He doesn’t believe in debit cards and smokes e-cigarettes. He’s also got a lot of house keys but doesn’t know which doors they open. He’s fond of saying wicked smart m!! when something amuses him. His mom does his taxes. He wants to meet a girl who is really a unicorn. She exists, he thinks, somewhere in the dark recesses of an upstate rave waiting to be saved. He follows a hundred burner girls on Instagram and he might recite that one Dickinson poem to get the ladies guessing, keep them on their toes. He smells like sandalwood, drinks Zima because it’s “nostalgic” and calls his bae “MA”. Don’t call him — he’ll call you’k?