(I’m new at this massage clinic. A regular comes in and informs me that she has chronic lower back pain. I proceed to work on her, and after our time is up, she approaches the receptionist, aka my boss.)

Boss: “How was your treatment?”

Patient: “It was all wrong. I don’t know what he was doing, but this was no massage.”

Boss: “I’m sorry to hear that, but you see, different masseurs have different techniques and…”

Me: “How’s your back pain, ma’am?”

Patient: “Well, it’s gone, but again, this was no proper massage! I’ve been coming here twice a month for years, and I’ve never received this kind of… whatever it was! Every other masseur has done it properly!”

Me: “And was the pain gone after any of those previous treatments?”

Patient: “No, but what does that have to do with it? This was not a proper massage!”

(The boss and I exchanged meaningful glances.)

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(I live in Israel where military service is mandatory and there’s no shortage of conflicts. But as a mostly non-political cartoonist, I tend to stay away from this subject when drawing, except for this one time. I am sitting in the house of a thirteen-year-old kid to whom I am giving private lessons in illustration. While he works on the comic I assigned him to draw, I sit down to work on my own comic series, which is about stories from my life. He leans over and reads the page I’m working on. It talks about me preparing to get on a bus and head to fight in a war.)

Student: “You were in a war?”

Me: “Yeah.”

(He takes a moment to process this, since this isn’t something I typically talk about, nor do I look like much of a typical “fighter.”)

Student: *now poking my shoulder with his stylus* “I’m just imagining you walking up to enemies on the battlefield and kind of… poking them with your drawing pen.”

(I stare at it for a moment before turning my sight back to my drawing.)

Me: “You’re joking, but I’ll have you know it was a pretty aggressive war.”

Student: *immediately looks regretful and withdraws the stylus* “S-Sorry.”

Me: “We lost a lot of–”

Student: *interjecting with guilt* “I apologize.”

Me: “–good pillows that day.”

(It was silent for a moment. Even though I was not looking directly at him he was glaring at me so hard I could basically feel it on the side of my head. He got up, threw his hands and stylus in the air, and noped out of the room as I burst out laughing.)

(I am selling comics at an outdoor comic festival on a busy street in my city when an older man walks up to my booth.)

Man: “Hey, [My Name]! How are you?!”

Me: “I’m… good?”

(I have no clue who this man is, but he immediately starts talking to me in a way that implies he knows me personally. He also asks how my mother is doing and if her back pain is feeling any better yet, and asks that I tell her he said hi. It’s very common for me not to recognize or remember people, especially at conventions and book fairs. I deal with hundreds of customers in several events per year, but people still expect me to remember that time they bought a book from me three years ago and get offended if I don’t, so I always try to put on a warm smile and pretend like I remember them. I smile and nod, awkwardly sitting at my booth, listening to this guy have a rather one-sided conversation with me and feeling frustrated at all the potential sales I might be missing out on while he blocks my booth. Suddenly, an old woman walks up to him excitedly.)

Old Woman: “Oh, hey!”

Man: “Oh! Hi!”

(They excitedly greet each other and break into an energetic conversation as the woman tries to catch up with him, asking him how his family is doing and immediately telling him what’s new with hers. Meanwhile, I’m relieved that I don’t have to talk to him anymore, so I just play with my phone and wait for them to finish. After a nice, friendly conversation, they finally wrap it up and the woman leaves, as he waves her goodbye. Then, he leans over to me, covering his mouth and whispering out of the side of his mouth:)

Man: “That was all well and good, but I haven’t got a clue who that was!”

(One evening, a man walks into our cafe, and I recognise him as a customer from earlier that day.)

Me: “Hello! How can I help you?”

Customer: “I think I left a small box here. Did you happen to find it?”

Coworker: “I found it; let me go get it.”

(My coworker fetches the box and gives it to the man.)

Customer: “Thank you so much! My antidepressants are in it.”

Me: “I’m glad we could help.”

(The man starts to walk away and I think this is it, but after two steps he turns around.)

Customer: “Actually, it’s ketamine. Want some?”

(My coworker and I stared at him in shock and somehow managed to mumble, “No, thanks,” and the man left. Who offers horse tranquilisers to strangers?)

(I’m at the check-in desk at an airport in Israel.)

Customer: “Excuse me?”

Me: “Yes?”

Customer: “There is only one airport in the USA, right?”

Me: “Only one airport… in the entire USA?”

Customer: “Yes!”

Me: “Please listen to yourself. Are you serious?”

Customer: “…”

Me: “…”

Customer: “Yes, only one airport. Thank you!”

Me: *face-palm*