The main character has a live-in boyfriend, yes. But he wears glasses. You do not. He is skinny. You are husky. He's an intellectual. You, well... I should probably erase that one. He can't drive a car. You can. He's blond. You tried that once via a drug store highlight cap and stopped after your brothers called you "Lady Hair." He is religious. You are religious too, yes, I'll give you that one. But you invested in crucifix jewellery not too long ago so you'd never make the switch. And yes, the main character and her boyfriend live across the street from a Kingdom Hall and met at university and played board games, but so what? Like I said, he's blond and you're not. Case closed.
I've been thinking lately, Ex, and I think I know what this is really about. You're afraid that the "incident" will come up, aren't you? That the regrettable "episode" was just too funny and horrifying not to include in some manuscript or screenplay or blog eventually. It's risky dating a writer, you always said. And I suppose it is. Not to worry, Ex. Your secret is safe with me. Even if it-which-shall-not-be-named were to make an appearance in one of my projects, there'd be no need for you to fret. No one but you and I will ever know what actual event inspired such a passage. It's fiction, Ex. And as everyone knows, fiction never draws from real-life.
Especially when real-life returns my DVDs.