Somewhere among the multiverse, there’s a timeline where I actually am what everyone assumes me to be.

You see, I’m the type of girl who looks like a typical liberal do-gooder. I have a face that people see and assume that they know what my political predilections are. (Or maybe they’re just projecting.)

When I reveal my Trump status, people are often surprised. Shocked. Whatever. They don’t expect me to be a supporter, much less an enthusiastic one.

Granted, these people usually don’t know that I’ve eaten no fruits or vegetables for over a year, or that I’m a Christian, or that I secretly want to be Galadriel when I grow up. People also tend to assume that I’m a very fastidious housekeeper and am I very much NOT.

There’s a lot you can’t know about a person by looking at them.

And that’s why I wonder if somewhere, somehow, there’s a version of me that accepted the wrong premises as truth.

That girl is bought in to the narrative, freaked out that the Big Orange Meanie is president, and always believes women. She loves that the Punch Brothers’ new album is full of references to DJT because it makes her feel better, too.

She probably has cats and cleans her house top to bottom everyday.

That girl is not me.

I do find it interesting how a musical artist that I resonated with as a teenager has gone on such a divergent path—to the point where it’s sometimes difficult to identify with his music anymore. The chords are there, the music, but something in the spirit is gone.

Is it me?

Or is AU Me off somewhere happily listening?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I took this path. I’m much happier being out of step with everyone around me than I ever would being a happy, dumb group member.

But sometimes I wonder.