I like to narrate personal events as they unfold, just privately in my own mind. It gives even mundane occurrences a feeling of suspense and significance. I could be waiting in line for the next available cashier, that gloomy modern triage of consumer hell, and without consciously realizing it I'll find myself doing a mental voiceover. Here we see the subject clutching his chosen purchases with unusual tightness, as if he expects to have them ripped from his hands by the Scolds of Frugality. Here you can see him glancing slyly from register to register, sizing up the situation as his chance approaches, see how his ass practically wiggles in anticipation of the pounce when it's his turn. No one will be permitted to jump ahead of him, he's clearly nobody's fool. In this way we can observe the long dormant mammalian instincts redeployed in the service of contemporary retail fitness demands. It's nearly his turn, let's observe...wait, wait, we have a development, he's jettisoned the overpriced tin of chocolate-covered espresso beans, he's dumped it in the wire rack with the TV Guides at the last moment, do we have instant replay on that?

I also like to put life experiences and personal preferences into a bewildering array of categories. This secret structure of classifications and nomenclatures can sometimes get out of hand. Take for instance my increasingly unwieldy typology of orgasms. Every time I have one I evaluate it and make a hash mark in a mental ledger. The number of categories and sub-categories has grown immensely. I have whimsical names for each type. There's the Bully Pulpit, the Stevedore, the Count Vronsky, the Snorkeler, the Barking Sea Lion, the Hosanna, the Helen Keller, the Will and Ariel Durant (very rare, ten thick volumes), the Myocardial Infarction, the Uri Geller, the Squeaky Hinge, the Trickle-Down Economics, the Rictus, the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, and the Red-Faced Burgess Meredith.