In the third grade of parochial school, we did a stage production of Alice in Wonderland, and I got to be the Caterpillar. I didn’t get a mushroom to lounge on top of, or a hookah to smoke, but I did get to ask the profound, existential, nagging and deeply scary question “Who are you?”
Who am I? It seems every website I go to wants me to fill out a profile. Other people must love to answer this question.
Even here in my pretty pavilion, the nice but strange folks at WordPress have provided a spot for my profile. I sort of filled it out this way. The best line is this: I tend to gravitate toward the sorts of things that I enjoy.
Honestly, I don’t know how interesting these things really are. If I invented the cotton gin or multilevel marketing, or if I was a reporter who successfully ruined someone’s life, then my profile would be interesting. But I’m the type who benefits tremendously from an aura of mystery. I’m the dude in the Minnie Mouse dress. Behind that is just a lot of mundane facts that make me extraordinarily ordinary. If you scratch the surface of the Mona Lisa, you end up with a scratched painting.
Anyway, I’m still not sure who I am anyway. My mother was a woman and my father was a man, and I seem to have turned out to be a little bit of both.