I left the house running in a skirt too low, a blouse too tight, and a smile too wide. I cried through untempered nerve "I'm free, free you nannies! Ha ha ha!" My parents gaped on in twitchy confusion. I scaled the fence and stubbed my toe.
11:24, nighttime. Day-Glo powder crimps my hands as my hair trembles and falls to shelter my face. A blanket has been shoved over my back, and my cold feet itch. "So, have you ever wanted to walk barefoot in the snow?" My mind doesn't reply, so I moan softly into the windowsill. I stare out my bedroom's pane of glass into a night overlaid with red. "See that man, with the hoodie?" The heating system doesn't reply, so I rub my hands in profuse excitement. "I'm hungry. How 'bout a peach?" My stomach replies like the swamp monster it is, cranking its molars and gurgling with drum beat consistency. I sleep.
I'm the girl who wears black like a faith and never talks to your face. I've been dis-eased for months, a strolling creep-creep who doesn't know what's neat-neat. Please move aside, guy-with-a-beret-on. Why of course I will, guy-with-a-beret says, but first, you must tell me this out loud. Yes, this does require the opening of that maw of yours. I'm not a telepathic, in case you haven't noticed. "Sorry, I have conversations in my head. Just keep walkin'" Guy-with-a-beret wrinkles his eyes and looks away.
It's a podium. What do I do, tell them all the sarcasm about how I'll miss this place? Kiss my numb been-in-a-chair-for-hours @$$; I hate school. Hold on, how did I even get up here, and why? You can leave! It's a choice, all there in black and white and purple! "See ya never half-wits and preppies! This world is mineee! Mwahahahaha!" I dash off the ledge, pause to admire their twisted "o" shaped mouths, then add "By the way, don't eat the cafeteria fries. And I'd like to include another 'ha' for mwahahahaha, so uh, do that." And I jump out the fantasy window.
5 in the morning, typing on a computer. People tend to rubberneck when I type, since everyone just uses laptops, and doesn't even consider lugging a twenty pound computer with them, along with a keypad. Hey, it may iron your thighs a bit, or spontaneously combust, but at least it's reliable! Okay, now my thighs really hurt.
Fine I'll get a laptop.
A message from a friend plunks itself into the middle of my latest work. Probably a Facebook friend, they're always annoying me...
Wait, I don't a Facebook friend.
I don't have a Facebook account either. Hm, typical.
"Are you the person you always wanted to be?
" The message asks.
I'm shell shocked. Darling, darling message, do you really mean to say I'm a person?"
Consider everything. The peach, the blouse, the telepathy, the cafeteria fries. Was that you? Was it, Myself?
A Canadian goose sulks at me from afar.
Overwhelmed, I cover my face with depressed hands. Crying begins. Just a tear. Then another. Then a third, for a trinity, for luck.
I don't believe in luck.
"Am I the person I've always wanted to be?" I say to my homeland and it's overwrought populace.
I stare at my hands. I stare at the bench I've been sitting in since one in the morning after QuickCheck quicked me out of the store. I stare at the thigh burning computer and the stories I've doodled on its always clean, always there papers.
Again, my hands. The powder is gone, but is the feel of them having been there gone?
And the smile, is that gone too? I touch my lips.
Are you the person you've always wanted to be?
The keyboard tumbles with a plastic crash. The goose jumps and squawks.
"I am that person." I whisper. I've had to cajole it out.
I smile. The person you are and the person you've always wanted to be, are both here.