So what if my self-image is a burly logger? Is it a crime to strive for mountain streams and self-reliance? So what if I don’t want you to see my posing for selfies? I admit to a little Britney on a weekday, but passersby will detect only a squinting Clint and never feeling cold, not even in the grave of winter. Yes I miss the feeling of young fleeting through the tall grass. Yes, I would relive my lonely high school days in a heartclench. So what? I still want to look like an extraterrestrial lumberjack, a man whose extracurriculars involve explosives and erosion. A man with steady handwriting. I want to speak more with my hands and less through my mustache. It’s only broken if you crack open the amphora.