In order to cure my introversion, she insists I drink a dusky concoction that looks and smells like used motor oil. I complain that her remedy tastes horrible, and she tells me to be quiet and stop whining. “I thought this potion was to bring me out of my shell,” I remind her. “Hush,” she orders, “whining doesn’t count. If you want to be successful in life you must force yourself to be an extrovert,” she explains. “Introverts end up as lonely poets or destitute writers.” “So,” Ahmed ponders one day, “the engine oil makes you an extrovert, and the horse urine helps you crawl back into your
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