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.