I had an Ideas problem. Not too few, but too many. I was plagued by them. More of an infestation, really. I needed to get them out of my hair. Literally.

Genie floated above Aladdin, a towering blue know-it-all. “I grant you three wishes, little man,” Genie said. “The rules are—”

“I wish for the ability to stop biting and picking my fingernails,” Aladdin replied.

The corners of Genie’s mouth curled into a small smile. “Biting your nails?”

“Biting and picking,” Aladdin said. “I wish for the ability to stop biting and picking my fingernails.”

If you are an interstellar traveler for long enough, you will want to have sex with an alien.

Even if you usually have the abundance of willpower or dearth of sex drive to resist or ignore temptations of the flesh, the dull and isolated nature of space travel has a habit of turning even the most chaste celestial sightseer into a sex-starved letch.

I find myself in an awkward life-and-death situation. I need a bell, but if I buy my own, it will not work well. And if I ask for the bell, the one I receive will possess fewer protective properties. If I neither buy nor ask for the bell, it’s unlikely that I will get one. The consequences could be dire. Let me explain.

I know I’m not being politically correct, but I hate weddings. It’s not that I don’t like the institution of marriage — it’s the ceremony I can’t stand. It’s painful watching a couple agonize over the number of guests to invite, the size of the wedding cake, and the seating arrangement. And it’s uncomfortable to watch the couple say their vows. You see the stress on their faces that says: What did I just agree to?