Imagine yourself looking down on the United States. Now imagine that you see millions of tiny, differently colored dots swarming across the landmass. Each dot represents a person, and the dot's color represents the person's gender: pink for girls, blue for boys.

What you're looking at, basically, is a swirly, goopy mess of pink and blue specks, vibrating almost imperceptibly as they go about their daily routines, driving around town and between towns, flowing from one errand to the next. There is more pink than blue goop, but only slightly more.

If you look really close, you'll notice that every now and then a dot of a different color will show up for a brief time. There's a red one. That's a she who used to be a he. There's a green one. That's a hermaphrodite. The one in the corner, that keeps flashing purple and yellow? That's a man with multiple personalities who's never quite sure of his gender at the moment.

The differently colored dots are statistical blips. They are the people out there who are statistically insignificant--to the world of averages and sums and majorities, they simply do not matter. They barely even exist.

A blip is the guy who checks "other" for his ethnicity on the IRS form. She's the girl whose medical papers get filed in the Miscellaneous folder because nobody can figure out how to characterize her illness. It's the boy or girl you knew in high school whose parents were killed in a car wreck and who was being raised by his great-uncle.

Being a blip means that you never quite feel at ease in some situations; that "one size fits all" doesn't necessarily fit you; that you are the exception to the rule of the majority.

It's a lonely life indeed.

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