...and I mean, YES, if I had learned my lines I would know exactly who I'm supposed to be, but come on. The script was 12 pages long. And who penned that masterpiece? Jennifer? The girl from social studies who thought Indians migrated here from India? I think I'll stick to works of literature with some established worth. You know, IMPORTANT texts. As I Lay Dying? The Divine Comedy? Although it wasn't really all that funny, was it? Maybe I'll understand it when I'm in high school. Those will be good years; I'll be unstoppable by then! My towering intellect... wait, towering intellect is a cliche. It's precisely these kinds of missteps that I need to be more careful around.

And thanks MOM, for the costume. This tie is far too thin, and the left sleeve is, if I'm not utterly mistaken, an inch short. No wonder you made sure to warn me about your total inexperience with sewing. I encouraged you at the time, that's true, but now you've made your point. This coat is shit, if I may be blunt. And it's not like it provides any clues as to who I'm masterfully portraying in this play. What style of hat is this anyway? Perhaps I was too harsh on her, as she seems to be standing on the very front of experimental, avant-garde millinery. Never before has a hat like this rested upon any human head. I am the first, a pioneer, as is so often the case. Oh, who is spewing that intolerable monologue? That grating voice... it's Katie H., to be sure. If only I could listen for a minute or two and possibly glean some context from her talentless ramble, but no. I cannot listen. I shall occupy myself with these Doritos, making sure to crunch them as loudly as possible.

But no, this is not Lincoln's hat, or Ahab's. Not Thomas Jefferson's, or Tom Sawyer's, or Hunter S. Thompson's. I remain (it pains me to admit it) in ignorance. And if I can't figure it out with my towering (AUGH, work on that one) intellect, the audience stands no chance. The beard is no clue; everyone in history had beards. At least I can be sure I'm not Martha Washington or Laura Secord. And no horse, so I'm not Paul Revere. No bow, so Robin Hood is out as well. But that does not sufficiently narrow down my options! Laura Secord. What did she ever do for the country? Sneaking off from British troops and starting a chain of chocolate stores shouldn't get you in a history textbook. Do I still have that half of a Mars bar in my back pocket? I do!

That cannonfire is my cue, isn't it? When did people still habitually use cannons? 1830? 1920? I have to admit that history has never been my strong suit. I've been saving that discipline for eighth grade. This year I've decided to focus on English literature, and by the considerable accrument of overdue fines on my library card, you can plainly see I've taken it seriously. So laugh while you can; next year I'll be able to tell apart Benedict Arnold from Rip Van Winkle just by the cufflinks and a lone shoelace. Now, though, I'm in a bind. Where did I put that bag of Skittles? Empty?! Impossible! Don't push me, you poor excuse for a public school educator. The blame rests squarely on you that I am taking the stage without any idea of who I'm - oh my, that light is bright. And finally, Katie ceases to speak. Pure silence settles comfortably in the gymnasium. And everyone looks at me, in my lopsided coat but no doubt cutting a fine figure nonetheless. But what do they expect me to say?

"Um, well... Four score and seven years ago it was that accursed white whale that razeed me; made a poor pegging lubber of me for ever and a day!"

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