An alien living in the fourth dimension, who can walk through my apartment door when I lock myself out for the third time this week.
An alien composed of swirling lithium gas, which recharges my iPhone whenever we’re hanging out.
An alien with a heart so dense and gigantic that it has the gravitational pull of a black hole, with a cosmic energy strong enough to absorb my parents’ disapproval of my passion for painting fedora-wearing pugs.
An alien who has absorbed the complete luminous energy of a quasar, so that I no longer have to visit Target to buy Glade night-lights. (I’m thirty-seven.)
An alien born on a giant gas planet, and therefore doesn’t mind when I have extra cheese in my pasta. If you know what I mean.
An alien who lives outside of time itself, so it always remembers everything I forget to add to my to-do list.
An alien who loves Brooklyn and is down to take the L into Manhattan just for the experience of living in New York, even though it owns an intergalactic spaceship.
An alien as old as time itself, who reminds me to occasionally stare into the cosmos so that I can stop caring about not being on Forbes’s “30 Under 30.” I am a shell of a man—feed me to the wolves.
An alien who has the technology to shrink me down to the size of an atom, so I can relive my childhood fantasies of being a secondary character in “The Magic School Bus.”
An alien robot from a machine world, who isn’t scared to define and categorize our relationship.
An alien who can shape-shift into a turtleneck-wearing Helen Mirren reciting the poetry of Ocean Vuong whenever I’m feeling down and even staring at my phone doesn’t help.
An alien who is part of a hive mind: adorable how it always uses “the royal we” but can never decide on what to order from Seamless.
Honestly? Any alien that will add me to their health insurance.