This is what happened: I'm doing dishes, chatting with a friend who has just mentioned in passing that he used to work as a personal chef for Michael Jackson, and we realize that there's a bat on the kitchen floor. We open the door, the bat leaves. And life continues to be stranger than fiction.
My name is Nasreen. I write micro essays, one-liners, and other small things. Most of them were funny at some point, at least to me.