25 Hour Watch

Which side of my car my gas cap is on.

The names of every single one of my teachers from middle school. (I do still recall the name of one elementary school teacher and one high school teacher.)

The name of that cute girl who spilled a glass of water on my autobiography of Emma Goldman on the flight back from New York last year and who I have a nice half-hour chat with after than and got her name in my notebook to friend her on Facebook when I got home and which I subsequently lost not 24 hours later.

How many times I’ve gotten into automobile accidents.

My second girlfriend’s name.

My age.

The name of this very strange book I read some years ago that had, among other things, a nearly-omniscient space chicken, the end of humanity at the hands of some demonic entity, Shangra-la, a Frankenstein’s Monster who’s stitched-together flesh slowly ‘melted’ into one bronze hue as it became more sentient, flying cars, a female clone of the male protagonist, a relationship between said clone and said protagonist, a spaceship to escape the dying planet, and a final line of “I think I’m pregnant.” said by very same female clone.

Things I know I wanted to remember I’d forgotten at one point for this list.

That not everyone has the same cultural background as I do, and really won’t get references to the Thundercats.

My first girlfriend’s name.

How many computers I own.

That I once, only mildly provoked and after a bad day at middle school, turned around on the school bus and started punching my brother in the head — and got away with no long-term repercussions, not even a note on my permanent record.

The order of the Beatles albums.

Which ones are stalactites and which ones are stalagmites.

That I’ve been to Mount Rushmore.

What I wanted to do with my life, again?

(Seriously, if you know the name of that book, let me know. It’s been bugging me for at least a decade.)