Three shots please, bartender: one for each of me.


How do you choose one topic to write about when you only have a mind full of dryer lint? You know, like a big gray blob of many different colored threads; one that’s nothing but a jumbled accumulation of too much stuff formed into an entirely new object by the unending application of pressure and excessive amounts of being thrown around.

Lately, I’ve felt like many different people.

By day, I’m full name only, I’m a white collared worker (literally). I wake up between 4:30 and 6 am Monday through Friday. I drive my car all over the state in my white collared button up shirt, with my tired eyes and pounding head. I count items, I compare numbers. I speak to no one for hours at a time, until I have to pretend to be nice to fat, unhappy gas station managers who are stressed about my appearance in their store. +1+x2+x4+x2+x9+x2+x4+x1. I got $1049.86 in the candy aisle. That’s -22% variance. May I see your last audit? I smile, smile, smile, smile as I wonder why they haven’t done their job, because I’ve completed mine.

It’s all about accuracy and paperwork and pretending to care.

By night, I’m nickname. I wear tank tops and shorts and high top sneakers and facial piercings and tattoos and socks with images of marijuana slapped all over them and tiedye in the background and I say No problem dude, that’s a sick shirt by the way. Let me know if you need me, I got you. I throw up a thumbs up for good measure. I choose outfits for strangers, as meticulously as I choose them for myself- nickname’s appearance means everything. I climb on racks and racks of shoes to find that golden egg- the shoe my temporary friend has requested, I sing along to the punk jams blasting on the stores XM radio station, genuine laughter, genuine smiles, genuine me.

It’s all about building customer relationships, knowing your product through personal use, and all around just being yourself.

When I get home, my name doesn’t matter, I’m a worm, looking for a decaying body to hang out in: to vegetate, to satiate. I work long days, 6-10 hours at job number one, 4-6 hours at job number two. I get home and can’t wind down. Though my body is too exhausted to actually go out and do anything, my brain is also too wired to sleep. Lately, I’ve been so confused, feeling like I lead a double life. Then I get home and I’m someone else entirely. My room is a mess, but I can’t be bothered to fix it, so I read, I garden, I work on my car, my outward appearance means nothing.

I’m too many different people in one day. I rarely know what day it is, I rarely know how much sleep I’ve gotten, I rarely know when I’m going to get a chance to eat. Sometimes I just drink.

No name likes to drink, curled up in sweat pants and a hoodie, with a book or some anime streaming on tv.

Nickname values friendships and trends, looking cool and feeling cool.

Full name is all about professionalism: being precise, being a starched businesswoman.

Sometimes, when me’s collide or when I slow down enough to let my thoughts wander, I find myself asking, who am I?


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