A couple was making love outdoors while a grizzly bear watched—it was a tv show— and I thought, this reminds me of me. The romance? The dominance over the natural world? Five minutes before, I had changed a flat tire so fast I impressed myself.

Some believe there are black bears nearby, but I haven’t seen one. Come to think of it, I doubt I would be comfortable naked in front of one, and if I were caught, I’d probably snatch my pants before running. Still, the comparison, in abstract, stands. Further still, I don’t put myself in bear-situations.

I am mainly private, wear socks to bed for emergencies. This accounts somewhat for the lack of followers to my personal faith and for never riding around a room on a chair. I think it’s wrong to brag and everything is a brag. It’s hard to tell stories.

There is a woman somewhere who thinks my email address is hers. She is looking for a job and I get messages about it all the time. I’m not so cruel as to sabotage her, but I’ve also stopped politely writing the employers back, explaining the mistake. She could be starving with the lights turned out, but the nature of the problem prevents me from contacting her. I don’t get much email otherwise.

Because I’m professional, my email address is simply my name and, somehow, she thinks she’s me.

This wedding ring is not private. Tattoos are not private. I walk in contradiction.

Grace said I smell like rubber from the spare tire. I told her her she was glue. I have told her only about the fungus under my toenail, but I saw little Chad staring at it on the beach while in flip flops, which were themselves an embarrassment. It’s so ugly. A doctor examined me and suggested a tiny bottle with a tiny brush. Give it six to eight week.

I can wait. The thing about privacy is you wait for someone to notice. Maybe intrigue with silence. I hope you’re not accused of snobbishness, which is a danger. I have admitted now to my temporary deformity, but that’s not the same as displaying it.

When buying a new tire, I observed a dick, a customer, ask the sleepy clerk, “You doing ok, buddy? Out partying too late?” To which my grease-stained hero replied, “I don’t party.”