The show’s vast array of hyper-specific teen dirtbags reminded me of how much of my mental energy in high school was spent creating a Taxonomy of Dudes. Dudes to avoid and Dudes to placate, Dudes to fob off with thin promises and Dudes to impress with exaggerated claims, Dudes to dismiss and Dudes to avow, Dudes to suspect and Dudes to solicit something from, I knew not what. I was never called upon to describe this taxonomy, which I spent roughly as much time constructing as I did memorizing the periodic table of the elements.

It was as if I was studying for an exam in maleness that I never actually had to take. If those hours spent watching Doug and Patrick and Mark and Brian try to teach themselves how to skateboard or play Resident Evil IV while simultaneously ignoring me weren’t even going to be on the test, then what did I audit the course for? (“You mean I studied all that for nothing?!?”)

The taxonomic categories—kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, and species—are best read in a faux-relaxed, affectedly chill tone of voice designed (but failing) to mask an inner condition of panic, desperation, longing, bewilderment, self-loathing, and a cold-eyed awareness of the inherent unworthiness of the desired object. American Vandal named them all, and exposed me in the process.

American Vandal made transition shift from a consummation-devoutly-to-be-wished to a missed deadline, something beyond necessity. Suddenly, I was being gently shaken awake by the sleepiest, friendliest boy from AP Stats: “Dude, are you still asleep? You were supposed to be over here hours ago. Everybody’s been waiting for you, dude.”

“If I’m being honest,” narrator Peter Maldonado says at the beginning of the show, “I can’t say I really like Dylan [Maxwell, the titular—or at least central—vandal].” The Dude Taxonomy was intended to serve several purposes, none of which involve expressing any sort of positive declaration of affection or endorsement, which is a real shame.

The Dude Taxonomy is, of necessity, protective, defensive, paranoid, and reactive—it’s ready to reassign and disavow any entry at a moment’s notice in the interest of maintaining structural integrity, even at the expense of individual connection. The attention to detail, the hyperfocus, the relentlessly critical eye trained on mostly-heterosexual male defects I thought unique to my adolescent heart was apparently shared by the creators of American Vandal. The Dude Taxonomy has at least aspirations toward gender-agnosticism, though I always wielded it against, at, and in the interest of, Male Dudes.