You’ve been a lifelong fan of professional wrestling.
You have a girlfriend the dairy stocker claims no one
has ever seen. You know toothy dinosaurs can defeat
fire-breathing dragons because you saw it on cable
TV. You do not drink alcoholic beverages; except for
that one time at your cousin’s party and you felt
awful the next day—your head a swollen watermelon
begging for Gallagher’s sledgehammer. You own
three, maybe four pairs of black Dickies work pants
and you worry that the dusty scuffs, like fluorescent
battle scars, are not the rewards of your working
virtue but accumulating proofs of clumsiness. You
once took a cruise to the Bahamas with your cousin,
leaving from Ft. Lauderdale which posed a series
of issues for your suburban Kendall-locked mind.
You sleep very well at night because you like your
job and exceed expectations. Your older brother
teases you to no end but you know he means well.
You tell girls they are pretty when you think they are.
