I give a physical, facial reaction to everything, including thoughts/memories and television programs.   I paint my nails only once or twice a year. I remember obscure things for so long that other people involved usually suspect I’m obsessive. I love writing and receiving letters and have had at least two penpals at any given time since I was 6. I only like about three physical attributes of myself. I still play “dress up” and “pretend”, although having a daughter makes it more justifiable. I listen to CDs of stand-up comedians I love on Repeat, even when I can recite the entire monologue by heart with all the right inflections. I talk incessantly because I’m afraid I’m a forgettable person - I can’t stop myself. I can remember how much I weighed every single year since I was 11. I have a giant, furry trapper hat with huge earflaps that I like to sit around the house in. I become physically ill when presented with images of certain people, some I know and some I don’t. I like to smoke cloves and read Walt Whitman and imagine myself worthy of his company and conversation. I can’t listen to some of my favorite musicians anymore because of the memories associated with them, but I still keep their records on hand just in case. I love my handwriting. I am sure that the dreams I have for myself are far larger than my purpose; I fear an overblown, delusional sense of self-importance more than anything. I get nervous around beautiful people, but not those plastic, LA “Beautiful People”-types.  I have to work really really hard not to correct every author of a misspelling I encounter daily. I involuntarily discount a person’s intelligence if I spot a misspelling in their writing; this goes double if they misspell things on purpose (i.e. Netspeak, etc.). I don’t believe humans have any Answers, but I still enjoy asking everyone for them anyway. I’ve always wanted dreadlocks but I love my hair too much to sacrifice it. I want to found a national holiday. I’ve always wanted a trampoline; it’s been on my Christmas list since I was 8. I finish about 1/3 of the harebrained projects I start. I pay extra for de-boned, pre-skinned chicken because the few times I’ve done it myself I’ve literally passed out. I realized recently I have an extensively long history of sabotaging myself from success because I’m alllll about the self-fulfilling prophecy (this is something I’m working valiantly to change.) I am overenthusiastic about reconnecting with old friends and acquaintances; I’m slowly backing away. I miss the purple streak I had in my hair. I’d love to pose for Playboy, but I’d much rather write for them. I never ever ever want to be famous, but I’m anticipating a couple of my friends becoming wildly famous because they’re truly genius and I’m excited about possibly getting to meet the cool literary celebs they’ll rub elbows with.  I really hope my one-line life synopsis hasn’t been written yet. I whittled my FB friends list from 900+ people to 350-ish in the last year and am much much happier with that level of “intimacy”. I want to be eccentric and creative without feeling like I’m putting on a show for the white-breaders around me. I don’t actually think I’m that eccentric and creative. I visit websites like ItMadeMyDay.com, PeopleOfWalmart.com, and Regretsy.com every day because the giggle value keeps me sane. I’ll wake my husband out of a dead sleep at 2 a.m. if I realize we’ve forgotten the Goodnight Kiss. I haven’t made any adjustments to my car’s musical rotation since my daughter was born - I don’t plan to. I’ll refuse to go on the news in a bizarre story because I do not want a spot on “Good Morning America” to constitute as my 15 Minutes. I like saying “Hollaaaa!” because, coming from a white girl, it just sounds ridiculous. I’ve sent 7 postcards to PostSecret and none of them have made me feel better. I have no idea how I’d blurb myself. About once or twice a year, I secretly perform a premeditated random act that could very easily classify me as insane. (Don’t worry; nobody’s getting hurt.) I used to have to argue with ignorant douchenozzles all the time but, as I have grown older, I really just enjoy sitting back and letting them make asses of themselves in the realization that they inevitably live in their own hell. I delete/destroy at least 99% of photos taken of me, even if they’re on a friend’s camera. I’m so exhausted listening to people whine about being offended; doesn’t anybody “get” that whining all the time just makes one look weak, dependent and obsessed with what others think? I miss drinking when I’m scared or insecure the most - not when I’m depressed. I was recently liberated earlier this week when I realized that, for the first time in a very very long time, I don’t owe any single human being anything anymore. I’d love it if God just loaned me the Script for a couple days.

I’m exhausted with self-exploration… altogether.