You think you know a person. And then you find out they hate cats.

How much do you really know about me? Probably not enough. So let me fill you in:

Did you know my favorite color is purple? Or that when I sleep, I have to lay on my right side, or else it hurts the ear piercing I got last May? Did you know I can never sleep with socks on, but I can hardly survive without a ring on each hand? When I'm angry, I cry. When I'm hungry, I get crabby.

One "B" in 10th grade algebra ruined my chances of graduating high school with a perfect 4.0, but in college I worked my butt off just to get a "B." I'm not a very good liar, and Mom knows it. I chew my nails when I'm nervous. And bored. And scared. I can live without makeup, but not without Bert's Bees Chapstick.

I hate when people chew their food loudly. Or type too loudly. Or are just plain loud. I never drive the speed limit, and I'll flip you off if you cut me off. I hate tomato chunks in my spaghetti sauce. I hate tomatoes. But I'll put ketchup on anything.

I'm mostly a shy person, except when I can hide behind an email (or a blog). Sleeping in is the next best thing to a New York strip steak. I've smoked a cigarette, but would never date a smoker. I don't do drugs. And by "do" I mean touch 'em, smoke 'em, like 'em, or tolerate people who "do" them.

I swear more than I should. I make promises I don't always keep. I make tomato soup with water instead of milk because that's the way Grandma made it and it always tasted better that way. I avoid confrontation at any and all costs. I hold grudges much longer than necessary. Mom says I'm too sensitive, I say it's OK.

I eat peanut butter toast almost every morning. And if I don't have a cup of tea by 10 a.m., I spontaneously self-combust. I don't always tell people everything, but those who know most everything about me rate pretty high, and are likely reading this blog thinking, "She's smoked a cigarette??"

I have two cats, Chicken and Harley. I never eat the end of a hot dog, or the last bite of almost any meal for that matter. My family's always called me "Kritta" and it freaks me out to hear them call me by my actual name, which people always confuse with "Kristin," "Kristal," or "Kristi."

So even though I've spouted off dozens of random facts, does anyone really know me? Maybe. Chances are, yes. I'm not that complex a person. A person can only know what you choose to tell them, and what you choose to let them in on may potentially define to them who you are.

If I could require an application for every person I meet, I would. I'd want to know their favorite number (mine's four), their favorite cereal (Honey Nut Cheerios) and whether they went to college (yes). I'd need to know what music they like (almost anything but country), what they do for a living (journalism) and if they have any infectious diseases (uh, no).

But I don't have applications. No one does. We have to trust people to fill us in on who they are. I'm mostly accepting. But not always. Sometimes I have to stick to my own beliefs and ideas.

Just don't ever tell me you hate cats, because then we're done.