#douche tf

My partner commented right as we entered how luxurious this place felt, as if we had stepped into a reality TV villa. In addition to that, inspecting every corner of the still furnished flat, nothing looked out of order. As if its owner just went away for the holidays.

Moving on to the balcony, my partner noticed a chonky and very gaudy chain abandoned on a table. That thing looked like it was worth hundreds, and it has been left here, and not even stolen ?

My partner told me that it’s the kind of chains his son’s obsessed about. I mentioned that he could take it home, after all it will be pawned or even thrown away if we don’t use it. I even dared him to wear it, telling him that he’ll become hip with the kids.

Laughing with me, he puts it on. But just as the chain fell on his shoulders, his heavily receding hair suddenly filled up into a fluffy quiff. Ironically, the hair that did exist before that was shaved down to a stubble.

As that quiff was bleaching down to a gingery blonde, his skin tightened and smoothed to a youthful glow. His facial ‒ and, in fact, body ‒ hair fell down on the floor as his chubby figured slimmed down to a fit runner’s build.

His suit dissolved into distressed blue jeans and a bright red t-shirt, revealing a tattoo on his arm, his town shoes morphed into red and white sneakers that his son would want to wear, and his watch modernized, becoming a smooth and high-tech electronic watch.

Yet, as it all happened, my partner didn’t panic or comment on it, as if this was normal. In fact, he looked more and more chill, in contrast to the eternally-stressed partner I knew. And as small golden studs implanted into his lobes, he leaned on the glass railings, and looked at me with an unfamiliar gaze.

Suddenly, with the rough voice of a teen wanting to sound more masculine, he asked :

"Hey, geezer ! Whatcha doin’ on my balcony ?"

I do love when the men I handle are obedient little sheep like you. I’m going to start by putting a very special product all over your hair. Feel how relaxed me kneading your scalp makes you. I won’t be spoiling what its effect is just yet, but you might just feel your hair slither around as we focus on something else.

You see, I have a problem with your face. It looks too… normal, yeah, that’s the word. Not worthy of being at the forefront of social media ! So let me move around your facial features so they’re more handsome and masculine, defined jaw, full lips, perky nose… all that ! And let us not forget to also sculpt your pecs, to carve abs on your belly, and to otherwise make you more muscular ‒ but still slim enough to get some of that metrosexual appeal ! Muscles are the key to the recognition you’ll crave !

Ooh, I can see the product is already having an effect ! I can see your hair curling on itself, making it into a puddle of large but tight curls ! But we just need them to gain a bit more definition before I can set them up right ! So I’ll just continue working on your face a bit.

Let me apply this cream. It will make your skin smoother and warmer, correcting years of mismanagement. You’re welcome ! I’ll also sculpt your eyebrows so that they’re thin but straight, definitively masculine but more refined. Finally, let me apply this other cream… yeah, feel how hairs slither out of your skin on your upper lip and your chin. I don’t know if you even wanted a goatee, but that doesn’t matter, now, does it ! You’re a slave to the trends, and if the trends call for a thin mustache and a chin patch, you’ll grow that !

Ah, great, now your hair is all defined correctly ! You’re looking so good like that, but you could look even better ! Let me take the top portion of your hair, fasten it to a metal hairband, and there you go, a big mushroom ! Now, we just need to shave the rest down to a stubble, and fix your hairline to be nice and square… yes, you look magnificent. Sure, it’s a bit ridiculous to have such a big crown of hair suspended on top of your head, some may even call that cringe, but you know you look good.

In fact, let me tell you a secret… you’re the hottest of them all. People mocking your style are just jealous of how fucking good you look. You’re such a handsome bro, you deserve to be loved and admired. You’re fueled by recognition from others, and put all your power in making yourself look hot.

Go to the gym, define your hair, do a skin routine, get yourself the latest style ! You can’t let others defame you, or even worse, ignore you. In fact, let me fasten those diamond studs to your ears… there you go ! Free ear piercing ! These are so big and imposing, people will know to listen to you ramble about sports and your own greatness. Anything else isn’t important.

Ah, you look good, now ! Yet another douchebag to let loose on the unsuspecting world ! Caring about nothing but yourself ! You’re gonna do great out there, bro.

Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t know how you look ? I guess I left you under for too long, I must apologize !

Now, wake up, fuckboy !

“Welcome to the normal barbershop ! I… see you’re accompanied.”

Indeed, when you enter, the severe face of your mother is revealed behind your shoulder. She seems dead set on having a say in whatever you’re going to do, no matter how uncomfortable you look. You know that, as you’re a few years into university, you should really, like all your friends find yourself flat or flatmates, yet the only ones who would qualify are all related by blood. However, with the sky-high price for property, inflation eating into everyone’s pockets, and uni being just an hour away from home… the choice is obvious.

Even if it feels a bit constraining to have your quite controlling parents breathing down your neck.

“I…” You start, before being cut by your mother. - My son here needs an appropriate haircut. This… clump he caries around has to go.”

It is clear for everyone in the room that she wants you to have a haircut, not you… and that she seems dead set on you cozying up to the upper echelons of society. Not an objectionable dream, but not one she should force onto her kid. This malaise that grows out of it is broken by the arrival of a tall but thin guy, dressed in all white polos and chinos, wearing an expensive golden watch, luxurious black sunglasses and a single stylish golden earring. His jet black hair is parted in the middle in a tasteful style stinking of money – and hairspray – accompanying slightly folded amber eyes that frame a very handsome face.

“Greetings, miss.” He announced rather dramatically, smiling in a manner that would swoon anybody. “Don’t worry, I, Jonathan Nasukawa, heir to the famous Shimotsuke family, from the Uesugi clan, and to the de Clissons family, who studied under the famous master barber Dr. Davod, will take care of your son. I’ll make sure he’s… up to my standards.”

You are not impressed. In fact, you’re more weary of whatever bullying he may decide to make about your lack of self-care, or your lower social class… but your mother is comfortably taken by the smile of that certified ikemen. Her severe expression morphs into one of the most benevolent smiles that a human can make, and pushes you to him by your shoulders.

“My son will be more than honored to be able to be helped by all your expertise. I’m sure that, once he knows how to properly act, he will thank you for the immense service you are giving him.”

The ikemen’s smile becomes sinister, somehow… though your mother stays just as smitten by his through the roof charisma.

“Rest assured, he will.” His smiles becomes normal once again, as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Now, if you may, I have some work to do. - Well, I wouldn’t want to prevent you from doing your job… I just so happen to have a few things to buy, so I’ll get to this now !”

As the exchange devolves into civilities, you start advancing to the barber chairs, where you guess your mane that you actually really like is going to get chopped off. What a waste, you love the feeling of long hair, how it floats, how freely you can shape it. But before you can take a step closer, you are stopped by a soft hand on your shoulder. Expecting it to be your mother, you put your hand on it and turn around… only to notice it was Jonathan. The barber.

“I was going to say that we are not going there, but… are you trying something ?”

You vehemently deny, red appearing on all your face, making him laugh very elegantly.

“Hahaha ! Your expressions are so precious ! No, we’re going inside that special room, with the elite setup, for maximum comfort !” You stare at him, unsure of why he’s trying to do by playing into your mom’s delusions. “What, it’s comfortable for me too ! And it’s topical !”

You smile from that defense that paints an image quite different from the one he casts, that more of a laid-back and less… arrogant than the uptight and quick to point out ancestry he seemed to your mother. He makes you sit on the chair inside the private room, that feels incredibly comfortable, as he takes out multiple products, clippers and scissors.

“I’m sorry your mother made such a scene… I mean, we’re supposed to be the one uncomfortable, but you must have been so ashamed hearing her spouting nonsense like that.” Of that you agree. « Now, before you start making up ideas, I’m not a noble or anything. I just said that to impress her, because I know it works – I’m sure she would faint if she knew I lived in a small flat with three roommates to save money ! Though the lineage is correct, it doesn’t come with fortune, unfortunately.”

He speaks so much that you have a hard time saying anything. And in the time he took to explain every part of his trick, he washed your hair and put in some weird lotion. How industrious he is, expertly manipulating your hair while not stopping one second from talking… Although his claims to famous families were bogus, his claims to skill were visibly warranted.

“Now, let me talk about what I’m going to do. See, I’d like to keep your hair. It’s nice and long, and I’d likely trim it a little and find some ways to dress it so that you can have a good cut that will sway even the straightest of guys and the gayest of girls. « However… due to the whole situation, I have to give you a shorter cut. See, I know her type. She wouldn’t find anything but that a proper men’s cut. But don’t worry, I have here everything necessary to make you own that short cut.”

And as he said all of that, he used scissors to cut down most of the length, the locks falling one after another, in a shower of hair. Although you feel very hurt by this development, you can’t stay mad too long with him overwhelming your brain with words… Actually, is that a strategy he’s using ? As if he was-

“So the recipe for a short cut in the current trends is the curly undercut. Thankfully your hair is already curly, so I won’t have to change much, but there are some details that I’ll still have to fix. « But right now, I’m concentrating on the most important : the shape. Now that most of the mass has been dealt with, I’m shaping it so we can find the modern shape we’re trying to achieve. Now, you may think that looking like a mushroom is cringe… and to be honest, you’re right, but it’s only cringe if you of think it as much.”

God, he was so fast ! He drew the clippers, put a short guard, and tore through the sides of your hair, leaving only short fur ! And he even had the time to make the short part two-tone, with it being a smidge longer when connecting with the top of the hair ! He really is gifted ! But as he did that, what he told you about cringe kept on making rounds in your head. Although it feels almost wrong, like an incorrect leap of logic… you couldn’t find how. You could only find more ways in which it was correct.

If you’re the one to wear such a cringy haircut… should you be revising your stance on it ? It’s not as if you could get rid of it that easily… And looking at how much expertise Jonathan puts in cutting your hair… should you even ? Should you not accept that it’s your hair, and be… proud of it ? Of having your hair cut by such a gifted barber, who chose such a hot and trendy cut ? That thought feels weird… kind of… intoxicating. Like it’s opening a door that should not have been open, making you feel hotter than ever.

Because you decide that you are hot.

“And then, I just have to cut down the top to an acceptable volume ! See, it’s all about volume, about looking big and fluffy. It’s a pain to style – believe me – but it’s worth it, because it’s such a show off. « You know, you have a great nature of hair, you should absolutely not spit on that. Many people use chemicals to get a result resembling your hair, yet you have it naturally ! What better thing to show off !”

On that time, he switched to scissors and has cut the top of your air so it only kinda looks like a mushroom. Now, everything fits together… and it makes you feel so much hotter. It’s not cringe, you’re just hot, and you love it. But your brains latches on how high-effort this whole style is, and how great your hair is… Sure, you know that you check out a lot of guys who have great muscles, handsome faces, and generous crotches, but you never thought of that concept applied to you.

You never felt like you had anything much to be proud of, in your body, but seeing how he praises your hair, how many guys want to have hair just like yours… it makes something click for you. You do have something to be proud of. And it’s something others should get to enjoy. So why not use these high-effort techniques ? Why not put in work ? And what then would be wrong to get feedback for this work ?

It all feels so intoxicating… It feels so wrong… But it’s so good, so attractive, and it makes you so, so, sooo happy. So why stop ? Somehow the thought of annoying others by showing off just… doesn’t compute anymore. You’re happy showing others, they should be happy seeing what you’re good at.

“Now, please lie down in this machine. I know I said that your hair had a great nature and didn’t need to have any chemicals to get it like that… it doesn’t mean that it is well-taken care of.

« Thankfully, thanks to the product I put in your hair and the machine here, it should be looking good as new ! Don’t worry if it feels a bit weird at first, everyone gets surprised by it !”

As soon as you lie down in the machine, he activates it and goes out of the small room. You are left under the big… thing ? rectangle ? You can’t actually describe it much, it’s just weird. But it hums, and it feels quite warm… almost as if it was frying something. You don’t know, your head is just empty at the moment.

Suddenly, you feel your arms twitch. Then your torso. Then your core, and your legs, and the rest of you body. Thousands of small pricks invade your body as what was just a weird occurrence becomes something very uncomfortable. Your muscles are all twitching, all aching as if they were suffering from over-exertion. You don’t quite know why, and you would like to know why, but your head refuses to think of any answer, as it feels like it is absolutely frying inside the warmth of the machine.

You hear through all the noises of the machine the sound of tears, but don’t make much of it, as the rest of the sensations were invading you. Everything feels uncomfortable. You want to be out of this machine as fast as possible. But simply leaving the underside of the rectangle never occurres as a possibility in your embattled brain.

No, only bips from the machine, signaling it was turned off, broke your frying brain from utter nothingness.

You look around, seeing the tatters of your clothes on you. You think a little, when you realize that you should probably take them off. But then, the subsequent problem arose : how to cover your muscular body. Thankfully, when standing up, you see a collection of luxury boxers, fine jogging pants, a puka shells necklace and a black iPhone. You put them on, finding them to meet your standards, when suddenly, you see a mirror. Not the one in front of the barber chair, another.

Were you always blonde ? You can’t really remember, but… it’s the perfect position to take a selfie, isn’t it ? So you open the phone, enter your code, and move it up and down until you get the lighting perfect. Then, you take it.

Perfection.

Its very definition.

You look so hot, everyone’s gonna fall to their knees.

And when you leave the private room, opting for a heavy gait to show off your ripped muscles better, you notice your mom, who looks half-proud, half-horrified at you. But you don’t really care for her, what you really care about is all the people staring at you, checking you out. Even Jonathan Nasukawa, that ikemen, hyper-hot guy who cut your hair, looks at you proudly.

And as you rock your few remaining braincells to find somewhere you can show off better, you can only find one appropriate place to go.

My name is Killian Ndiaye, and I’m intimately acquainted with its bad side. My father died while I was young, leaving me to be raised along with my younger sisters by only my ma. We weren’t rich by any means, so it meant that my ma made ridiculous hours at her job, and that us, when old enough, had to pitch in with part-time jobs. Thankfully, I was quite an intelligent kid, and still managed to have quite good grades. However, that didn’t mean that school life was easier, as I was always labeled as the “poor nerd” in class, wearing the few simple clothes I owned and sporting the buzzcut my ma cut for me. As she always said, others just cared more about looks than about life.

However, this was not the last of my struggles, quite the countrary as it turned out that I wasn’t the cis straight man I was supposed to become. High school was formative in that sense, as it’s in there that I noticed that I wasn’t into girls like the other guys my age were, and like ma expected me to be. I… had a very hard time admitting that I was gay. Ma always told me that those “queers” didn’t know what life was like, and that they were just living carelessly, wasting their parent’s efforts… I didn’t want to wast my ma’s efforts, as I love her, yet I couldn’t hide from the truth. I’m gay, and that’s just it.

I vainly thought that I just needed not to be like “those gays”, those who live in the hairdresser’s, the clothing store and the clubs, looking all like fairies, and that everything was going to be alright. How shameful it was when, at 17, I started questioning my gender, so disconnected I feel to masculinity and other men’s experiences, and so uncomfortable I am with the facial hair that just won’t stop growing… I thought that if I just suppressed it, if I was just the most “normal” I could be, then everything was going to be alright. That perhaps, I just needed to alleviate a bit my dysphoria, and everything was going to be alright.

However, my ma is a very observant person. As I was approaching majority, she started to make comments about a girlfriend, and about me stubbornly shaving my face. I just dismissed those questions, still foolishly hoping that everything would end well.

When I was 18, she asked me whether I was gay. I couldn’t lie to my ma.

And we arrive to now, a few years later. My ma “didn’t want a fairy in her house”, so I stayed with a few friends. But when they went to college and I couldn’t, I was left to fend for myself alone. Now, I live in the streets, and spend my time alternating between finding part-time work and begging in the city. I do it whenever I need to go somewhere, and though I don’t do anything illegal – I even spend some of my meager funds on a transports card – it absolutely does not mean that I’m suddenly well-liked.

Few are those who spare any money. And on top of that, because I’m a black man, I hear plenty of racist comments. As if they thought I didn’t hear them asking me to “return to my country”, even though I’m already there… And the most depressing fact of this all is, because I can’t really shave anymore, my dysphoria is going through the roof. My life is hell, but I keep at it in the vain hope that I’ll be able to climb back to a respectable life.

However, today was especially terrible. I had found an interesting job of installing the equipment for a big concert, and actually ventured quite far from the center of the city to go to the big theater. When I arrived there, they told me that they weren’t looking for anyone, they had all the help they needed. Dejected, I left, but as I was leaving, another young guy entered. I hang out a bit to hear what was going on, and I heard that he was hired for the temporary job. I guess they thought I would steal from them or something… It’s so unfair ! I love music, and at school always wanted to do something that had a link to it ! I was so hyped to work in this job ! I thought that if I worked hard enough, people would even notice me and my good knowledge of the equipment, and would consider me as a good partner for further work ! But, as ever, all those dreams were, once again, cut short…

On the way back, I started begging, but as I reached the back of the first bus, I saw what looked like a man in a dress, wearing makeup and nail polish, being harassed by an older-looking woman.

“(…) and any sensible person ! How do you expect me to do nothing while a pervert is preparing to go to women’s bathrooms and assault girls ? You should be ashamed of endangering others ! - Miss... please stop… I swear I won’t do anything bad…” The person in a dress said, clearly on the brink of tears. - And how can I trust you ? I know you snakes, you’re just saying this to then go and continue your business unharmed !”

As she was about to continue harassing that person, I decided I needed to step in. I want there to be justice at least somewhere, even if it can’t be in my life. I step between her and the person in a dress, and ask calmly :

“Miss, please stop. They are clearly really hurt by your comments, and everybody around us is uncomfortable with this display.” I say, as I watch everyone else looking away, as if nothing’s happening. Courage shines ever so hard… - Oh, now a beggar is coming ? You should go back to your country or find a goddamn job rather than profiting off of our hard work !” She said, clutching her designer bag, as if I was going to steal it. - Miss, these comments are really racist. Please stop.” I stay, choosing to remain calm and composed. - What, can’t I say what things are ? That’s really all the wokist’s fault, nowadays we can’t say anything, we have to walk on eggshells at all times ! I’m not racist, but if you want racism to stop, you have to stop overreacting at everything !”

She looks at me with a smug look, as I’m about to lose it. I can’t answer anything, because, unfortunately, one can’t argue out of nonsense ! Especially someone like me who’s not trained in rhetoric – I had part-time jobs at the time ! … at least, I can shield that person with a dress from further harassment. I look behind, and see them smiling to me, thankful for my help. If I can help at least one person, I’ll be happy.

Suddenly, the sound of thunder rings in my ears.

No one seems to be bothered by it, save for the old woman who seems to be just as uncomfortable as I am. I turn to see the person I was protecting, however their eyes glow an unnatural color… What’s- Before I can even try and understand what’s happening, a headache strikes, and I instinctively put my hand on my face. Fuck, I hope I haven’t gotten a cold or something, medication is hard to come by…

As I’m holding my face, a few fingers make their way in my beard (ugh). But suddenly, I feel it shifting. Intrigued, I touch my beard more thoroughly, and feel the hairs receding, growing smaller and smaller, until they finally come back under my skin. How did that happen ? I mean, I like not having a beard, but still, it’s not normal… I look in front of me and it seems that the woman is losing wrinkles. What’s happening !

The bus stops. Quite a few people leave. Why was I here ? … yes, I had to do something with the people on it… was it work ? I don’t quite remember… However, as I look around me, I suddenly notice that the people who looked away previously looked a little bigger. As if they were… bulking up ? As I notice that, I feel pain on my body. When I look down, it seems that my undernourished body looks more healthy… No, not just healthy, it looks… muscular ? I’m… inflating, somehow ?

The bus starts again, yet this time, its course seems smoother… I look in front of me and notice that the old – now young – woman’s hair is now tied up in a bun. Almost instinctively, I take my hand to my hair, and feel it moving. What was a short messy afro is growing, however, something even weirder happens. As it grows, I feel strands joining, growing into large spirals. It’s no longer a sponge-like mass, it’s more like… coils ? My hand presses less and less. I need to be careful about my hair, I don’t want to have to go to the hairdresser again !

I stop myself at my thoughts. Hairdresser ? They’re a waste of time ! Only those who don’t care about life – or don’t have to care about life – go to those and try to look good. Yet… it feels good. No, actually, it feels... right… Like, it’s right to want to look good ? I mean, look at me, I have muscles, I have good hair, I look good ! Suddenly, I feel my t-shirt straightening and softening. I look down as its color drains, and it splits in the middle. I smirk, and as the collar hardens and folds, I open it the shirt up to the middle of my chest, right as buttons materialize.

The woman in front of me, now sporting a much more formal costume, sighs and gives me a black jacket. I take it and put it on expertly on top of my dress shirt, fitting it right down to the belt holding my dark jeans. She then sits on one of the seats, more in the front of the bus. She really looks stylish, as one should… after all, fashion is the be-all and end-all ! One of the other passengers comes to me, quite a muscular guy dressed in a black suit, and starts putting makeup on me. I close my eyes as foundation, concealer, mascara, and tattoos are put on my face and body. I can do it all myself, but having a professional do it is always better. That’s why I always go around accompanied.

I suddenly open my eyes. What the hell is happening ! I don’t have a tattoo ! I don’t do makeup ! Hair and clothes suffice ! ... I scratch my shaved sides, until I reach my earrings. Yeah, it suffices… good hair, good clothes, good makeup and good accessories… it suffices…

“Are you good, Mx. Ndiaye ?” The makeup artist asks me. - Yes, don’t worry, I’m good.” I say, with a deep yet feminine voice. It seems wrong somehow… - Do you want to see the results ? - Of fucking course !”

The makeup artist grabs a pocket mirror and holds it to me.

Oh yeah, I’m so fucking gender ! Plus my necklaces oozes fanciness. Like, it makes me look so fucking rich ! I look around me. The vehicle somehow seems more… cramped, even though at the same time it seems more spacious, with its large seats. My head hurts, it really feels like something is wrong…

Suddenly, the limousine stops. Annoyed, I shout to the chauffeur :

“Magdalena ! Why the hell are you stopping ? We’re not at the villa yet !”

The chauffeur looks back. Wasn’t she an old grumpy woman just now ? She looks so young and has such fancy clothes, even though it’s quite clear that she isn’t from high society.

Ugh, my head really hurts...

“I’m sorry, Mx. Ndiaye, we have new guests to pick up at your request.”

I look around and see that person with a dress leaving. Suddenly, it all comes back as a flash of light. I’m not supposed to be an ultra-rich person, I don’t need all of these fancy clothes and accessories ! … I’M SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE STREETS !

That person, as if they were reading in my mind, answers in a rich and deep yet slightly unsettling feminine voice :

“You have the gratitude of the calamities, Mx. Ndiaye. Accept this… gift.” They say, smiling as they get out, followed by the makeup artist and one of my two personal guards – the other staying at the front of the vehicle.

Suddenly, it’s as if a fog descends on my mind. Like, what was I thinking about ? Oh, yeah, I was thinking about my next song that I’ll film in the villa ! Ugh, it’s so annoying that my agent asks me to pump out banger after banger like, I have all the money in the world… but I guess it’s alright to work a little. This way, I get famous and get laid, and that’s the only thing that really matters. As I’m about to shout on the chauffeur to ask why she’s not turning the limousine back on, two guys, a cute twink and hot hunk, climb aboard. I lick my lips. It’s gonna be a great night.

“So, guys,” I say, letting them take place in my arms at my right and my left. “have you heard of my new song that’s gonna come out ? If you’re good enough, I might even let you in in the filming for the clip…”

And the limousine sets off.

The sun comes to my eyes, and I wake up in a giant luxurious queen bed, with my two conquests sleeping tight at my left and my right.

I smile as I get up, naked. Yesterday’s clothes were flung in all directions, and as I approach them, I see they’re all crumpled. I chuckle. We had a ton of fun last night… Besides, Magdalena’s gonna be the one to pick that all up. I take from the closet a nice pair of white pants and a white shirt, and put them on quickly. I go to the balcony, and look at the view.

Life is really unjust.

I get to live the perfect life, while others are left to pick up the remaining pieces.

But when you’re on its good side,

“So, welcome back everyone to the second session of the seminar ‘Identity in Language and Thought’, this afternoon we welcome Matthew Zubair from the University of Southern California who will talk to us about Identity, Identification and Coreference.”

As the speaker stopped, a great-looking young man in suit took place at the center of the room. He really came in overdressed, as if he was at a business meeting, not a seminar in a small city…

As he took place, sitting on one of the tables, he started :

“So, I guess we’ll start !”

He has a slight Indian accent, but most importantly the demeanor and tone of a business promoter. I guess even researchers in philosophy of all thingscan look cool, unlike skinny me with my short hair… Even an afro I can’t style it...

“We talked about this morning about copular sentences, so sentences with a copula, in English ‘be’, a word that has no meaning besides putting in relation the subject and the object, and more precisely, ascribing a property to the subject. We also saw that there are multiple types of copular sentences, Predications like ‘John is an actor’, Specifications like ‘The best candidate is John’, Identification like ‘This is John’ and Identity like ‘Superman is Clark Kent’.”

Matthew’s currently only retreading what we talked about this morning. I guess he finds it important to go back to the basics…

“My area of interest are the Identity and the Identification sentences. So, before anything, a bit of history. Frege is the first one to ask questions about these kinds of sentences. He enunciates two puzzles, which look at sentences which are virtually identical yet are received quite differently. For example, if I say ‘Matthew Zubair is Matthew Zubair’, it seems like a useless sentence. Yet, it’s identical in structure to ‘Matthew Zubair is Matt Zubair’, which is informative.”

I nod. What Matt’s stating might be obvious, yet it means that there is a difference under that.

“So, what’s different between those two sentences so that we find the second good, but the first bad ? In both circumstances, we are talking twice about the same person. Yet, in the second sentence, we are actually talking about two modes of presentation. In short, while in both sentences we are identifying a same referent, in the second there are actually two references. ‘Matthew Zubair’ and ‘Matt Zubair’ are two references that are distinct, but they point to the same person – me. Therefore, the second sentence is informative because we are learning that two references are actually references to a same referent. Therefore, an identity sentence is a sentence that shows that two references belong to the same referent.”

It might be a bit finicky a definition, but it’s actually logical. Basically, someone might be known by different ways, and while it’s useless to learn a name we know, it’s useful to learn a name we don’t.

“However, you might know that a name is not the only thing someone is. Indeed, a name is only a property that someone possesses, and we can possess others. For example, ‘Matt Zubair is cool’ is also an identity sentence.”

Everyone chuckles. But he’s right, cool is indeed a property Matt Zubair possesses !

“But then, something very interesting happens. The properties don’t actually attach to the referent, they actually attach to the reference. This means that we might even attach some properties that are contradictory to two references, while they’re actually referring to the same person. Say you have a stage name, and you’re well known. People who know that stage name may say ‘That person is cool’, but when they see you in real life, they might say ‘That person isn’t cool’, even though they are sane and don’t tend to contradict themselves ! Yet they just said something illogical, and that’s because they attributed qualities to your references, not to you yourself.”

Yeah, I guess there are aliases I’m more well known with. Back in my day, I wrote some stories that were actually well-liked, you know. People might even have thought that I was cool – though it’s obviously untrue.

“Now, what are these references, or modes of presentation ? How are they structured ? If we go to the root of concept, we find that by someone’s identity, we actually mean someone’s role. Therefore, everybody is a conjunction of multiple roles, names and properties, that we regroup in what we call a ‘mental folder’. A mental folder, in this view, is an amalgamation of multiple traits that someone has, and you may open folders when you hear of a new individual that you meet. However, this is not entirely true, as an amalgamation of properties and roles can actually fit multiple people. Say you’re cool people. If there was a mental folder with only the property ‘cool’, it could be referring to any of you, which goes against the very fact that a mode of presentation anchors to a specific person. Therefore, a mental folder is an actual thing who’s linked to an actual referent, and it’s that link that defines it.”

It’s logical, everyone of us can be considered cool, yet we’re all very different. If someone only knew one of us by one of our aliases, they could theoretically mistake for example me for the one sitting to the right of me, yet it doesn’t happen.

“The reality of the mental folders can be explained by the fact that identical folders can actually exist. For example, take a slow night in which you just wander on Tiktok. You see a video from a content creator that you really like, but for some reason you forget to save it. After a good while, you forget everything about that content creator, except that you really liked that one video, and then you stumble onto another of their videos that you really like. You open another mental folder, and, same thing, you forget most of the things about that video, except that you really liked it. Now, you’re left with two identical folder, that refer to the same person, yet you’re certain that they are two content creators.”

Yeah, I guess I can imagine that. I’ve spent way too much time on Tiktok, and don’t really bother liking the videos… I look around, and the one on the left of me is looking at his phone. When I nudge, I see Tiktok. Should have guessed.

“Therefore, mental folders are identities, someone that exists in the eyes of another. We may even go further and say that the only way someone is aware that there are things of interest is through mental folders. Every time a new item of interest is discovered, a folder is opened for it. However, even though those folders can be redundant, it doesn’t mean that those two folders that have been opened with the same referent aren’t two complete identities. In fact, quite the opposite. You all have multiple identities, and therefore are seen as multiple people by some others. Therefore, there is your cool stage name identity, and your normal regular person identity, which are both real people in the eyes of those who have two different mental folders.”

Yeah, that’s for sure. The one I am on Tiktok is very different to the one I am in real life. That’s why I don’t really show myself in what I produce. I don’t want people to associate me with my real self and harass me…

“But, now that we have the mental folders sorted out, let’s go back to the very beginning and talk about identity sentences : what happens when one learns that two mental folders are the same ? In theory, anything could happen, but Strawson is kind enough to tell us that two mental folders who refer to the same subject must merge.” Everyone has a small laugh. “Therefore, when one says ‘Superman is Clark Kent’, it is a sentence that means ‘The mental folders of Superman and Clark Kent should be merged’. This is what, deep down, identity sentences are, an invitation for a mental shuffling. It also means that we can finally thoroughly prove why ‘Matthew Zubair is Matthew Zubair’ is an ill-formed sentence : it invites us to merge two mental folders which aren’t separate, therefore to do nothing, which is not informative.”

I guess it’s quite fucked up how I maintain that difference between me and that identity on Tiktok, I’m not being very truthful… I should really be clear and honest with all my followers…

“So, now, how do the two mental folders merge ? There are multiple ways to imagine it, and we are reaching the limits of our knowledge, here. Either we create a new mental folder that encompasses both of the old mental folders, or we make it so that one mental folder is subsumed into the other. I’m more partial to the second option, because the first option means that we create a new folder that doesn’t have any direct reference to its referent, which to me goes against the very foundation of the concept. However, the second option also means that there is a ‘true’ identity, which is theoretically dubious.”

I push back my dreadlocks. Even though I wasn’t sure when I decided to wear them, it’s become my best decision ever. Yeah, I might be a bit of a different person outside the camera, but I feel like I’m showing my real, goofier self on rather than off…

“Let’s finish this talk with Coreferences. These are a topic our linguists friends might be more familiar with, but basically, it’s the phenomenon in which two different words refer to the same object. Basically, I could talk about ‘a Tiktok celebrity’ and then talk about ‘you’, and even though they are two different expression, they are referring to the same referent. To formalize it with the mental folders, a coreference is when there are two expression that refer back to the same referent, or to be more precise, two modes of presentation. Therefore, in identity sentences, we are making a coreference of a single referent, that refer to two different mental folders in the listener. Say a listener has ‘the philosophy lecturer’ and ‘my agent’ as two different mental folders, but I say ‘The philosophy lecturer is your agent’. I’m making a coreference out of the philosophy lecturer and your agent, therefore showing you that they are the same referent, therefore urging you to merge the two folders.”

As I saw my agent finishing his lecture quickly, talking a bit about different kinds of coreference, he asked us if the lecture was good enough for his class next week, and I held my finger up – I love doing that, it flexes my forearm just right – though the others mostly stayed dumbfounded. You know, I started my career with writing help, so these kind of discussions weren’t that rare. Back then, I didn’t even show my face, how ridiculous I was !

“Matt, ya good now, can we finish that fucking business meeting ? I wanna visit our new content mansion, bro !” Said someone with big fluffy hair. I somehow feel like they were the speaker… yeah, of course, the best lip-sinker !

- Don’t worry, you’re going to make a lot of money, you lot ! I’m investing in you ! Now, do you want to take a group photo to commemorate the event ?”

Everyone cries of joy, as we gather in front of the meeting room. The big life we all worked for so long is finally at our doorstep ! We all posed, I did my special grimace, and we posted that photo on Instagram.