I move through this space as a splash of mismatched color against a backdrop of grey suits and ironed thoughts. To me, reality is a tightrope that everyone is terrified of falling off, unaware that the ground is only an inch below them. I watch the white-knuckled grip people have on their dignity, and I see it for what it is: a costume that is far too heavy to dance in. I ignore the script and focus only on the joy of the accident. My mind turns every frown into a prop and every judgment into a shower of confetti.

I am the trick flower pinned to the chest of the group. My function is to be the tripwire for the ego. I am the squeaky shoe in the silent hall, the custard pie aimed at the face of “importance.” I focus on the tension in the room and I cut the strings. By making myself the fool, I create a clearing where the suffocating need to be “right” can finally die of laughter. I turn our shared burden into a parade where no one has to be perfect.