Tao of Gabe: On Identity

Gabe the Didactic Beaver here with a tale of mystery, insight, and intrigue that will randomly switch into a “your collective mother” joke without notice.

I’ve been having a problem of identity recently. See, I thought I knew who I was, but it turns out I don’t. I feel like a bad Geena Davis movie (circa 1988-1996).

It all started on Sunday when I decided to leave town on a whim in a move that was rather uncharacteristic of me. It would have been far more characteristic of me to play tennis around my dam in hopes that somebody would yell, “Stop that damn racket!” What? Don’t blame me, my puns are running low on think.

Monday, which at press time is today, I ran into a person I thought was my cousin Dave, but turned out to be my secret twin brother (my family has a lot of secrets, you should ask my uncle-dad about them sometime).

Tuesday, Dave and I ran into a hyper-evolved computer program that thought it was me and wouldn’t answer to anybody, it just kept playing Spider Solitaire with itself and arguing on an Intelligent Design forum of Myspace.

Wednesday, we ran into a future version of myself. We would have thought that he’d come bearing gifts or advice from the future, but no, he was just bored and wanted to hang out with someone who would talk to him. He looked pretty bleak.

Thursday, we ran into a clone of myself who thought it was me. We tried convincing him otherwise, but he made a pretty good case for himself. He did a better job proving he was me than I would have. It was very confusing.

Friday, I woke up in a woman’s body next to a man and a cat. A few hours later—after breakfast in bed—I went to find myself, but I’d come back while I was gone, so I missed me. Hmm. My life sounds somewhat like an annoying t-shirt.

Saturday, we danced the night away. Or so I am told. I forgot all of Saturday because I developed psychosomatic amnesia. All I know is that when I came back on Sunday, a Frenchbeaver I’d served in the front lines of a war with (the war on poverty) had been impersonating me all along. It was like a bad Simpsons episode.

So who is Gabe? Hell if I know. Does anybody know who they are?

Imagine you woke up tomorrow in your mom’s bed, in your mom’s clothes, and in your mom’s body, would you still be yourself? And don’t say that situation could never happen. I mean, I often wake up in your mother’s bed, in your mother’s clothes.

“But not in my mother’s body,” you point out.

Well… it depends on what you mean by ‘in.’

Love, Oedipus style,
Gabe D. Beaver

“Remember Kids: I’m like Batman. I only share my hidden identity with gals whose bones I want to jump.”

Gabe the Didactic Beaver here with a tale of mystery, insight, and intrigue that will randomly switch into a “your collective mother” joke without notice. I’ve been having a problem of identity recently. See, I thought I knew who I was, but it turns out I don’t. I feel like a bad Geena Davis movie…