Apparently, I have a doppelgänger somewhere who is having his face painted on walls in London. My cousin Steven pointed me toward the evidence which I gladly display for you here.
What the hell? People are often told they look like someone else and, mostly, it’s a stretch to find the similarities. There will be one thing that’s similar and the person making the connection will have an overactive imagination. “Oh, you’ve got black hair, and it reminds me of Freddie Mercury, so you look like Freddie Mercury.” Yeah, sure, whatever.
But in this case, I have to admit that this is a pretty striking resemblance. Were it not for the obvious geographical issue (I’m in NY) and a whole host of other issues (How did they get my face? Who painted this? What the hell?), I would actually think this is a painting of me. It’s uncanny and freaking me out in a way, but the narcissist in me is overwhelmed with joy that my face is on the wall somewhere in London (even if it isn’t actually my face).
The other option is that my doppelgänger is out there somewhere doing something to get his face blazoned on the walls of London tunnels. Clearly this can only lead to trouble for me in the long run so the solution to this issue is clear; I must immediately begin training in the deadly arts, track this shouldn’t-exist version of myself down, slay him, and drink his blood to take what is currently two and make myself whole again. That is without a doubt the only rational choice to make in these circumstances. I mean, what would you do when faced with tangible proof that someone else is out there wearing your face like a mask and committing unspeakable acts of sheer lunacy? Unless of course I’m the evil one. In that case, my whole life suddenly makes a lot of sense. Hmm. Food for thought.
