You ever just… sit there, sort of, at a fancy dinner, maybe, like, some academic thing with the tiny forks, and everyone’s talking about, I don't know, their gap year in Sri Lanka or skiing in Davos? And you’re just trying to figure out which fork is for salad, quietly, like, calculating if your flight back to the burbs, the cheap one, will get you home before the baby sitter charges another hour? And you just feel this… almost biological imperative, like, to not say anything stupid, to just blend, to not stand out as the one who, you know, didn't have parents who could just SEND them to Greece for the summer? It's EXHAUSTING, honestly. Sometimes you just wanna scream, “I GREW UP WITH A DIRT DRIVEWAY!” but you just… smile, and nod, and kinda pretend you understand the subtle differences between Tuscan and Umbrian olive oils. It's like my whole existence is just… a performance.