My earliest memory of daydreaming obsessively and immersively is from when I was about 4 years old, an age when imagination is often a healthy playmate. I am - though it's not yet a recognized disorder - a maladaptive daydreamer. But it all happens in my darkened living room, where I pace incessantly, my earphones blasting, utterly alone. The whole affair is satisfying, ego-boosting, refreshing. 'Thanks, I thought you’d like it,' the friend replies. Humbly, I step out of the spotlight and carry on my conversation, becoming engrossed in my friend’s discussion of a recent artwork. We have a brief, scintillating chat before I double back to offer the group an impromptu rendition of my favorite Edith Piaf song, 'L’accordeoniste.' The applause is brief, but sincere. Such creativity! Such wit! It’s all the small crowd can do to keep their mouths shut as I march past at a quick pace, tap the far wall with one fingertip, and start back in the opposite direction.

But my unusual beauty is nothing compared to the brilliance between my ears. And so they should be, because, brother, I’m a stunner. Well, not everyone, but everyone I’m interested in - 10 or 15 familiar faces. I glide into the room, bathed in silvery light, heels clicking.

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