In one of the conversations my husband and I had over the weekend where we agreed, it was because we were agreeing about something that is wrong with me.
For as long as I can remember, I have been afflicted with CT. Conspiracy Theory.
Skye concurred and zeroed in on a more specific diagnosis. He coined the acronym CTDJ.
“DJ?”
“D’jour.” He explains, “It’s not one conspiracy theory. It’s a new one each day.”
“You’re right! But I’m usually right, too, about my theory.”
“No way. All last week you asked me where the nail clippers were. And I answered you the same way every time. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“I knew you were the last one to have them. I remember things like that, whereas you don’t remember any things like that. So I keep asking, on the off chance that you’ll have a lapse in forgetfulness.”
“But then you found them in the bed.”
“On your side.”
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