In one fateful semester, plummeting my academic grades, I acted two roles simultaneously: Brad Majors in The Rocky Horror Show and/or Charlotta Ivanovna in The Cherry Orchard. One man, one “woman,” one me. Some anaphora. Over the course of my rehearsals, Brad became farcical, misandric in portrayal and therapeutic. The parts of my body I detested were thrown into relief and/or shadow, and I began to understand why such manhood was my inside joke. Charlotta allowed me to explore femininity. A wig, softly blended eyeliner by my partner’s own design and slightly overdrawn lips of the mauve variety sent my heart aflutter. This was not drag. The character I created was genderqueer, and I made sure the team and my castmates knew this transgender Charlotta to the best of my abilities. This trans* narrative and/or existence was for Charlotta, of course, not me, no. While my character wielded a firearm, it was never fired, and thus my gender was Chekhov's gun. That semester instilled in me a respect for trans* narratives (whatever those may be), but I still failed to pass as either a man or a woman in my own mind.