I have led my coworkers to believe that my boyfriend, DireMole, earns a respectable living as a drug dealer. He may or may not have tats and look like a thug. I let their imagination run wild when strange colleagues ask about my personal life. 
So, how did this come about? Well, one noisy individual inquired where I live… as if it affected him in someway. Once I told him, he said that I live in the hood. The majority of my colleagues live in suburbia and think anything in the city is the hood. You know the type… The- “oh my gosh, I just saw a homeless black person pushing around a shopping cart! Turn around, I’m not comfortable in this area… Lock the doors and roll up the windows…don’t make eye contact OR they will ask us for change!– type”. I’m rolling my eyes as he starts bantering me with his opinion on my “ghetto” community.
Eventually he asks me why I live there…AND, the skin color of my boyfriend…. Once those two questions fell out of his mouth, he was doomed. He insulted me on my living choices and expected me to share more personal information with him… Ha! Please, pass this little number around the water cooler douche-bag. Time for me to play!! I proceed with a long diatribe about how my boyfriend asked me to move in with him since he owned the streets in his part of town. I previously lived in a more- ghetto area than DireMole and there was a series of gang-related shootings outside my apartment. Knowing that DireMole was risking his life to visit me (since he was invading another territory) we decided it would be safer for our well-being for me to move to his crib. Which I did…because he owns the streets and we could live happily ever after with JalapenoRubes and her Somalian pirate army as our security guards. (I left out the part about our dog and the Somalian pirates because that would have made it less-believable and truthfully I didn’t think about it at the time.)
I told my story with a straight face and made it believable. Shrugged it off and acted like it was just a typical thing. Now, the douche bag leaves me alone, but occasionally asks me if I know anything about the recent crime reported in my area.
This example is similar to visiting Starbucks, they ask your name, and you can make up a name just for shits-and-giggles. Ha! I like to tell strangers my name is Violet when they ask. DireMole tells people his name is Fitz. It amuses us temporarily and it really doesn’t matter to them.
Champions of the Human Race 