God hates me. And now I have proof.

See, there’s this guy. Cute. Awkward. I’m hoping smart. He’s caught my attention. But, because God must hate me, the list of reasons why we’d never work is depressingly long, so I hold no hope that anything beyond requisite pleasantries will ever transpire between us. And yet this guy short-circuits my brain like no one else has. When I get within 10 feet of him, my usually coherent mind vacates the premises and leaves a bumbling, babbling half-wit in its place, believing, I guess, that I won’t notice.

I’m not disabled, just a terrible person. The boyfriend sometimes accuses me of being manic when I write to him at 3:30 a.m. calling him a magnificent, exotic pitcher plant or a gorgeously ornamented egg-cup. But not disabled — I feel like that’s an important piece of information before we start.

I used to have a difficult period. In my teens it would come upon me unannounced at 38 days or 43 days, whenever my uterus decided to get busy. By my early twenties, things had pretty much settled down and my period had become just another small nuisance to be taken care of. Most important was making sure that I was prepared for it. Not being prepared for it on one occasion had led to my crowning moment of street attitude, followed shortly by my crowning moment of street humiliation.

The apathetic pre-adolescent child’s tendency towards whining and boredom when required to participate in a family vacation event has been documented by child psychologists. One method of entertaining a child who prefers video games to outside activity was tested on a 10-year-old male subject. The subject was given a slice of Italian bread and instructed to offer it to a flock of laughing gulls in order observe the length of time he would interact with the birds and if he would have a positive reaction, thereby indicating amusement and providing his parents with an extended period of time devoid of disgruntled complaints during which they might dilute their emotional fatigue with an inhibition-lowering ethyl alcohol.

Poop deck—where you walk about on the boat. The classic rude boating term.

Head—the toilet on a boat, and also a term for oral sex that Lou Reed thought rhymes with “head” (I know, it’s the same word!).

Abreast—when two boats lay together in a way the Bible probably frowns upon; a boob.