The Real Me
I
am suppressed. The real me. The me that hops up and down and waves my
arms and pumps my fist and calls it dancing. The real me that cranks
the music up to the point where my thoughts are just backdrop sounds
that hop to the beat of the music as well. The me that believes music
is life. That creativity is life. The me that used to believe that
every writer should have a tattered leather bond journal that has the
word “journal” in cursive on the front. It says I am mysterious, and
well, I’m a writer. The me that usually hesitates to turn the corner in
the case that I bump someone so hard that we nearly fall to the ground
and my cool facade will be broken and I’ll be humiliated for life. The
me that observes my friends and actually wonder if we’ll grow old
together and still find that Spongebob and Patrick are funny even in
our mid-eighties. I am suppressed because no one told me that it was
okay to be myself. I don’t mean the sappy children shows that’s about
Suzy finally gaining friends because she got the courage to ask to play
blocks with the other children and that act alone defines her
“individuality” as a child. No. No one has ever told me that it’s okay
to not actually know how to dance like the video girls or the
celebrities that dance in super exclusive VIP darkrooms in mega-VIP
clubs in the heart of Hollywood or New York City. No one has ever told
me that is okay not to have long flowy hair that permanently smells
like strawberries and champagne. No one ever told me that it’s okay to
not actually enjoy taste of beer and cigarettes at huge party that you
don’t really feel comfortable in. If I had have known that it was okay
to be the ordinary girl who knows how to just be herself, who is not
really a party girl, who has an unrealistic dream to be a real writer
with a real career, the girl who reads 20 books within a month and
somehow manages to have some sort of social life; If would have known
this, I would have found out who the real Onjelique was a long time
ago. However, in retrospect, it’s better late than never.
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