In the third grade, my teacher got me a set of Parker pens. I still have the set today, and these pens are what started my long love affair with Parker pens. I try to always have at least one on me. They also make great spontaneous gifts. My teacher thought I had potential. He wrote me a letter declaring that I would one day make a great writer. He was an excellent teacher, but he was sorely mistaken. The original set went unused. They’re still in their original box, rotting away in obscurity, not unlike their owner.

A lot of people were/are wrong about me. I rely on simple tricks to build an illusion of talent. A layer of paint over a pile of garbage, a facade over a crumbling tower. The first trick is maintaining silence until you have something smart to say. This leads to the belief that you only have intelligent things to say. The glasses help solidify my case, and a few white hairs seal the deal. I occasionally throw in a random fact or a funny anecdote I rehearsed and engineered a thousand times to appear spontaneous.

I usually make excellent first impressions. People walk away thinking they met a thoughtful, intelligent, occasionally funny, and most importantly, kind stranger. Aside from my bag of tricks, I can’t deny that I have some modicum of natural charm. It’s maintaining that illusion that is exhausting. The longer you get to hear my jokes and rants, the more likely you are to experience all the baggage that comes along. The more likely you are to get a peek behind the veil.