"what do you do?" a question, sure, but also a demand a demand for a story that makes sense that fits the boxes the neatly labeled shelves of expectation and isn't it funny how many versions of the truth flicker behind your eyes fighting for the right to be chosen, the pottery instructor one, all competent hands and clay whisperer maybe, the i'm between things and figuring it out still terrified version, the one that tastes like freedom but smells like fear, or the one they want to hear, the palatable lie that keeps the peace because the truth is a jagged thing, a wound that won't close. throat burns. tired of the costume changes. The mental spreadsheet of possible selves, each with a different risk profile. I used to think authenticity meant picking one and sticking to it, but now I wonder if it's about being honest about the spreadsheet itself. "Yes, I contain multitudes. Which version would you like to meet today?"