About Me

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.





The Classy Coat Club

It was a sunny day in September when mommy gripped my arm, whisking me away from the thronging crowd, and into the department store.  It was three stories high, I remember, with escalators and ramps twisting up its middle.  It was called Kelly’s, like Barbie’s sister.

Except, unlike Kelly, nothing was cute.  The dull-colored suits hung stiff, cardboard-like on their oddly-shaped hangers.  Massive plastic women with painted-on lips wore some of them, trying to make the customers think they were fashionable or mysterious because their hats covered their eyes.  Why would you want to wear something that makes you blind?  They couldn’t see how silly they looked, with their legs all spread apart and their elbows tensed.  Mommy grabbed my arm, again.

            Come this way, we’re going to the little girls’ section.

I couldn’t imagine it would be any better than this, and it wasn’t.  I stood still as mommy locked me in the dressing room, surrounded by glimmering mirrors and the shimmering fabric of maybe ten ruffly dresses.  Even before I tried them on, I knew I would hate all of them.  Mommy knocked on the door, reminding me I had to come out and twirl around for her once I chose an outfit.  She sounded impatient, so I chose a green dress.  I think impatient people have a permanent green light blinking in their heads: go! go! go!

Oh, does that not look pretty with your hair.  Twirl around for me.  Yes.  Um, we might have to get it altered around the cuffs, but yes.  We’re taking this one.

Happy that I had done the right thing, I went back into the room and put on my normal clothes, which had been picked out for me pretty much the same way the dress had been.  It was only a matter of time before mommy had my arm in her hand, and we would be on our way to the pop shop, I hoped.  I didn’t mind shopping as long as we stopped to get a root beer.  Maybe mommy would let me get a float.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.  It was green, like my dress, but it was a green I liked.  It had a whole bunch of flowers on it, and, oh, winter was coming.  It would match my new dress just perfectly.  I would be the prettiest girl at the Christmas party and, oh mommy, could we get that coat, too?  Please?

She said yes, because I had done such a great job of trying on a nice dress.


            I wore the coat out of the store.  Mommy didn’t mind, because it was “tailored just right” and made me look like a “little lady.”  She even said we could get a float.  As I sat at the stool kicking my feet, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was another girl, wearing a coat that was like mine, but red.  She was older than me, and had shiny black hair.

“Hey.  I see you are fond of classy coats.  Yours isn’t bad, and we’re looking for new members.”

I asked her who “we” were, because I wasn’t going to let myself be stolen and forced to work in a sweatshop.  She told me she was the leader of the Classy Coat Club, which sounded like a group of girls who walked around while wearing coats.  Of course, their meetings were only as long as the weather would allow.  Sometimes they would get pops, and other days they would go to the matinée at the movie theater.  The only rule was you had to wear your coat, and that your hair couldn’t look like a bear had attacked it.  Her name was Joan, and she lived just a few blocks from us.  I asked mommy if I could go visit her sometimes.

Yes, but please be home before dinner.

And that’s how we were formed, the Classy Coat Club.  I felt really grown up, probably how mommy felt when she became a part of The Parents’ Organization at my school.  I was ready to drink floats with them, and to go to the movies like some of the other girls on my block.  As I waved good-bye to Joan, I started calculating in my head all the quarters I would have to earn to pay for these endeavors.

In the September sun, I sweltered.  I didn’t care, though, because I was now a member of the Classy Coat Club.