My mind entraps the significant and insignificant all the same. I have an excellent memory. It's worked to my advantage when cramming the night before exams, when quoting a movie with my friends, or when recalling the name of the vaguely familiar face of the girl who seems to have missed you immensely.

But sometimes the magnitude of my memory embarrasses me, and I downplay the visions I recall, or better yet, act as though they don't exist. I'd never tell my ex-girlfriend that I remember the shirt and pants we were wearing during our first kiss. Never let the hot blonde in my criminology class know I can recite her first and last name, where she grew up, and how she likes her eggs. Would never admit I can still name the actors from Full House.

Scott Weinger played DJ's boyfriend, Steve.

I'm afraid of showing people how much I remember about them. It creates the image that I hold things close to my heart that others would deem forgettable. I'm like the obsessive fan who can instantly tell you anything and everything about Emma Watson. You're impressed by his knowledge, but feel a tad uneasy that someone would remember so much about something so unextraordinary.

I am everyone's obsessive fan. I remember when you wanted to be an engineer, the one on the choo choo train. I remember your favorite flavor of Gatorade, Green Squall. I remember that your parents went to University of Nebraska and maintained a long distance relationship. I remember your last name is Miller. I remember that your girlfirend, a girl I've never met, fell in love with you in April of 2000, three weeks after prom. I remember that Usher's "U Got it Bad" gave you goosebumps.

But I don't have faith that you remember that in high school I wanted to be a radiologist, that my favorite ninja turtle was Donatello, that I got my middle name from an old doo-wop singer, that we met playing ultimate frisbee. That my name is Anthony.

And when I've been completely erased from your mind, I wonder why you won't escape mine.