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I scare myself sometimes. If I decide to stalk someone, they’re in trouble because I just find stuff and I remember it. One of the side effects of my TBI is I had to figure out ways to remember things. Now it’s catching salmon like it’s swimming upstream and jumping into the steel trap basket.

I did a comedy exercise. I was to generate a list of 20 facts on a subject. The facts were going to be the set ups to joke. I wanted to write about a music group I’m enjoying, Home Free. Well I didn’t know 20 facts. No way did I know 20 facts about this band. I didn’t know 20 facts; I knew 30. I was kind of disturbed how off the top of my head I knew random tidbits about each band member and the group as a whole, gathered by reading one fact sheet a couple of months ago and perusing their websites over a year ago. I was impressed, but also felt I needed a life.

Not to be outdone, driving home from a music showcase in Chicago, my father asked me if I knew anything about Florida Georgia Line, because they came up in his conversations with people. Gut reaction: no. Didn’t know a thing about them besides they wrote “Cruise” and Nelly gave it a second life. I then proceeded to tell him everything but the boys’ social security numbers. I knew stuff I didn’t even know I knew like their marketing strategy. I knew stuff about Tyler Hubbard like we tried going out and it didn’t work out. It could be a testimony to the band’s accessibility, but I think it’s more evidence I need to get out more.

My scary memory would be great if its power was used for good like, “What was in this recipe?” “What did I need at the store?”  “Why did I come into this room?” It was great at the tea shop. I’d remember people who hadn’t visited in 3 months and remember their name, what they last tasted, and what was going on in their lives. At my other jobs, stress prevailed and my memory got spotty. I was afraid it was MS or I had lost my powers. Nope. It was just resting so it could compile random data on hot talented men I haven’t met.

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