“I made a doll of myself.” I said this to a new friend and immediately regretted it. “Do you play with your doll?” she asked playfully. “I do,” I said. “What do you play?” she asked less playfully. I made submarines of my hands and they traveled uncertainly on the tabletop. “Just like usual stuff. Like bank-robbery, Mars exploration, really good dates.” I said. My heartbeat was melting the ice in my glass. “You go on really good dates with your doll?” She asked. “And sometimes we get lucky.” I said. “Does your doll have many friends?” She asked. “It knows a small Godzilla, a Ford Mustang, and a naked Barbie that rides a triceratops.” Ok, this seems like a good point to change the conversation. I was about to when she asked, “Wait, I don’t get it. You like, play with yourself?” “It’s more of a conduit. But yes, I play with myself.” Ceiling fans helicoptered with nowhere to go. The windowpanes longed to be sand once more. Every me in the multi-verse was going through something similar. It was a chain reaction for sure. Every cell in my body said, “I can’t believe I’m this fucking thing.” “Anyway, I brought him with me if you want to see.” I’d already sunk this outing, why not go all the way? I pulled the doll out of my backpack and sat him on the edge of the table. He was a melancholic figure. “You brought it with you?” she asked, flummoxed. “I take him everywhere.”