I get nauseous with the formalities. I don’t know why, because I love costumes and masks. Polite conversation in an elevator drives me nuts. I want to shout Belgian obscenities, but I fail to remember the words in time. There are protocols for every occasion and every profession, but I get a headache trying to think of them. I get impatient with people who try to say the right things at parties. I practice the true faith. All others are merely superstitions and pointless rituals.