I'm a cliché.
There, I said it. After years of trying futilely to dig up random nuances that would prove that I'm a unique little star, a marbled grain of sand among billions of uniform specks, I've recognized it–I'm a cliché.
Yeah, so I thought I was pretty cool, with my little imagination and identity crises and "I'm totally not like other girls" attitude. Eventually my brain started yearning for a return; it was shouting at me, "hey, who the hell do you think you are, throwing me out and replacing me with some wannabe?"
I'm that girl who pretends not to be a romantic, but secretly yearns for the fireworks and explosive passions of angsty 90s dramas. I'm that girl with an inflated ego, but sporting a crushingly massive inferiority complex. I'm that girl who can be pushed over the edge, to near-tears, with a couple of emotional phrases. I'm that girl who thinks she's the best listener in the world "because I'm an introvert". I'm that girl who says "okay" listlessly but doesn't do. I'm that girl who thinks she can fix what's been broken beyond repair. I'm that girl who's "lost".
Ha, nah, I still am. My brain wants to come back, sure, but here's the thing about me and pretty much everyone else (because I'm a cliché, there are others like me, right?)–we hear the logic. Oh yeah, we can hear it banging and clanging away from the outskirts of our extremely thick skulls. But we love to ignore. If there's something we're–I'm–truly, genuinely good at doing, it's ignoring. Willfully.
The only thing remotely special about me is that I've somehow mastered the art of balancing the ratio of milk to cereal. That's pretty fucking awesome, if I do say so myself.
Which obviously I just did, because this whole thing is about myself. Here I am, talking about myself like a self-absorbed brat masquerading as a thoughtful, introspective soul with the wisdom garnered from aging, teenage years. What a cliché, right?