I stole the Mona Lisa for fun and carefully placed it back in the Louvre without anyone noticing.

Last night I had a casual dinner around the corner from my apartment with an acquaintance/friend of mine and two friends of his. We're the sort of friends that need to be in the mood to hang out, but when we do, we really like each other, except when we don't.

My acquaintance/friend Dan orders a bottle of wine for the table and we start talking, rather, they start talking. 

"Kara just got her PhD in Anthropology at Brown," says Dan. 

"Well, not quite yet, I'm still working on my dissertation, but it's coming along well," responded Kara.

"Ah, my fiance is planning to study Anthropology or Middle Eastern Studies at Colombia," piped Vivienne.

Brown . . . Columbia . . . I still can't spell the school or the country.

"Oh, I have some great friends at Columbia still. In fact, Sylvia's teaching there, no?" Kara chirped back in.

And on and on the conversation went. While Kara and Dan reminisced about Columbia, Vivienne found the opportunity to ask me about my education. 

"Ah, I went to FIT," I replied and quickly changed the subject. I now felt, to put it bluntly, stupid.

"No, no, no, that's where you went wrong," my roommate shared with me upon arriving home and sharing my short story. "You should have just lied."

We started out with casual ideas. "Say you went to Yale or some West Coast school," my roommate suggested. 

But then the gears really started moving. 

I could say anything. I got my MBA at Stern's immediately following my Bachelor's from FIT. I went to medical school when I was a pre-teen. I was inspired my the heroin addiction that overcame me at the age of 9. The series 'Doogie Howser' was based on my life. I performed my first surgery at 15. I was Elizabeth Taylor's one and only wife. I found the cure for Polio. I lived in a polyamorist community in Washington State but smoked away my millions, the first of which I made with more than a few McDonald's franchises before I was 21. I fought the French for a small island known as Reunion a few years ago and won. 

Wish I had it in me to lie sometimes.

Talking to myself.

At least once a week I am reminded that I often use my own sort of communication methods to talk. I always use words, but sometimes I don't use the correct words or I use too many, or, often, I don't use enough. I'll begin a conversation with the middle, then switch to another story, then tell the beginning of the original and then forget the ending and tell you something about the brussel sprouts I'm planning to eat for dinner. Today, I learned what it feels like to be on the other side of a conversation lead by me. It went something like this.

Person: (looking at Blackberry and seeming pleased)

Me: Ah, good news?

Person: . . . just finished his repertoire . . . it's not like a thesis . . . 

Me: (wondering what Person will say next, feeling a bit confused)

Person: (continues looking at Blackberry) . . . it's like writing but way more difficult or maybe it's not. Maybe the thesis is much more complex, the colors.

Me: (bewildered. Will I understand if more words come or simply remain puzzled?)

Person: It's like a cult.

Me: (lost. I think to myself I will clearly not understand what Person is thinking. Backstories will be involved. Brussel Sprouts will be eaten. Tea will run out. Time will run low. Confusion will sink in serious style. It could be hours or days until I understand what Person is thinking. Are they thinking anything or are they just throwing some words into air in order to process random thoughts?)

Person: (seems satisfied with said words)

Me: I used to hide in linen closets when I was a kid.