I am on a journey; a journey with no beginnings or ends, only middles. My mind is the chariot; my will, the horses; my spirit, the map; my memory, the glove compartment where I keep the map and also breath mints. What course do I set? Do I forge my path through the dark, untrammeled thicket of Individuality, or do I stroll serenely across the spotless shores of Individuality, which is the same thing but sounds better? Or is it best to follow the madding crowd, plying them with listicles about ten kitties who totally own Arbor Day and Disney princesses reimagined as postal workers?