“Only prostitutes keep their nails painted for casual occasions.” -Anto, my Italian language instructor.

“You were born naked and the rest is drag.” – RuPaul, my Twitter life coach (FKA @lifecoach)

I hardly ever paint my nails; but they are pink right now, and it’s proved to be more of a lesson in “the art of Self” than I anticipated. I am not sure if it just another one of the postmodern neurosis shouldered by our generation, but minor tweaking of my physical appearance tends to throw me into an existential crisis. I have spent countless hours staring at an article of clothing wondering, who am I? Am I the sort of person who wears this? Only to leave the store with yet another black cowl neck sweater. It’s not tragic, but it’s definitely paved the way for my self-proclaimed, “authentically generic” sense of style. The only additions to my wardrobe in the last year have been a stockpile of monochrome Gap V-necks and middle-of-the road denim. I own three different shades of brown eye shadow.  I only have sex in missionary.

Well, the last party was thrown in for shock value, but you get it, I am lame.

After spa activities over the weekend, I found myself distracted by my own hands at work. Why are Brown Barbie’s hands flouncing around on my keyboard? Oh, those are my hands? Weird. And just as sudden, I became the sort of person who wears pink nail polish. I think I was waiting for the Identity Gods to come to make me over in my sleep; but mostly, I think we are all faking it.