I don’t want to be one of those people who go on about their troubled past and fill my essays with “woe is me, woe is me now I’m deep and perplexing because I’m a tortured soul” or some shit like that.
No, I like to think of myself as the “other girl.” Not the girl next door, but the girl two houses down.
Sometimes though, I wonder if somewhere out in this world, there is another “other girl” who also got an impulse Godfather tattoo, has trouble with commitment, and can’t seem to stick to that morning yoga routine. Is she cute and endearing and nebbish and irrationally nervous just like me? Does she spend her nights eating five bowls of cereal while she watches Annie Hall for the millionth time?
Am I really as unique and original as I like to think? Probably not… Actually no, the answer is no and now I have to spend the rest of my adulthood coming to terms with that fact. Everyone believes they’re different but we’re really not and now I’m just rambling. Do you see my dilemma here? Am I making sense to anyone?
Perpetually complacent, I am stuck debating between these two ideas. Am I unique and different or am I just a face in the crowd?
That’s why I hate the idea of being one of those “perfect girls,” or even the “perfectly flawed girls,” they’re just like everyone else. The perfect girls are the ones that have it all together and the perfectly flawed girls are the ones that don’t have it completely together but look good not having it together.
Then there’s me. I’m just none of it.
I’m just trying to slip my way in-between these two personas, trying to make something of myself. And I’ve spent my adulthood (for the record I’ve only been a legal adult for two years but emotionally speaking, I’m not quite there) trying to own this personality of someone who doesn’t quite fit in any sort of mold but at the end of the day, I’m just confused.
I don’t want to be the stereotypical writer who draws some dumb anecdote from their childhood, that probably never happened to them in the first place, but they needed something to relate back to Freud. The writer that everyone thinks of as this introspective genius who “gets it.”But if you are this kind’ve writer, welcome my friend! You are a perfectly flawed girl. The one who always has something to say, who stutters when speaking but can ultimately take a sip of her cheap wine and laugh it off in the name of endearment. The girl who is constantly saying “I’m this fucked person who doesn’t have it together” but hey, at least you’re owning that.
I’m constantly frazzled because at first, I thought I was one of those girls. The perfectly flawed girl but that’s just another cookie cutter group, and if I join them, then I’m stuck being the same as a million others. We’ve spent so much time looking to be unique that when someone finally found something different, everyone got on board with it, and now it’s not so unique.
Look at me, I’m shaking my fist to the sky. What good does that do? I don’t even know who I’m mad at?
Maybe I should’ve started this essay with some stupid meaningless childhood anecdote. It would’ve been a lot easier than this nonlinear bullshit. It would’ve been a lot easier to just fall in line. I’ve tried so desperately hard to be my own version of a flawed girl that I’ve just made a mess.
Truth is, I’m not quite sure what I want, or who I want to be.
A lot of people don’t like me. I can’t explain why. What’s not to like?
They like the flawed girl who is always talking about her flaws. At some point, it gets to where you wonder if she is as authentic as she pretends to be? How can you be so open about things that bothers you or destroys you? I don’t get it.
Please tell me. How can I be loved? How can I be liked? How can I be relatable? How can I be real and deep and experienced and flawed and understood all at the same time?
Because no matter how hard I try, I’m still that annoying kid who talks way too loud, sings too loud, is happy too much, who doesn’t see the horror in the world enough, who isn’t sad enough, who doesn’t quite get it because I’m too young to understand. Apparently, I’m just this naive, shallow kid who isn’t good enough or “in the know” to get it.
People always talk about society’s standards (as if they aren’t apart of society) in such a negative way. Okay, I get it, don’t fall in line with societies standards, I’ve tried that so many fucking times and still, that’s not enough.
I can’t even be the “I don’t give a fuck” kinda girl because I do give a fuck. I pretend like I don’t but I give many fucks.
I can’t be the girl with the big thighs who posts photos of herself in her underwear with the caption “I don’t give a fuck what you think” because I secretly do give a fuck what you think of my big thighs.
And if I’m being totally honest, more so than I’ve already been, I think that if people read this, then they’ll hate me more than they already do. They’ll think that I’m trying too hard, or that I’m conceited, or egotistical, or cynical, or mean. Or maybe It’s just me that thinks all those things. Part of me knows it’s just me that thinks all those things but I still feel like so does everybody else. I think I’m egotistical and that my thighs are too big. It has nothing to do with social constructs or societal standards, it’s just me.
I just don’t want to be that girl who writes “I’ll never be one of the perfect girls, but I’m happy with who I am” or some bullshit. Perfect girls don’t exist and we all know that. Can we stop pretending like she does exist? I’m tired of projecting my self-woes on an imaginary figure.
Why do I feel so empty sometimes? You know, people say be who you are but the same people that say that hate me, so now what?
I don’t know. Part of me is too exhausted to even care. Fuck it…
