Gosh, who am I? This kind of self-descriptive writing makes my palms sweat as I type. Providing a summary of self fills me with an odd panicked discomfort that I can only liken to the unease of meeting the parents of a significant other for the first time, or arriving to a class late blushing with an awkward gait. Unprepared. The worst. There is a strange shame in admitting that, as a 21 year old Media Studies student, though I have a pretty lofty career and life plan, (I want to be the next Katie Couric) I am incredibly unsure of how I'll get there. For as long as I was cognizent, I have experienced reality in a happy state of constant flux, punctuated by moments of bliss, nostalgia, and a low burning ever-present frustration, probably resultant of my ADHD.
Oh another alphabet soup learning disability... how original. Plenty of people have learning differences, being inattentive doesn't make me unique or special, but as it was undiagnosed throughout my kid years, my ADHD has played a huuuuge part in who I am, I grew up without explanation for my special dreamy world as well as my insecurities and scholastic anxiety. I can remember myself as a third grader, with arms like popsicle sticks and thin hair wild with static in the winter, adjusting my ungodly uncomfortable Catholic school uniform skirt and staring out the window at a plastic bag hanging on the bare arm of an oak tree and feeling such a swell of unplaceable emotion as Mrs. Thouin droned on about times tables, and feeling a deep red guilt when she called me out on my inattentiveness. I was always a 'daydreamer'. A chatty brown-eyed spacecase with the best of intentions, never really on the same level as my classmates. This anecdote of grammar school distraction is illustrative of the distracted daze that made self-identify as "bad" for the majority of my childhood. I still struggle with planning and practicality, but I have begun to see my swirling thoughts as gifts, spirals of endless rotating insight and contemplation that make plastic bags look heartbreakingly relevant, like in that film American Beauty.
I suppose that listing things that I'm passionate about can be helpful in defining who I am. I adore and admire Anne Frank, I've read The Diary Of A Young Girl eight times since I was eleven, she inspired me to write. Reading her beautiful words as a fifth grader I felt as if she understood the world the same way that I did, something I hadn't really encountered. Her words struck me in such a deep, true way. "..I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart."
I of course love music, especially the band Neutral Milk Hotel, mostly because of their album In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, completely inspired by Jeff Mangum's admiration of Anne Frank upon his reading of her diary.
I love this city. I've wanted to live here since I was ten years old, and I am incredibly lucky to co-habitate a tiny awesome apartment with my cat, Hercules and my best friend as well as vegan culinary genius, Tina. (I could never be vegan I like cheese way too much) And though I want to live in New York forever, I still am not immune to the creeping sadness from vagabonds on the street that can pervade a sunny Wednesday afternoon. I guess I would say I'm sensitive.
I perceive myself as being warm and friendly, working as a hostess at a restaurant owned by a sleazy mobster has taught me how to flirt and schmooze emptily with old men. That's not to say that I don't enjoy flirting, because I do.
I like to write and I love to sing, I like walking and feta cheese and swings. I want more than anything in the world to make it, I want so badly to attain and maintain success and security in my adult life, doubt so often punches this desire, but of course, I ever hopeful and excited.