Description of Me

She isn’t one to fall easily.  She’s a writer, recording every instance to list later.  She’s a dreamer, wanting everything to be perfect.  She’s a romantic, knowing there must be someone out there who’s perfect for her.  She’s a teenager, a catholic, a bisexual.  She’s the daughter of parents who didn’t show their love but in material goods and piano lessons, private school and a perfect car.  She’s a wannabe psychologist, she evaluates every friends’ actions and words.  She’s part of the theater and choir groups, letting their antics hide her lack of interest in either.  She’s a behind-the-scenes sort of girl, a Minnesotan, an actress.  She can fake her emotions, flitting from one to another.  She’s a student, a tutor, an editor of the newspaper staff.  She’s a reporter, a gossiper, a jerk.  She’s a liar, a backstabber, a singer who can hardly stay in tune.  She’s never known true love, true lust, or true hope.  She’s learned that reaching means you’ll fall.  She’s learned that touching makes her vulnerable.  She’s learned that looking to the future is the only way to avoid what happened in the past.  She zones out during class, can’t decide between boys and girls.  She only wants to know everything will be okay.  She knows life is a journey, not a destination.  She’s one to make pro-con lists, to write down her New Year’s goals, to plan every aspect of her day.  She’s a teacher to anyone who asks, a friend to any who want.  She’s been raised to know right and wrong.  She’s polite, slightly, conservative, timid.  She avoid confrontation, runs from fights, doesn’t bother to defend herself from harsh words.  She knows better, knows that doing so will only open her to more and worse.  She knows what its like to cry herself to sleep.  She was a social drinker.  She was a normal teen at one point.  She spends half her time feeling worthless, half wondering how long it’ll be to the next low.  She’s used to being good, but never amazing.  She’s a pianist, a cellist.  She knows how to use worse so they sound good, how to write an argument no one would be able to beat.  She never uses those arguments.  She would rather be feared than not loved, respected than either.  She’s a coward, a lover of peace.  She loves and hates her friends, envious of them but knowing they deserve what they have.  She sees them as better than her, a step beyond, a rung above.  She’s the girl who aces English tests, who works hard to pass math.  She stumbles over Spanish, but still loves it.  She’s the girl whose eyes go lifeless when she’s unhappy, the one who sits and watches while everyone else laughs.  She’s a good kid overall.  She’s careful, cautious in every social endeavor.  She’s used to being mocked.  She’s not one to take commands without an argument.  She’s the kind of girl who cries after fighting with parents and friends.  She fakes a tough-girl routine.  She’s harsh, grating, but sensitive.  She wants to be strong, be perfect, be herself.  She wants to leave a legacy, to be known.  She needs to be touched, to be loved, She’s never had a relationship that was physical as well as intellectual.  She’s too afraid of getting hurt again to even try.  She’s used to being disappointed when she trusts.  She’s used to material things, to buying what she wants when she wants it.  She’s scared that when love finally does come her way, she won’t recognize it.  She’s afraid of going through life to be forgotten when its all over.  She spends her hours on homework, lessons, and the internet.  She reveals her innermost secrets to online friends, because their contempt won’t hurt as much.  She’s a sporadic self-mutilator, claiming she’s over her cutting until a serious low brings back the habit.  She has nightmares of darkness, white hands, and cold voices.  She’s a w***e, a b***h.  She dresses for comfort rather than looks.  She’s afraid of spider, snakes, and being yelled at.  She knows there must be something better out there.  She draws geometric figures on the graph paper of her math homework.  She smiles every time she gets a call on her cell, happy anyone realizes she’s alive.  She wishes she could blame her faults on the occurrences when she was a child.  She knows its actually just her fate to mess everything up.  She is ashamed of her past, both of what she did and what she had no control over.  She’s afraid of telling her parents who she really is, because she doesn’t think they’ll accept her.  She wants a lambda tattooed on her back.  She loves pins, piercing, pain.  She has low caffeine tolerance.  She thinks music needs to be more than notes and tones.  She loves the idea of flying, of being free from gravity and responsibility.  She’s a poet, a cowgirl, an artist.  She comes up with ideas and images, but never bothers to scribble any of them down.  She’s used to voices in her head that don’t shut up unless she writes the story they beg for.  She’s afraid she’s bipolar, depressed, schizophrenic.  She hates large social gatherings.  She loves to slow dance.  She lets her friends rub off on her to keep her form standing out.  She’s good at calming people down.  She’s skilled at dealing with other people’s problems and even better at avoiding her own.  She wonders sometimes if her memories are anything more than imagination, even though she’s got the scars to prove it.  She gives back rubs just so she knows those people are more than dreams and nightmares.  She’s never been one to love roses, except their smell.  She has cushioned soft spot for tiger lilies.  She can spend months on a single story, only to abandon it when something better comes along.  She has calluses from pencils and lead ropes.  She’s been known to work her hands till they leave blood spots on a piece of paper.  She has a thing for non-English music.  She loves light dreamy blues, stormy grays, and vivid purples.  She loves to cuddle, but would never admit it to her friends.  She loves the sound of wind chimes and rain.  She loves the smell of sweat, new paper, and fresh lawn clippings.  She has the ability to make any action or sentence seem awkward and weird.  She’s a pervert, a mistake to even know.  She’s a procrastinator, a fool, a child.  She wants to be left alone and loved at the same time.  She prefers sunsets to sunrises, picnics to any restaurant.  She loves books and the fake worlds she can lose herself in.  She loves jewelry.  She’s the kind of girl to buy porcelain horse figurines and hand-carved fairies.  She’s the kind to buy a Hindu pillowcase and an Arabic painting because they’re more beautiful than anything else.  She loves the vibrations of the orchestra.  She pays avid attention during psychology career day.  She believes in equality, gay marriage, that a woman can both work and have a family.  She skips one class to go to another.  She’s always horrified when she realizes how much her friends can be blind to what’s really happening.  She loves Soduku and logic puzzles, can whip through them with no one the wiser.  She listens to screamo when she’s mad, emo music when she’s sad, and foreign music when she’s imagining the future.  She wants freedom, peace, a life that is hers to live.  She never wears bright colors.  She pretends to do homework while watching videos on the internet.  She’s discovered the Japenese equivalent of youtube.   She knows you can’t survive unless you change, that you can’t change unless you survive.  She knows what its like to be sold out by a friend, to be stabbed in the back by someone she trusted.  She’ll never gain make the mistake of telling anyone about the darkest parts of her childhood.  She’s experienced every conceivable type of abuse.  She can occupy herself for days with reruns of her favorite shows.  She feels like her life has no point when her muse deserts her.  She can make everything hurt less by writing it down.  She feels like she’s free, not awkward, not foolish, only when she has reins in her hands.  She knows how to goad a horse into a flying start, how to race along an empty field and win.  She thinks sometimes that only speed can make life slow down.  She saves every note she’s given.  She’s mature enough to realize she can’t expect anything more from her friends.  She loves that everyone is connected in some way.  She can only stand shopping when it is for books.  She wishes she could describe herself in one word.  She knows life is too complicated for that.  She’s realized that every scar has a story, that every tear has a million reasons.  She loves to scream so much at football games she loses her voice.  She paints a black star on her cheek for the homecoming game.  She skips school dances to go to a party at a friend’s house.  She’s trained her friends to not go through her notebooks, for fear they’ll find some long forgotten suicidal poetry.  She keeps her nails short for her music.  She loves to study history and how people managed to mess everything up for themselves and thousands of others.  She’d rather have a tiny house with a library than any castle in any country.  She can’t resist the temptation of a blank piece of paper.  She smiles to see her female friends with their boyfriends, terribly jealous but not petty enough to show it.  She can spend hours looking up quotes online.  She hates reading male body language.  She over analyzes everyone’s actions and words.  She’s learned that a kiss doesn’t always mean something, that the only way for people to accept her is if she proves she hasn’t changed.  She knows God must have a reason for making her bi, that imperfection to some is His gift to others.  She knows that actions speak louder than words, that well done is always better than well said.  She acts like an idiot to get people to loosen up.  She hates dancing unless it’s with a partner.  She knows that a life without problems probably doesn’t lead anywhere.  She loves to see an artist at work, is critically brutal to people whose lives they’re wasting away.  She has bad eyes and a love of body pillows, black licorice, popcorn, and lemonade.  She gags at the taste of coffee.  She doesn’t let people dismiss her sexuality.  She doesn’t understand how anyone could ever fall for someone as messed up as she is.  She prays every night to find someone who will cure her loneliness.  She’s the kind of girl who wishes on shooting stars, birthday cake candles, eyelashes, and every night at 11:11.  She loves to drink hot chocolate before she goes to sleep.  She hates the slick feel of baby oil.  She keeps her cell phone nearby at all times, in hopes someone will have time to talk.  She loves the nasty sweatiness of the pit at school dances, and how no one cares who they’re rubbing up against.  She can type without looking at the keyboard, play piano scales with her eyes closed.  She loves anything antique or foreign.  She loves the smell of vanilla and mint.  She’s insecure, constantly worrying about her hair or her clothes.  She hates having her plans and dreams backfire.  She keeps her deepest secrets to herself because she’s afraid people would think she is even more messed up.  She’s read her way through the bible only to forget most of it.  She prefers the radio to CDs, the spontaneous to any schedule.  She regards writing as the only thing that keeps her sane and out of a mental hospital.  She knows that life is all about a*s, whether someone’s covering it, laughing it off, kissing it, trying to get a piece of it, or just being one.  She’s learned that even a hello can break hearts, and that goodbye sometimes means forever.  She sometimes wishes people had more sense then they show.  She’s nearly tone deaf, can hardly tell the difference between a 3^rd and a 5^th when heard.  She feels guilty when she blows off her friends.  She can become obsessed with hobbies.  She knows how to knit, crochet, and sew.  She’s been known to make rainbow bracelets for National Coming Out Day.  She judges herself too harshly, wishes her friends would just say they’re proud of her.  She loves impromptu dates and parties, going to Caribou to do homework after school.  She loves the smell of guy’s cologne, wearing a boy’s sweatshirt.   She’s learned to not get her hopes up, that her love life is safer empty.  She wonders how long it will take before she goes insane.  She’s a worrier.  She can make herself freak out over nearly anything.  She loves the smell of a normal pencil but only uses mechanical. She refuses to dress up during homecoming week.  She barely ever watches TV.  She loves to be outside, yet can’t bear to have dry dirt on her hands.  She can’t stand owing or being dependant on anyone.  She loves her friends b ut doesn’t know how to show it without being vulnerable.  She thinks baseball caps and tattoos only look good on some people.  She knows an idea is only as great as the brain cell it occupies.  She loves how emo kids dress.  She’s a philosopher; often busy contemplating the mysteries of the universe.  She pays little attention during class.  She hates the sound of writing on a chalkboard.  She knows if she tried to play any contact sport she’d hurt someone.  She can spend the entire day thinking about one topic.  She loves animals and can’t stand the smell of fried fish.  She goes to the college fair but doesn’t get any brochures.  She hates open casket funerals.  She can’t help but compare a body to the person who was once alive.  She marvels at the stupidity of people her own age, considers most of them more childish than herself.  She hates having to perform small talk with people she barely knows.  She hates how superficial life is, and how fake so many smiles are.  She refuses to bend to social norms.  She sees tanning as the frying of skin cells.  She knows what it’s like to have biopsies, to have chunks of flesh cut from her back.  She rarely does her homework after school.  She worries about the future more often than she thinks about the present.  She prefers silence to anything else.  She’s realized that even if God made her choose between boys or girls, she still wouldn’t go with what would make people more content around her.  She doubts any of her friends realize how far she’d go to keep them from the things she’s experienced.  She doubts they realize that she’d die to save them.  She’s the kind of girl to zone out thinking about the differences between mortality and morality.  She’d die without her music.  She hates having to say everything out loud.  She rewrites the same story over and over when she feels she hasn’t got it right yet.  She panics easily.  She tries to bury her own memories.  She’s most comfortable when she’s left alone.  She knows there isn’t a single person who knows her.  She’s good at hiding her secrets and past.  She hates to label people.  She loves her camera.  She wishes she could relive all the best moments in her life.  She knows she sometimes doesn’t make any sense.  She has a tendency of dropping into depression without a reason.  She wonders what would happen if she just drove away.  She takes every promise with a grain of salt.  She hates feeling guilty.  She relates best to her English teacher.  She loves working without a time limit.  She feels nostalgia when she considers leaving her home and school, but also can’t wait to get away from everything.  She’s sick of hiding who she is from the people who matter the most and the ones who don’t matter at all.  She’ll suffer through anything if she feels it’ll help other people.  She switches crushes way too often.  She can’t help but daydream.  She goes to cast practices, even though she’s only on the crew in the play.  She remembers her brother calling her first boyfriend a “theater f*g”.  She loves feeling a part of a group.  She knows how rare it is to be loved for who she is.  She can’t help but hope she has a guardian angel somewhere.  She’s careful about who she learns to trust, about who she lets into her inner circle.  She loves the dim lights, boisterous people, and extravagant sets that can be found in the drama department.  She finds the prop room to be more interesting than anything else.  She takes pride in discovering bands her friends haven’t heard of.  She laughs too loud and at the worst of times.  She’d chase away her friends if she didn’t know they’d come running back.  She’s always liked girls more than boys.  She’s in-your-face about her sexuality because she’s sick of hiding it.  She loves tank tops and huge sweatshirts, hates being seen in a swimsuit.  She knows the school has an hierarchy, even if people claim it doesn’t.  She’s smart enough to realize that certain friends will just result in too many problems.  She keeps her distance from those she thinks would be better off not knowing her.  She likes to read in the summer evenings sitting on the roof.  She has school spirit that only shows up once in a while.  She trips over the ball more often than kicking it when she plays soccer. She hates having hiccups, and when she sneezes during a class period.  She’s a clock-watcher, counting down the minutes to her next activity.  She works too hard on and pays too much attention to things that don’t matter.  She loves the smell of chlorine and the heavy humidity of the pool at her old middle school.  She loves echoes.  She complains far too much about things that don’t matter.  She hides from the people who only want to help.  She won’t let anyone read her writings.

 

She is me.