I do have a boyfriend, although that word feels a little insufficient, these days. We’ve been together for eight years, which means that we’ve been together for nearly a third of my life. In circles where I’m known as Johnny he’s known as Evan Disaster. He’s one of my types, definitely. He’s geeky and compassionate, liberal and sexy as hell. He wears glasses and works in the garden. He reads more than I do (which is impressive) and he’s got money management skills that make up for my lack of them. He cares deeply about science and skepticism and has a crush on Carrie Brownstein (formerly of Sleater-Kinney). He taught me to ride a bicycle and then bought me one for my birthday. He loves Carl Sagan and cute animals. He loves cute cartoon animals even more. He plays guitar in bed and makes vegan cookies that would blow your mind. He reads comic books and academic texts. He doesn’t like it when I talk about our sex life (especially not online) but I’ll say that he makes me feel so good that I can’t help but laugh afterwards. We met while waiting in line at an Ani DiFranco concert and I can remember each of the dozens of things that happened that morning that could have just as easily not have happened, each of the things that led to me being in line at that time, next to that person. That was, without a doubt, one of the greatest days of my life, even if I didn’t know it at the time. I do now.