I think I was ten years-old the first time I was accused of living in “La La Land” (by an impressionable 7th grade teacher). When I was a teenager, my parents (in an unfortunate turn of typical teen drama) learned that our small-town police network referred to me as “Queen Yo Yo” for the QYY prefixing my car license plate. And in my late 20s, a best (time-period) friend added the suffix “La La” to my first name which he’d sing down the paths of the beach resort we co-worked to call my attention. I woke up this morning looking for evidence that I sometimes live in my imagination — and I found this breadcrumb-trail of suspicious titles and nicknames. Of course, people can assign you all the adjectives they’d like, but it’s not until you’ve experienced that worldview-flipping moment directly that any new self-realization truly registers. And I think it was in my early 30s when I looked deeper into my Myers-Briggs psychological type and learned that INFPs often navigate a lofty inner world, oblivious to the fog of clouds between themselves and the other 96% of the population. Now I am in constant question of my reality in comparison to others: Is what I’m seeing more colorful, more mysterious, more interconnected, more breath-breathing, than what others are encountering? Has the web of my imagination woven all events and people into charmed caricatures of their otherwise more grey and grounded realities? Do I search my dreams (night and day) for links to this world that would only stand up the court of La La? As a citizen of the clouds, I’m not sure I’ll ever know. Instead, I simply offer the disclaimer, to both the reader and the writer, of the unofficial titles of loft and levity affixed to my name.