I am not a writer. I am not a teacher. These are my chosen disguises. I walk down the hall, sure-footed, professionally dressed, and see my reflection in the fish tank, dark with purple-black rocks, and wonder who that might actually be. He vanishes like a wave and I listen to my steps down the next hall. I think of being something else, a truck driver, a goaltender, an emperor, a porn star. I think of myself in these modes where I might not hold my thoughts so tight, not be so worried about others laughing at my stupidity. I wonder about choosing again, being another me. I look at those around – these nincompoops in nincompoop hats – and cringe. I forge on, alone, less of anything, but less a marionette, a sitcom bit player, stumbling in for my laugh. I have to be happy with that. And tell myself that again and again.