People have called me a cat, a person who meows for no-good-reason, a god, an egotist, a child of my parents, a person with short term memory loss, and a pathological liar.
I accept these things. What are we but others’ subjective interpretations? But I like to think that above all I am illiterate. I literally cannot read these words after I type them.
What is this essay about?
Who I am. Who am I? People have described me as a lexiphane, a hyphen-user, a list maker; a semicolon zealot, a person with short term memory loss, an oxford comma skeptic and a pathological liar.
Those who know me best say I’m indescribable, that they have no idea who I am, and could I please leave their living room and put on some pants and take off my crocs.
When it comes down to it, when it’s fourth and long with 20 seconds to go and we’re all out of free kicks, that’s when you find out who you are. I’m right there with you. We’re teammates. Quarterbacks. A band of brothers. Tom Hanks. Unpaid interns of the set of Castaway. Volleyballs. High school varsity sports. My father’s dream. Carleton. My mom’s alma mater. Leaning in. Sheryl Sandberg. COOs of Facebook. Friend me. Validate me. Am I? I am.