The life of a model is pretty weird, doubly so if the focus is not on your face, but on your hands. I would be invited to parties, only to get the “Ew!” look from the other patrons when I arrive, and the constant murmuring behind my back would continue until I flash them my flawless fingers and leave them speechless.

My hands’ genes have always been a source of envy for a lot of people. High school was especially rough because those with lesser hands would spread rumors about how my hands have touched all the guys in school, and some have even tried to sabotage them, like replacing my hand lotion with acid. It never worked, of course, because I never did anything without my Louis Vuitton acid-proof gloves. (Don’t bother looking for them; I had them custom made.)

The biggest downside to this life is how difficult it is to maintain a social life in which you give everyone equal time. It’s sad, but with all the people trying to reach me, I can only talk to those on the same or better level, and snub everyone else. I can’t count the number of times I had to tell an old friend to talk to the hand, knowing all too well my hand would not talk back. Maybe if you were cooler, old friend.

Still, I can’t complain. I have benefited a lot from my hands. My professors never deny me a chance to answer their questions, the waiters never ignore my desire to order, and I can hail a cab like nobody’s business.

I was always highly impressionable, so it should be no surprise that I spent most of my childhood trying to become a street fighter. That I could not cast a fireball was not a sign it was physically impossible, just a sign I was not saying hadouken correctly.

I would also get into fights with classmates on purpose, always making sure our brawls happened out on the streets. School courtyard fighter did not ring the same. Sometimes, after a flurry of well-placed punches, I would shout, “5 Hit Combo!” and in my head, I would imagine a sizeable point increase.

My hunger for violence soon grew beyond that. Thankfully, I was introduced to the teachings of mortal combat, and began ending my fights by fatally wounding my classmates. I recall distinctly pulling Peter’s head from his body, leaving only his spinal cord attached. Good times.

Looking back, I realize that being so impressionable was probably not great. I wasted years of my life, and I lost a lot of friends, many of whom I finished instead of treated with respect. And I certainly would not have ended up where I am now, as a dinosaur-riding plumber.

Self-deprecating humor is overrated. Too often my attempts to appear endearingly self-conscious result in a consoling hand on my shoulder, and a heartfelt assurance that there are some women who like guys with a big nose.

And then I would be stuck in that awkward moment where if I do not explain that I was kidding, I look like an insecure loser, but if I do explain, I look like an insecure loser trying desperately to not look like one. A third option, I suppose, would be to greatly exaggerate another one of my features but in a positive way. “I have gorgeous eyes though,” I’d say. “I’ve been told I should be an eye model.”

The hole practically digs itself. Now I’m an insecure loser who tries to compensate. Not even changing the subject to the nice weather can undo the torrent of self-implicating crap spewed so far from my mouth. At this point, I no longer speak unless I can get a lawyer.

I’m done with self-deprecation. Instead, I have come up with a new form of humor that shows much promise, that of self-defecation. Seriously, some of the jokes are so funny, I shit myself.

The ant infestation would’ve been a lot worse if I had not befriended one of them. Jeffrey was surprisingly intelligent for an ant, and possessed a rare sense of humor that never failed to amuse me. His impression of Al Pacino in Scarface was particularly uncanny.

He also wrote a blog that occasionally revealed his thoughts on politics and philosophy, but more often were filled with narratives of his life. It was in one of these latter posts that I found him putting me in a negative light. Apparently, trying to warm up his friends with a magnifying glass was sadistic. Um, hello? I had the air conditioner on, and I wanted to make sure nobody was cold.

We never spoke again after I confronted him about it, and before long, the infestation looked more and more like a nuisance. I did not feel right about using ant traps from the supermarket though, because the image of Jeffrey writhing in pain, waiting only for death, was uncomfortable for me. A friend told me I could introduce natural predators, like small geckos. That was the right idea, but with the scope of the infestation, I decided to go one step further.

I’m sorry, Jeffrey. You were my little friend. I hope the anteaters make it quick for you.

Victoria was always up to something. In the middle of the night, she would wait until I fell asleep and then slip off, only to return in the morning before I awoke. That she could do this so effortlessly was confusing as she wasn’t even a smart girl. When we were still in school, all she got were D’s. Like, 36 of them.

This habit of hers dug into my skin, and I would’ve broken up with her, if not for two huge, irresistible obstacles. First, she was hot. And second, she was a nice girl, always providing me the right amount of support whenever my self-esteem began to sag.

One night, she never returned. A week later, a man in a suit came in the door and flashed a badge. He told me he now has all the proof he needs to lock me up, with locks that cannot be detached by normal men. At long last, Victoria’s secret was disclothed. She was an undercovered agent.

I would say I was booby trapped, but that’s a pun and my possible criminal conviction is no laughing matter.