"Guess how many cookbooks I have?"
"I don't know, three hundred?"
I look around the house. Every bookcase is filled with cookbooks, so I up the guess.
Then I remember, the sun room that I had cleaned out and organized, isn't anymore. It is filled with crap, Mark's crap.
"Please don't tell me you have five hundred cookbooks Mark."
"No, I don't. I have five hundred, and eighty seven cookbooks."
It turns out that Mark is a borderline hoarder. He is this far (my fingers are a quarter inch apart) from being on that cable television show where cat ladies live in filth surrounded by mountains of stuff. In fact if you ever don't hear from me for a long time, send the police. They will probably find me buried alive in Mark's crap.
"Five hundred and eighty seven? That's crazy, what the hell? Not in your whole life can you ever use five hundred and eighty seven cookbooks." I yell incredulously.
Mark looks down, and then perks up when he hears the mailman out front.
"Five hundred and eighty eight."