Masking is what I do. To survive. The Normals mask as well. But not so intensely it becomes a fetish. An escape from an Identity you yourself created. I can sit stiffly upright with my hands folded at a student's desk smiling at the teacher. I have no idea why I'm smiling, but it usually works. I make a wish for them to disappear. I still write under pseudonyms. I thought it was obvious. I do not want you to know who I am. My second selves become public so I can go private. They protect me from the visceral hatred that always comes my way. Some of my pseudonyms are women. One teaches English at Brown. One is a sex worker in Los Angeles. One writes a column as someone else. What does it mean. It means I am having a great time. In time. As a framework. I am someone else who writes as someone else out there clinging to the coattails of mainstream culture. We are the marginals and we know it. It feels like I have committed a crime against humanity (I do not have so much as a parking ticket) if the mask slips. Eight hours a day. Inside the iron mask. Do I appear to you as either the Shell Answer Man or someone you might want to know. Masking is a gift from god. I see NYT writers frequently using the term, Channeling. Terminology can be created to Shame Look Down At Your Shoes. Just appear ashamed (over what is irrelevant), be sure to show up. Normals like showing up. They invent new words to describe us hourly. I do know what you want. This is where I am supposed be invisible.