I am 34, and: am self-sufficient, living neither in my parent's basement, nor in squalor among my fellow bachelors; am mature but fun, glib yet sincere; possessed, I am told, of whiplike smarts; have never been married, nor sired any children; do not smoke, and drink but seldom; and have, in all my life, been guilty of only the occasional speeding ticket, and the intermittent overuse of commas and ellipses . . . (see?)
I am a nice Catholic boy . . . inveterate of twelve years of Catholic schooling, and so (you can imagine), along with that went all the concomitant: rappings on the knuckles with rulers, administered by denizens of both rectory and convent; being compelled to spit out my chewing gum, often at the most inopportune times; and loads of being made to feel guilty, chiefly about sex . . .
Despite all the aforementioned, I like to believe that I am a kind, dependable, generous, if sometimes cynical, guy. My friends, I think, would agree, although I can't say with certainty precisely what my friends think of me; this, possibly, a flaw belonging to my gender. My surmise, though, is they would say the same things (and not only, hopefully, were they possessed of, shall we say, "the obituarist's zeal".