I find it hard to describe myself using more than a few words, a few drops of ink spilled on the page that waste little and leave enough blank space for more important endeavors. I guess this tells you I’m poetic, because we’re only one paragraph in and I’ve already personified myself.
I call myself ink, yet I’m more like paper: faceless, malleable, and ruined by mistakes. My creases will never smooth, and tape will only close the millions of tiny rips scattered along my edges. The fibers of my skin will never reconnect entirely.
Thank goodness you have the power to paint me, to bury those flaws under any color you please. I prefer blue and purple, myself, but I cannot let you know that. What if your favorite color is green? I guess this means I’m insecure, as well. I’m so sorry.
I also enjoy painting and drawing. I look for excuses to stick my brushes in ink. I sometimes paint upon myself, but only when you can’t see. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m improper or indecent. I know how indecent I can be, which I why I only paint myself behind closed doors. I don’t want to show myself as anything less than your favorite color.
I stick to my word. I never break a promise, and I hardly ever lie. I stick to my word because you write it, along with my promises. It would be a lie to say I don’t have trouble remaining smooth and white after you have taken your pen to me. Sometimes, you press down too hard and it hurts.
I should stop personifying, now. I can tell you find this senseless creativity obnoxious, and would rather I get to the point:
I live to please others. I used to do things to please myself, and I became a monster. Now, I am honest, punctual, and as perfect as I can be. I believe that the best way to correct oneself is through punishment, meted by a set of strict guidelines.
I follow my guidelines to a T.
I think I like bizarre things. I am somehow drawn to the macabre and the surreal, the things that keep most children awake at night. The creatures in my head come out in my drawings, and in the way I dance. Feel free to question these interests, for they could be my narcissism begging for attention.
I think I’m politically liberal, because my thoughts run more closely to that platform when I am left to think alone. Maybe propaganda has taken over my brain.
I think I have a sense of wit that some would find humorous, but when I try to tell a joke, blank stares and quizzical expressions meet me. I cannot laugh at the jokes of others – insulting others and mimicking bodily functions is not funny, at least not to me.
Excess Calories disturb me, in both diet and in word. I don’t think I enjoy sugar-coated tales. If anything, I don’t like stories that make people feel better about themselves for no reason. I apply the same philosophy to myself, for I, too, am human:
- Those people are not teasing me out of jealousy. They truly hate me.
- My own incapacity caused me not to get the job. The employer saw right through my façade.
- Yes, others do care if my thighs touch, if I have stretch marks, and if my breasts are too large. It’s evolution. It’s science. I am disgusting.
- It’s no secret people watch me when I eat. I know they think I shouldn’t eat so much: it will ruin me.
I wish I could say more, but I don’t know what else to write. I am too preoccupied with all I have wasted: Your time, your space, your ink.