I was going to tell a story about a gross thing I did.

The person I was telling it to had a hard time understanding the concept.

A gross thing.  A gross thing I did.  I was going to confide in him a gross thing I had done.

Ok, he said.  You convinced me.

I forgot what I had done.  I forgot the point of the story.  Then I got confused.

Why did I want to tell him something embarrassing?

Was I going to find something gross in the kitchen?  Trash?  Toilet eventually?

You can tell me now, he said.

Um.  I can’t.

You wanted to tell me something gross.  You can’t?

No, I can’t.  I forgot.

No, really.  Was it something I had said or done in a drugged out blackout?

Was I about to confess something so soulless and terrifying my future would be ruined?

Had I emotionally blacked out and reverted to a panic mode, now forced to cover up my indiscretions with a lie?

No, I’ll tell you.

Honesty.  Honesty is the best policy.

But I forgot.  I really forgot what I was going to tell you.  I can’t remember.

You can’t remember?

No, I can’t remember.  But I can remember.  Give me a minute.

So you had something to tell me that was gross, so gross you can’t remember it?

I had a flash of the gross thing.

No!  No.  It wasn’t that gross.  I could almost remember now.

No, there’s no way I would ever tell you something really gross!  It wasn’t that gross.

Now I kind remembered that I was exaggerating.  Stop thinking about gross things.  It wasn’t that gross.  You were trying to get a rise out of him and then tell a funny story.

So now it wasn’t so gross?

No, no it was a little gross.  I think it was gross.

Remember, remember.  Was it that gross?  Did I have a period moment?  Did I witness something?  There was the mural I tried to photograph but ran away when I realized there was a man peeing against it.  That wasn’t gross enough to warrant a mention of gross.

Life is hard.