I keep Joni Mitchell’s head on my piano. Occasionally I reach up and tickle her under her chin. I say : WHO’S A PRETTY GIRL?

My mother comes out of the bathroom with one enormous black eyebrow drawn on. “HOW DO I LOOK?” she asks.

I create a three-dimensional zombie diorama by shooting staples through a piece of cardboard for the arms.

Leonard Nimoy spots me in the crowd as the ballet is letting out. He sends someone over with his journal. It is full of complicated sketches and writing, and I am impressed. Leonard disappears, and I can’t return his book. So I tear out a blank page, and leave a note on the message board in the lobby of the theatre :

L – I have your book.

I am on vacation in Dubai. After swimming all day in the Gulf, I notice a golf-ball sized blister on my thigh. After some difficulty, I manage to pop it. Inside are dozens of parasitic worms that look like overcooked rotini noodles.

You have two wiener dogs. You prance around the apartment in a costume made out of toilet paper. You say : LOOK AT ME, I’M A STEWARDESS.

We are vampires walking home from a party. You get stuck on a chain-link fence by the chain on your wallet. As we try to detach you, I see that it is not a wallet on the end of your chain. It is a block of cheese.

I wake up in a planter on Front Street with no clothes on.

I find a feather sticking out of a fold in my mattress. When I poke at it, it disappears. After a moment, a head pops up. THERE IS A PIGEON DOWN THERE.

I have a technicolour penis tattooed on my inner thigh.

I have to put my phoenix into the sink every time it is reborn, so that it does not burn down the house.

Two undercover police officers in pink furry coats are investigating the murder of a young girl. They are both Gary Busey.

We are renting a house by the sea. I hear a scuttling noise from the window. When I pull the curtain aside, I find a two-foot lobster crawling up the windowpane.

The vikings were sulking because they didn’t get any of the good songs. THEY REFUSED TO SING. So I had to learn Good King Wenceslas at the last minute.

Talking gets pretty difficult because neither of us has a mouth.

We are moving into a new apartment. As we enter the lobby, the concierge comes toward us. He is definitely Tupac Shakur, and we exclaim loudly at his being alive. He says : SHHHH I GO BY RICHARD NOW. Later, he gives us three passes to the new Star Wars movie, to say thank-you for keeping his secret.

You crouched down and said hey aren’t you lucky? I brought you some alugura. Agulura. ARUGULA. It’s OK, I said. I have eggs.

We are building a tiny house in the woods. Down the road, some people are building a bigger house, on a bigger property. When we find a dead body in our yard, we bring it over to their place. We leave the body on their lawn. We figure, they are pretty rich. They are probably be better equipped to deal with a dead body.

Something at the back of the fridge smells like it has gone off. I poke at it, but it is hard to tell if the dark spots are raisins or mold. I put it back in the fridge, and close the door.

I am flying a helicopter mission in India, in high winds. While trying to land on the top of a building to rescue some people, I chop off a couple of their arms. On my second attempt, I manage to get most of the people off the top of the building.

I am fighting in the Mexican Revolution. We have long rifles, and we are shooting at the opposing forces from a double bed, on a high platform, in the middle of the town square. When we get tired of shooting, we lie down and go to sleep for a while.

After the apocalypse, I try to escape the city. I can’t find a boat, so I launch a bathtub into the river. I paddle with my hands, searching for a deserted island. But all the islands have people on them, and I don’t play well with others.

We each have a rotting old barn board to float on. Our board flotilla prepares to head out to the island on the clear blue water. You want to put your enormous stuffed penguin onto your board. I argue with you for a while, and then I give up.

It is very hard being in love with you in 17th century Amsterdam. I want to wrap my arms around you, but it isn’t socially acceptable. I DO IT ANYWAY. It is raining, and I squeeze you so tightly that you drop your wallet. You say EVERYONE IS WATCHING and you try to pull away. I can smell the wet wool of your sweater. I refuse to let go.

All the women in my life have died. I am put in charge of their skulls. I clean them out with a melon baller, scooping out brains, eyeballs, everything I can find. Most of what comes out looked very much like perfectly ripe avocado. I boil their skulls in a pot until they are clean and white. Then I line them up on the windowsill above my kitchen sink, so I can look at them every day.

I am part of an elite group of female assassins. For my first mission, I must kill a middle-aged woman. She is sitting on her couch waiting for us, and accepts that her death is a necessary part of the society we live in. To kill her, I insert a small capsule into a hole in the back of her neck. She froths a bit, and takes a long time to die. I ask the other women if this is normal. It happens sometimes, they say.