Push Pins

I have a tiny scar on the inside of my elbow from ‘donating’ plasma a handful of times my freshman year in college. The ‘donations’ were concurrent with a lesson learned in ‘overdraft charges.’

I can remember every outfit from every first day from every year of school- even kindergarten.

The week before 5th grade my mother gave me $100 dollars for my back to school shopping. In the world of a 10-year-old this was an amount that had to be stretched to the last possible cent. So I purchased black shorts, purple shorts and orange shorts followed by an orange shirt with purple polka dots, a black shirt with purple stripes, a purple shirt with orange polka dots, an orange shirt with black ribbing around the neck and arms and finally a bright red shirt just for shits and giggles. Then, on the chalkboard easel in my bedroom, I meticulously detailed the combinations of outfits for each school day in September. My idol was Clarissa from Clarissa Explains It All.

I don’t hold much stock in matching. Today, for instance, I am wearing pink shoes, grey pants, a blue tank top over a white one, a brown cardigan shrug and black bracelets.

I am not nearly as obsessed with clothes as the last few paragraphs indicate.

I put off doing laundry until the last possible minute.

I eat a lot of ramen noodles- not only because I don’t have gobs of money but because I genuinely like them.

I don’t know how to salsa dance but I imitate it in my living room at least twice a week.

I thought the bad first impression I give was a talent I only recently acquired. Recent as in the past 8 years. But upon further dwellage, I learned that I’ve always given a bad first impression. I remember meeting my best friend Constance in 7th grade, the year that all the elementary schools emptied into the large middle school across town. She was in my History class, along with a host of other guys and girls that would later flow in and out of my friend circle. That same year, while lying sprawled on the carpet of my bedroom and discussing the trivialities of life, she informed me that she thought I was a snobbish bitch that first day in History. She soothed my poor childish ego by following that statement up with reassurances that she later came to find me funny and nice and sweet and smart- not at all snobbish or bitchy.

I either ignore or befriend the boys I crush on. Because I am so undeniably mature.

I abhor people who wear their ignorance as a badge of honor.

I have roughly 25 nail files, which I rarely use.

I wish they made room fresheners that smelled like Pledge. Pledge is my favorite smell in the whole wide world.

I love public transportation.

I wish I had enough money to live on top of a mountain in a house made of recycled products with solar panels and windmills and a large cistern wrapped in shiny copper. In my fantasy land I’d ride my zip line bucket to the village below for supplies and books. In the real world I’d drive my hybrid to the base of the mountain for supplies and books. Because zip lines are fun going down, not so much on the uphill.

I’m usually just a bit on the sleepy side.

I prefer desktops over laptops.

I get in eating ruts. For the past seven nights I have pulled out a large four tortilla, sprinkled it with cheese, dabbed a bit of picante sauce in the middle and nuked until bubbly. I have rolled it up, dropped it on a plate, grabbed a cup of yogurt and a spoon and sat in my favorite yellow chair to eat in front of mindless television drivel.

I have been told that what you read here doesn’t coincide with my real life persona. That I’m ‘harder’ in person, with a general attitude of devil-may-care—to throw in an overused cliché. I’ve had others reassure me that that’s simply not true. Whatever it is that makes me different in person, I’m working on it. I swear.