Alyssa Carman

Murray
January 7, 2011

Me: A Rough Draft

Writing about myself feels like eating a large piece of cake. In the moment,

especially the beginning, the satisfaction is overwhelming. I can’t imagine anything more

cathartic, or appropriate. Gradually, though, a creeping sense of self-awareness permeates

my thought process. Like remembering, through a haze of pleasure, how many calories

are in the scrumptious pastry, the words seem more conceited, less profound and utterly

naïve. Finally, in disgust, I discontinue the project, chalking the attempt up to boredom or

self-involvement.

For those few moments the head rush of expressing myself is exhilarating. To be

writing about my favorite subject is a guilty pleasure that I tend to indulge in alone. It is

in this time frame, often lounging my recliner in my room, fingers resting on my hot

keyboard where I can face aspects of myself that I am either too embarrassed or too busy

to think about on a daily basis and that not many people know. Here they are.

First: about 90% of the time I am with people in a social setting I believe they are

bored and/or humoring me. It’s mostly irrational, pathetic and alarmist, but it’s the truth.

Side-long glances, nano second long silences or miscommunication send me into panic

mode often resulting in a landslide of verbal waste: poorly constructed sentences, overt,

desperate use of profanity, and pitiful gossip. I’m sure a therapist down the line will have

some artfully crafted childhood-originating theory to make me feel like a five year old,

but for now it is going to remain a paranoid anomaly.

 Second: My parents don’t like each other, but stay married. This isn’t really a

secret, most of my friends know. I hesitate to include it, on the grounds that it sounds

whiny and redundant, except for the fact that I think it cover’s all of my emotions and

reactions to gender. The oldest cliché in the book, my overbearing and angry father, casts

males in a temperamental, irrational light. My mother, similarly, inspired one the

attributes I most despise in women: complacency. Reverse the genders and match with

corresponding adjectives, though and all biases fall away. A temperamental woman? Girl

Power! An accommodating man? What a darling, sounds like a sweetie.

Third: I feel, most days, that I fit the stereotypical oldest sibling. From sitcoms to

day time talk shows to gossipy mothers, the idea that birth order is significant is widely

accepted as fact. The archetypes, the responsible and uniting oldest sibling, the reserved

and enigmatic middle child, and the people pleasing brat all perfectly apply to my two

younger sisters and I. It’s almost embarrassing. Maintaining good grades, keeping my

room clean, throwing water on other’s tantrum wildfires, I almost enjoy martyring myself

on the alter of peace-keeping. Masochistic or responsible, I have no idea.

Here.

This point.

Right here.

This is where the sickly sweet taste of cheap pop psychology that always peppers

my personal writing chokes me, inhibiting my flow. I am, to myself, a cliché, for I have

experienced these aspects of myself again and again and again.

 So? Resort to trivialities? Small facts that neither set me apart nor are of any

interest?

I hate the color orange. I buy lotion then never use it. I have to remind myself

over and over again that I’ve never been to London, New York, LA, Hogwarts, Heaven,

Hell, etc, because I’ve read about them so many times that I have a very detailed mental

image of what they ought to look like. Regina Spektor is my feel good music. Seventy-

five percent of my music has female leading vocals because I feel that the female voice

sounds so much better in ever context; from Nicki Minaj to Norah Jones. I hate baked

beans. As of last Sunday, I don’t eat meat. I, I, I, I…….

Small, in consequential facts, traded like Pokemon cards over a sticky fifth grade

lunch table with peers, make up the bulk of my identity on a day to day basis.

Oh yeah, there’s one more thing.

I hate trying to come up with suitable endings for essays.