I accept that:
I’ve aged enough to become invisible, which I agree is a superpower.
I’ll never understand someone else’s delusions because I’m busy with my own.
When I sing, I hear a blend of Amy Winehouse and Billie Holiday, and everyone else hears cats being waterboarded.
When I dance, I see the love child of Gene Kelly and Martha Graham, but everyone else sees a rodeo clown who’s amped on cocaine while doing interpretive dance and running from a bull.