The Book That Changed My Life

So, breaking with genre convention, I'll give you the title right up front: Joyce's Ulysses.
And if you already know it, and you share with me that same incredible, life-altering experience of the book, feel free to stop reading right here.
Still here? Philistines.

Ulysses (my copy, the hardcover Random House edition) is a book that's been with me since high school.
Here's how it happened: back in twelfth grade I met some snobby, elitist piece of ass from the literature track. (And for anyone who can't stand not knowing: no, I never actually ended up fucking her.)
She had her own garage apartment, which at the time struck everyone as incredibly mature and independent.
So, one thing leads to another, I'm over at her place, I duck into the bathroom to take a piss, and there on the floor, lying carelessly, is the book.
Now you have to understand, I was already a serious geek back in high school. Sure, nobody called it "geek" yet, they made do with the clunkier definition: "a guy who's smarter than you and passionate about something other than soccer," but that was me, through and through. And like every high school geek, I watched Monty Python religiously.
So obviously I'd heard of Ulysses, and I knew it was supposedly impossible to actually read, but still, hugely respected.
And at her place, the book was just sitting there in the bathroom. I mean, that kind of slapdash reading you do while you're taking a shit. Casual.
And that's when it hit me: Ulysses is a book that maybe nobody's actually read, but everyone who holds themselves in high regard wants to hold it. And the real show-offs make sure to be seen with it too. Preferably good and beat to hell. Preferably with some improvised bookmark jammed in near the end. And I hear there are people who scribble cryptic notes in red pen inside the book, though I've never actually seen it myself. Wouldn't surprise me if it's true.
Obviously I ran out and bought the hardcover edition immediately, and it's been with me ever since.
I carry it everywhere, and pull it out whenever I sense it's going to pay dividends and advance my goals (which are, pretty much across the board, to fuck).

Long story short, twenty years went by.

Gone in a blink, and there I am, wandering around some courtyard (looking for lemons, because I wanted to make a tuna trap for the homeless, or something like that. Who even remembers, what with the age and the PCP and everything...)
Suddenly some wandering Somali guy jumps me, with a dick that's huge and painful.
He did his thing, got off, grabbed my bag of lemons too, and bounced.
And I'm not ashamed to tell you, I was insulted.
Say something nice. Was it good for you? Did you enjoy it? Give me a compliment.
Promise you'll see me again, even though you know it's nothing but a sweet little lie. Piece of shit.
And I don't forget an insult.
Other things, sure, like I said. Not an insult, though.
So I filed it away in my heart: 'revenge.'

And karma turned out to be Daddy's good little girl, because a few months later I saw him again in some courtyard.
His back was to me, totally absorbed in picking lemons (guess he'd gotten turned on to it, or maybe he was already into it from before, hard to say for sure). Long story short, his mind was elsewhere.
So I pull out my copy of Ulysses, go "pssst," and the second he turns around, I slam the book right into his face. And I must have split his gums wide open with the corner of that hardcover, because he started bleeding, and howling, and jumping in place, the whole dramatic performance. He deserves an Oscar, honestly. An Oscar for Uncle Tom.
"You will never fuck and run again!" I screamed at him, spat, and walked off. So yeah, Ulysses changed my life.
Because not only did it get me laid with heavyweight geek girls (not in pounds, in IQ), it also taught me never to settle for a fuck without at least one warm word afterward. Changed my life.
And maybe you'll call me a stuck-up snob for picking Ulysses. And maybe not.