I’m always making comparisons. I say things like she looks like her or this tastes like that. Everything is a reference to something else. Maybe not everything—but if there is a comparison to be made, I’ll make it. The other night I tried my friend’s beer, some specially brewed something from a specialty brewery somewhere. It tasted just like chapstick brand cherry lip balm. And I told her as such. I said this tastes just like chapstick brand cherry lip balm. Not just any lip balm. I was specific, because it mattered. She took a taste and said she didn’t get it. But I was sure.

There’s this restaurant in Boulder I love, a mediterranean spot where every thursday they serve my favorite dish—a chicken and potato stew called dajaj. One time my brother came to visit me, and I took him to get my favorite dish. A few bites in, he looked at me and said this is delicious, but I can’t help thinking it tastes like chef boyardee. I said no way. I opened my mouth and stuffed it with the next bite. I tasted it—the chef boyardee.

Maybe sometimes I should keep my mouth shut.