You think you know me but you don’t. I prefer lamps to overhead lights, coniferous trees to deciduous. When I eat English muffins, I butter both halves and spread jam on one and eat the one with jam and butter first and the one with just butter second. I know that’s probably not how you eat them, but for me the second half acts as a sort of palate cleanser. So sit your ass down.

Sometimes I flush the toilet with my foot so I don’t have to wash my hands. Sometimes I imagine middle-aged women naked. Sometimes I snack on frozen broccoli straight from the bag. You can’t tell me how to live.

My girlfriend, she’s not like you think. We make bruschetta together. We send each other suggestive text messages in the middle of the day. We lie in bed and listen to podcasts, with all the lights off. We keep a list of activities we’d like to do together on weekends. Like, for example, there’s a museum she’s never been to that she’d like to go to sometime. I’ve been there, but I’d go again if she wanted to. What. What. Ha, that’s what I thought.

You can’t begin to understand the way I live. I buy silverware at garage sales. I eat Wheat Thins on rooftops. I spit watermelon seeds great distances. Try my shoes on for size. Not so comfy, are they?

Actually, kind of comfy.

Your feet are probably a different size than mine.

Not so comfy after all.

I don’t have a girlfriend, actually. I used to. She was all warm and capable. We decided we were two different people, though. Like I don’t even like bruschetta, really. I mean I do, but I’d rather eat a Pop Tart.

I called up my mom the other day. She asked what was new with me. I said not much. She said there must be something new in my life. I said I couldn’t really think of anything exciting. She said it didn’t have to be exciting. I said I was thinking of buying a new rain jacket if I could find one for a reasonable price. She wondered why I couldn’t just use my old rain jacket. I explained to her that I hadn’t had that rain jacket for over five years. Oh, she said. There was a brief silence. She asked if I’d checked L.L. Bean. I told her I hadn’t. She said she and my dad had recently bought inexpensive but functional rain jackets from L.L. Bean. I told her I’d check out their website. She warned me that the jackets she and my dad had bought weren’t very stylish, necessarily. I told her stylishness wasn’t my primary criterion for a rain jacket. Then we moved on to other topics.

But you wouldn’t know about any of that.

My friends, what can you say about my friends. We go to events together. Have a couple drinks maybe. We make fun of each other but don’t really mean it. We speak the same language. If I tell BP he better stop feeding his fiancée calzones for breakfast and Cocoa Puffs for dinner if he wants a wife who’ll eat corn dogs for lunch, he knows what I mean. And he’ll take my advice. Because he knows me. You don’t.

My little daughter’s so sweet.

Ha, I don’t have a daughter. I tricked you.

I really want a daughter. She’d be the sweetest thing. She’d make grilled cheeses for dinner. I’d do the dishes. Sundays we’d watch Mad Men. Every episode we’d each pretend to be a different character, and the fate of that character would seem to actually determine to some extent the relative success of our coming week. And there would be a mom, my wife. I’ve got my whole future planned out. You’re not invited. So you can go home now. Because you don’t know me.

Maybe you do. Maybe you know me. Some people know me. I doubt you’re one of them, though. The odds are really very low.