I’m no stranger to being inauthentic; I’m fake as hell. Every time I come down from my mountain to deal with people, I have to slip into a dull, insipid, lackluster, irksome, ill-fitting, moth-eaten and out-of-date character. I can’t be myself, can’t speak openly, can’t steer toward interesting subjects. Instead, I always have to skulk around like I’m guilty of something. That feels weird because, by my lights, I’m the most interesting person ever. (That’s how I think everyone should see themselves.) These subjects I enjoy and with which I am tolerably conversant are the most fascinating topics in the universe to me. If I could invite anyone from history to dinner, I’d invite me.  And yet, when I see myself reflected in the eyes of otters, I seem dark and closed and dull. 

(I know it says otters. I’m leaving it.)