I have a list of things to do. Against all odds, this is known as a “to-do list”; mine is so extraordinarily long that it is actually a “to-do encyclopedia.” It could also be called a “to-do bible,” a “to-do phone book,” or a “to-do treatise on how the Republican Party is transforming America into a fascist regime.”

It’s that long.

Naturally, I ignore it as much as possible, but that leads to embarrassing phone conversations with unpaid creditors and with charities to which I pledged money I did not get around to sending. These people, when they call for the first time, are exceedingly polite, as if they have taken a page from Miss Manners’s book. They beg my pardon and maintain the pretense that there must be some inadvertent mistake, but could I please look into the situation? The next time they call, the mask of etiquette begins to slip a bit. They are in the collection business after all, and minor hints are dropped about ruined credit ratings and blacklisting. The third time, all bets are off.

It’s a wonder I answer the phone anymore. But I do because I am astonishingly social for a misanthropist, and because my to-do list is so long that ignoring its existence takes all of my willpower, and it never occurs to me to call my friends on my own steam, and some of the people who call are my friends, and I’m never in the right room to check the call waiting before answering a ring.

I wish I still had my personal assistant, but I roll with the punches.