I definitely have a few regrets. Most of the specifics are stories for another time. Some of them are off topic in a hopelessly-irrelevant fashion while others might single me out of a police line-up.

Anonymity is a problematic issue. Those of us aspiring to honesty are inclined to surrender it. However, if we lack the patience for the unduly-continual process of scrutiny and censure—boards, panels, committees, reports, reviews, diagnoses, citations, tickets, courts, rulings, prisons and permanent records—the willful omission of questionably-relevant details can be regrettably prudent.

It is an unfortunate corner in which we find ourselves.

The case of Andrew Feldmar has never sat well with me. He’s a psychologist who employed LSD in some select treatments, and lacked enough foresight to write an article about it. US Customs Agents read it on the internet, and now Feldmar can’t visit his grandchildren.

As near as I can figure, the only sensible lesson we can learn from this is not to incriminate ourselves on Google. At least insofar as we can help it.

I am left standing here holding truths that may put me at odds with one authority or another—the actual police or maybe just my mom’s church friends. Either force can make my life extremely unpleasant. Having previously declared my intention to distill spirits without a permit, the only license in which I place any faith is artistic.

My experiences may or may not be legitimate. My intentions may or may not be serious. My persona may or may not be real. That uncertainty is more personal than any of my uniquely-identifying particulars.

After all, what is objective truth but the dismissal of subjective experience?

We can bleach our character with countless white lies or just take the label off the waistband and forget about the stains. But until the winds change, which I sincerely and earnestly believe they will, I can’t argue against bundling up.