It Was All An Act

There were five of us in a house each given clothing to wear, and a script including a character outline. We had to guess what type of person everybody else was based on the role they had been assigned then afterwards we put on little skits to show who we really were. The idea was that we should be able to figure out the true personality of everyone in the group by looking beyond physicality and speech patterns. At the same time, we were tasked to embody our role as best we could, hopefully acting well enough that nobody would be able to figure it out. In the end, by watching each others skits, we would understand what our truest biases were.

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After the trial had concluded, one boy had drawn a hyena next to a tree with a glass orb in it’s mouth, encased in a larger glass orb, and he was very dark and had been in love with one of the girls there but they weren’t a thing anymore. He mentioned that it was like falling but also like being pulled somewhere alone. He was lying, I didn’t trust him and his name was Dwyoming. I knew because I had found a yellow dog collar with his name on it.

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We were given access to special computers containing information files on everyone in the whole company which we were free to peruse. So not only could we look at everyone’s past, we all knew that the others could look up our past.

I only looked at Dwyoming’s information, because I didn’t trust him, and everyone else seemed to be honest. There was a dark girl and a fair girl and myself and a golden haired boy who was not of much interest or use. During our trial I had thought he was the smartest among us and he had filled a leader’s role, but soon thereafter we found out that he was the least intelligent in reality, so we all kind of ignored him from then on. When it was my turn to put on a presentation about who I really was I was nervous that Dwyoming would think it was stupid, or that it wasn’t “heavy” enough like his, all metaphor and sad imagery that made him so unique. I thought about drawing it on the backside of the canvas, to show that I felt like I didn’t fit in, but that was rather obvious and cliche. I don’t know why he cared what I thought.

Willem de Kooning. Attic, 1949. Oil, enamel, and newspaper transfer on canvas, 61 7/8 in. x 6 ft. 9 in. (157.2 x 205.7 cm).The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. The Muriel Kallis Steinberg Newman Collection, Gift of Muriel Kallis Newman, in honor of her son, Glenn David Steinberg, 1982 (1982.16.3)

I mentioned in my presentation that I was doing great now that I was dating someone new, alluding to the notion that the girl who had left him was now with me, the blonde girl. It worked and he got extremely upset. He picked up a shotgun full of radioactive material and pointed it at both of us. I kept covering both of our faces with my hands, in a knowingly feeble attempt to block him from shooting us. He decided that he couldn’t do it and dropped the gun, which went off when it landed, hitting the side of a school building and causing a perfectly spherical explosion, though nobody was hurt.

 

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