What is it that makes a Cailin? A semi-functional assemblage of goof, flounce and exuberant wtf? A mind perverted by Lisa Frank and Kurt Cobain, smashed to bits with 108 Mbps of digital force and pieced back together with lesbian fantasies and low-carb smoothies?

Viewers have asked us, Is Cailin based on a real person? The answer is yes. The answer is you.

Cailin doesn’t just straddle the line between sexual preferences, professional identities, quantum realities—she leaps, twists and stumbles along it, trips over her imitation Jimmy Choos and saves the act with a somersault and a heat-seeking nonsequitor.

And yet, in spite of her distinctiveness, this is no rare species. More Hello Kitty than Hulu, more Gen X than X-Box, this confused millennial creature haunts the halls of office buildings everywhere. With her convulsive vaudeville, with her bouts of ill-advised bravado, Cailin serendipitously snatches the poetry from the pulp of pop culture and spatters our workstations with it. Her whine is our bread, her whoops our wine, because we recognize in her spastic lunacy, in her scatterbrained stabs at self-revelation, something of ourselves. When she stubs her toe on a punch-line, when she doe-eyes us into a chortle, when she forgets what she was talking about completely, we come closer to the tragicomedy with the bizarre twists and half-formed characters streaming 24/7 through our own minds.

Make no mistake. Cailin is not your average overworked professional. She is the squeal of helium escaping the anus of a Miley Cyrus float. She is Charlie Chaplin and Sarah Silverman behind the green door.

She is wha?!

She is whee!

She is us.