A Tangent Too Far

Arthur Penhaligon stared at the blinking cursor, a digital lighthouse guiding him towards the treacherous shoals of self-expression. The college application essay. A rite of passage, they said. A chance to reveal your true self, they chirped. For Arthur, it felt more like a culinary challenge where the main ingredient was his own mortification. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised to unleash a torrent of adolescent angst and existential musings, or, more likely, a deeply unsettling account of the time he tried to impress a girl by juggling oranges and ended up braining a poodle.

“Right,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble of apprehension. “True self. What *is* my true self? A walking, talking disaster zone? A connoisseur of awkward silences? The guy who once accidentally sent a selfie to his grandmother instead of his best friend, featuring a questionable mustache he’d drawn on with a Sharpie?”

The Inner Critic, a smirking entity perched on his shoulder, chuckled dryly. *Oh, do tell Grandma about the mustache, Arthur. I’m sure the admissions committee will be thrilled to learn about your early artistic endeavors in facial hair alteration.*