The story of my life.

An online stranger told me that I should write an autobiography. He knows nothing more of me than what I've put on some online profile and words we've exchanged via instant messenger.

"No one would read it," I told him.

"I would," he replied.

To which I said, "I was born to a middle class family on Long Island. I had three birthday parties at Hot Skates in Great Neck. Not much of a hook there."

"I have your hook," came his retort. "Are you ready for it?"

"Go on," I sighed, not expecting much.

And then he copied and pasted my own words--words I'd typed to him minutes before--and sent them back to me.

I tell dirty jokes, I don't leave the room to fart, I don't care about designer clothing or being a trophy wife. I clean up really well, but I'm definitely not high society. I'm too scrappy. Oh, and I used to be a slut and I've had sex with women. So there's that.

Perhaps my life is more interested than I'd originally thought.