I identify as infallible, and I expect you to agree

This has been a very emotional time for me. The time I’m referring to is the seven decades in which I have lived or, rather, until my recent discovery, merely existed.

From the time I was born, I was uncomfortable with the society-imposed notion that I was sometimes wrong. I knew deep down that it was a lie. I knew deeeeep down that I was an infallible trapped in a fallible body. I knew deep down that I’m always right.

It hurt. It hurt to be told by infalli-phobes that I was not infallible. How dare they! Teachers, parents, friends, and aye, even – especially – lovers, told me I was not perfect. They hurt me. That makes them wrong. And evil.  

I was … ohhhhh, it hurts to re-tell this … I was cut from the freshman baseball team when I was about 14. There I was – infallible at ball and all – and the shop teacher/coach – the shop teacher! – cut me. Thinkin’ I should sue his estate, but shop teachers tend to be judgment-proof. No matter. I’m totally over it now.

Now, finally, I’ve finally embraced my true identity: I’m always right.

That’s not to say I’m perfect in every way. For example, I know I’ve lost hair, muscle, charm, bouquet, money, and manners. But in the right-wrong department, I’ve now discovered my identity: I’m infallible.

If you don’t accept and endorse my newly-found infallibility, I will sue you, cancel you, humiliate you. And you know who will win. Because, well, I’m always right.

My pronouns, by the way, are “Your Highness,” “Your Excellency,” “Sir,” “Prince” and “Princess Diana” when I’m feeling a little out there.

Did I say “infallible”? I think I meant “infelicitous.” Maybe “infellatio.” Aw, crap, identity can be complicated.

Next up: “Reparations for the mis-identified.”