations; that lint doesn’t know it’s called lint; that unfiltered faces are beginning to look like they’ve been subjected to a death-like tint; that I feel like I’ve cracked time travel whenever I hear a landline ring; that NO ONE understands why gobstoppers were ever a thing; that we might all be someone else’s metaphor; that everyone’s ancestors fought in a war; that glottal stops enable some to convincingly describe things as lit; that cruelty persists because, to varying degrees, we’re all encouraged to enjoy it; that I often think of the day when a friend tried to explain to me these things called “memes”; that the phrase he wasn’t what he seemed is usually applied to an  individual who is exactly as he seems; that in all honesty I probably shouldn’t have just pressed send; that in 100 years it’s likely there’ll be an Oscar-winning film with a scene in which someone tries to explain memes to a friend; that my sense of everything working out in the end might come from neurological oblivion; that there’s nothing trustworthy about the year 2121; that of course there won’t be a film and there won’t be a scene; that maybe in only two years’ time we’ll be unable to know if we’re a species who created memes or if we’ve always been in the meme or a meme of a meme or a meme of a meme of a meme or a meme of a meme of a meme of a meme.