Let's talk about this quote. . . I can sum it up in three words: It. Is. Badass.
So since my boy Oscar encourages us to be ourselves I figured I'd take some time to review what exactly it is that makes me, me.
Live, from the sounding board of her caffiene drunk, gorgeously eclectic,
Some zaney facts about yours truly:
*I am addicted to caffiene
*I LOVE children, but do not want them for myself
*I enjoy all variations of pickles, as long as they are not of the sweet/bread&butter family
*I drink at least one LARGE glass of whole, white milk everyday. . . typically in companoinship with Oreos or some assorted sweet treat
*I will go to great lengths to get a chuckle, chortle, or chaGRIN (I was going for a sort of alliteration here. . . fail.) out of anyone. . . including, but not limited to, shamelessly making fun of myself
*I'm not superb at grammar. . . deal with it
*I have a mouth like a sailor. . . some would argue I might make a sailor blush. . . eh- all in a day
*I love dancing. . . and will quite obviously ignore your stares that suggest that I am, as a matter of fact, not Shakira or Beyonce. . . the hell you say- I'm a beast on the flo'
*I am short, not alarmingly so, but short nonetheless, and will rarely, may in fact fight you on, wearing heels. . . I begin to resemble a variation of the goose family when I attempt to wear heels. . . similar to that cartoon one that bellows in an English accent "T double E double R double I. . ." and waddles off down a dirt lane. Is that Charlotte's Web? Am I losing my mind?
Anyway, end that rant. My point? Some of you may be short, some of you may enjoy a pickle from time to time, some of you may be spectacularly sucktacious at grammer, but none of you are all these things at one time. . . wanna know why? Because YOU are not ME! Only I would get ready for a Saturday night out by slurping a Coke, eating a dill pickle, putting on flats, and going to strut my sexy (hah) moves on the dance floor, only to then wake up in the morning for a large glass of milk while incorrectly grammarizing an embarrassingly humorous tale in which I use the work "fuck" at least 7 times and include various reasons as to why I will never have children, although I already have names picked out.
Those of you who are reading this that do have a dancing gene in your body and move your tail feather like a cyclone, I applaud you. . . I also, more likely than not, adore you because of who you are. . . which is in some part, if not wholly, different than me.
All of you amazing, gorgeous, perfectly imperfect young, growing, and adult women (and men) of the world: Own who you are. Embrace all the ridiculous mannerisms that complete the canvas of your soul. Dance like a baffoon, or like a rock star, sing at the top of your lungs, and wear your hair however the hell you want! Don't pay attention to what's considered "hot" on the runways, T.V., or in magazines because no one can really afford a personal hair stylist, make up team, or air brushing crew.
I know it may seem like you'll never look in the mirror and think "pretty" or "smart" or "funny" or "wonderful" but you are all of those things, in your own extraordinary way. I haven't always embraced myself, but I do now, a little more, every day. Because I am the best person at being me. So be you and set the world a-light with fireworks by doing it because you were made to be you, and no one looks as beautiful being that person as you do.
So, my people, what are you good at? What are you proud of? How are your moves? Show me whatchya workin with. . . 'cause I bet it's incredible.