Dirk is, without a doubt, the most secretive person you've ever met.
In the three years you've been in correspondence with Mister Strider, you've only learned a fraction of the things about him that he's learned about you. You spread your life out before him, a complete open book. You've lived by yourself on your little Pacific island for all of your life-you practically jump at the chance to share your adventures with another person, especially your best mate. From your latest run-in with a swarm of angry winged miniature bovines (you and Strider had dubbed them "Tinkerbulls") to your all-too-vivid dream about a certain tall cerulean maiden, Strider had heard at all. Or read it all, at the times when he wasn't able to get to his phone. Anything Dirk wanted to know, Jake was all too happy to share.
But Dirk never reciprocated. He hid almost everything about his life from view, the same way his ridiculous ani-magna-whosits glasses hid his eyes. It was like everything in his life was held back behind this solid iron-or ironic?-gate with several large locks plastered across its front, and Dirk had all the keys. All of them. And they were locked behind another gate, so not even Dirk could access them. At least, you imagined that was the case. Blimey. Quite the extended metaphor. Or simile? Blast, you are getting distracted.
At first, you hadn't thought much of Dirk's secrecy, had just assumed that perhaps Mister Strider was shy. Or maybe he didn't want to divulge too much to a random stranger he'd happened upon through Pesterchum's "random chum" feature. But even after you had added each other to their chum lists-even after you had chatted for several days, weeks, months, and had worked up a very friendly rapport-you noticed that Dirk shared very little of his own life, of his everyday happenings. Occasionally you would press him for information and he would divulge a small anecdote that had happened recently; but as a whole, Strider kept to himself.
And you didn't really realize it until now. Strider is your best friend, your closest mate, the one you feel you tell anything and everything to, and he for whatever reason doesn't feel he can do the same to you. And it frustrates the hell out of you.
And so, resolute in your decision to rectify the matter, you do what any reasonable young man worth his salt and with his balls still very full intact would do.
"Hello?" His voice is groggy on the other end of the line a few moment later. It takes you a moment to realize that it must be ridiculously early in Texas-bloody time zones.
Still, you're undeterred. "Mister Strider, I highly suggest you grab a caffeinated beverage of your preference posthaste."
You hear something creak in the background. You assume it's his bed, and for a brief moment in time you wonder if he wears those blasted glasses to bed. "English...? What is it, man? Do you, do you-" he poorly stifles a yawn, "-know what time it is?"
"I do, in fact-hence my recommendation of a sugary drink of some sort. We're going to have a proper talk, man to man. And I'm going smash those locks with my raw mangrit."
You facepalm once you realize what you had just said. One five-hour feelings jam later, though, you're glad you pummelled the devilfucking dickens out of those locks.