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Across the desk from me, in our arena of bookshelves, the chair is winning. It always wins, but I'm unbearably addicted to lying to myself about such matters. The chair was born to be a stationary object, so I haven't got a chance. It doesn't have any fingers or toes that twitch involuntarily. It doesn't have a circulatory system that forces blood cells and plasma through constricted arteries and veins and makes its head pulsate. It doesn't need to breathe, and so has no chest that rises and falls with every gasp. It is a chair. I am a human. No matter how hard I try, the chair will always be better at being a chair than I, because I was born a human. And the qualities that accompany that fact will forever prevent me from attaining chairhood.