God gives you one face, but you paint another on top of it

I'm a different person online than I am in person.

Really, I'm kind of a different person when I talk about writing than I am when I talk about dogs.

I'm a different person when I sit down at a gaming table (and, depending on the day, the variance in the person I set out to be increases as well).

I'm a different person at work from when I'm at home.

I'm a different person with my family than with my friends.

I'm a different person alone at Wal-Mart than walking Elka (my Doberman) at the park.

All of these people are me. Any one of them are me.

So, who are all of these people?

Which one of these is the person the stories come from?

Or is it all of them?

Once the Seal is Broken

This may or may not offend you.

When I have a new hoodie, I try to put off washing it for as long as possible. For one, I'm a freak and like the "new clothes" smell. Far more than the "new car" smell, in fact, which instead of filling me with pleasure and a sense of pride, leaves me vaguely nauseous. Obviously, if the hoodie gets something on it or smells bad in any way, I'll wash it, I'm not one of those weirdos who freezes their Levis in lieu of applying soap (though again, jeans get washed if they smell or have something on them. Similar principle, but more importantly, worn jeans fit better and are more comfortable. This is not science. This is my life). But it's always a sad thing. The fleece is never so soft and velvety, once washed, as it was new. The strings get weird, the inevitable shrinking starts to occur.

Now how am I going to relate this to books?