You know that unsettling feeling of waking up from a sound sleep and momentarily being unaware of where you are? When you do experience this, how long does the feeling of disorientation last? Are there other aspects to it? Sometimes I not only don't know where I am, or I'm under the mistaken impression that I'm somewhere else, but I also might not know what time of day it is, or I think I do but I'm totally off base. Like, for a few seconds I'm absolutely convinced it's evening and I'm in my childhood home in Silver Spring, Maryland, when actually it's morning and I'm in Portland, Oregon. I've never been unsure of who I am, although this would be a refreshing sensation were it to happen, like a personality palate cleanser, emotional sorbet. The longest this feeling has ever persisted is a whopping 45 seconds, which happened this morning. That doesn't sound like very long, unless you're the one experiencing it. It's like a little identity crisis.

It's cruel of life to stick us with ourselves without relief. It's like being trapped on a cross country bus trip with a bunch of dull but voluble passengers, except that they're all you.

Me: "Look here, I don't mean to be rude but you told me that story already, and the one about your botched oral surgery, and the one about how you saw Alison Arngrim from 'Little House on the Prairie' trip and fall on the sidewalk, the contents of her purse clattering all over the pavement, and no one stopped to help her. If you don't mind, I'd like to just read my book."

Me: "Fine, there's no reason to be obnoxious about it. Read your damn book. You know buddy, one day you'll be grateful for such warm human contact and camaraderie. It's people that make the world go round! Don't you know that old song?"

Me: "Of course I know that song. But you're not people, you're me. Look, why don't you go up front and talk to the driver. I'm sure he'd love chatting with you."

Me: "This bus has no driver. Look for yourself."

Me: "Well that's just great. Where the fuck is this bus going anyhow??"

Crazy people find a way out of this dilemma, but of course at the price of becoming non-functioning nutjobs. Other escape hatches from the prison of personal identity include drugs, dreams, and shopping at Wal-Mart.