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I work in a library:
there's no difference between your arms and legs.
I brush my teeth twice a day but rarely floss:
the Hispanic community rejected your dissertation on Lucha Libre and the apocalypse.
I read a book before sleeping:
you are mayor of the poorly clipped fingernail capital of the world.
I kiss my girlfriend in public:
everything you say in your sleep is published in respected Indian literary journals.
I grow a beard in the winter:
don't ask if you can borrow my socks, you invisible tuba.
I often eat cereal for breakfast:
your Pablo Neruda body is a California nightmare.
I wear a t-shirt and blue jeans:
Bill Clinton demanded your immediate recognition as the antichrist.
I prefer cats to dogs:
you knit holiday-themed sweaters for dead television game show hosts.
I remember the past with mixed emotions:
in 1987, you spent 5 minutes hovering near the ceiling of your parent's kitchen.
I receive Christmas cards from close relatives:
the song that Aretha Franklin is singing on the radio is about your irrational fear of birds.
I work in a library:
there's no difference between your arms and legs.
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