Mini-Autobiography

There's a meme going around, which I've seen all over, but most recently at Flavia's. The meme asks for a 6-word autobiography, which strikes me as being as difficult an exercise as determining what one's only tattoo should be.

I've kicked around a couple of teaching-oriented possibilities:
I came, I saw, I taught.
I taught, I collected, I graded.

And I worked out a few body/gender things:
Lesbian critic in the hegemon's body.
I'm ambivalent about my own maleness.

And then for a few days I've been working on something about role-playing in life:
High performers are still just performing
Authenticity is just a great performance

And then I came upon this line, in Angela Carter's The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman, which I guess makes it Carter's unwitting biography of me (written originally about a character with whom I have little in common):

His performance perfectly simulated an improvisation.

Which gets me to this image, from which my little icon comes:


By the way, performance theory and one's therapist are not good bedfellows.