I have three kinds of memories: Ones that I can't remember^A, ones that I can which actually happened^B, and the ones that I can remember despite them never happening^C.

Examples of A:

• First steps.
• First words.
• Seventh grade

Examples of B:

• Washing the night light
• Learning to roller skate.

Examples of C:

• The cactus that told me my mom was asleep. I was a young child, and one night I needed something while I was in bed. Could've been anything, a drink of water, a goodnight kiss, anything. So I called downstairs for my mother, but she didn't come. Then I called again, and a bright green half-anthromorphic animated cactus (with no eyes but a mouth) came up the stairs, stood next to my bed and said simply, "Your Mom can't come up now, she's asleep." In the morning when I asked her about her messenger, she just looked at me strangely.

We tell our stories over and over to different people we meet during a lifetime. The stories get augmented slightly each time. After a while, it's really hard to remember just how much of the current version of the story actually happened.

What's even more disarming is when, in the middle of telling a story, it dawns on you that the whole story could be an imaginary memory.

You're not a liar, are you? So this troubles you a little. You wince inside, but you continue telling the story, don't you?

The question, then, is this:

Exactly how many times does it take to tell an imaginary memory before it becomes as real as a real memory? I think four, but leighton tells me that the details of the memory are more important than the number. I suppose that matters, too.