Illustration by Leo Espinosa

The voice you have been hearing on my phone calls isn’t my real pitch. In person, my voice is lower in pitch.

My frequent emoji use is a commentary on our increasingly nonverbal culture.

Routinely calling a locksmith to let you into your apartment is a Millennial thing.

I speak to my parents often to check in on them, because they’re eager to analyze pictures of weird bites, explain step by step how to fill out a change-of-address form, and tell me that feeling infertile doesn’t mean you’re infertile.

I have only respect for robotic voices listing menu options.

The following text messages, to various recipients, were all meant unseriously, and I encourage you to look for context clues: “Are my eyes too close together?” “How many hours do you have to sleep a night for it to be considered mono?” “Do you want to come over and make out?” And “Ha ha yeah I hate Sandra Bullock.”

I do frequently place large meatball orders, but I eat meatballs for most meals, so it averages out to a normal amount of meatballs.

My sister and I care about topics other than nail art.

The late-night calls to the Apple Store are to confirm that they are really open twenty-four hours.

When I called my health-insurance company to ask what implants they pay for, and they said none, this was a prank.

Sometimes it only appears that someone didn’t respond to me, because maybe they stopped by with a gift.

The Internet search “Anonymous” could be a spelling or definitional question.

I cannot account for the three “Sam B”s in my contact list in terms of how I know them or even their gender. Please tell me if you know.

I did not spend twenty-seven minutes composing a text message. I started composing a text message, forgot about it, and then finished composing it twenty-six minutes later.

When I called East Restaurant to ask “if the brown-haired waiter is there, I think his name started with a ‘D,’ ” this was a pocket dial.

My friend Melanie isn’t really mad at me. Consider that there are in-person interactions that you never see, or kind, forgiving letters.

My interest in the anti-surveillance activist group Anonymous is largely because of the Guy Fawkes masks.

It is true that I sent a text message to my brother asking him not to wear his F.B.I. shirt, but this shirt also says “Female Body Inspector.”

I return many of the items I buy online, like the woman-size romper, because these are clearly not things a person should spend money on.

The e-mail address anonymous@gmail.com is probably not associated with the real group Anonymous.

My friends and I don’t like Dwayne (the Rock) Johnson as much as it may appear.

Wfoo00ods is an accepted alternate spelling of the name of a local late-night bar.

Text-messaging a male “hey” after midnight is a safety issue, because I want to make sure he got home O.K.

I do not have the hacking skills I claimed to have when attempting to contact the group Anonymous, although I do secretly use my mom’s Netflix account.

When I said that I wanted to be a spy since I was in second grade, this was in more of a “Harriet the Spy” kind of way.

The Snapchat picture message could not have been of my body, because I don’t have a mole there.

It probably seems to you that the group Anonymous has not replied to me, but maybe they did so in a way that you couldn’t detect, or that I couldn’t detect.

I have limited memory of rapping on the Saturday-night phone calls, but I was later assured that it was rhythmic and important.

The text message “yeah, bedbugs” was an AutoCorrect problem.

The picture I posted of a person in a Guy Fawkes mask could be of any person or just a mask without a person.

The group Anonymous doesn’t seem to have cool parties or any parties.

Still, I do not apologize for offering to the group Anonymous my eavesdropping or spy services that might involve lipstick gadgets.

I’m not afraid of danger.

Just wondering: What did the group Anonymous say about this? ♦