Do you know who my father is?

Guys are boring me. Like commas that divide a list, they’re only separated by single generic characteristics, whether it’s a pair of square-framed glasses, a beard, a tattoo-covered body, or the rare possession of a college degree. The initial encounter is always appealing: a competition of swift intellect and unrelenting wit. That’s how they all start. I’m uninterested. I want to find a golden retriever to settle down with, preferably one named Blue or Adam Rindy.