I’m an over-sharer. Always missing my chance at becoming a Woman of Mystery, I introduce myself as, “Hi, please take a seat. Have I got a story for you!”  Carelessly unleashing mental mania onto someone you just met seems unwise. And yet, I continue.

I share every hop, skip and beat with strangers, giving them full access to the soundtrack that is my life. I’m undiscerning and descriptive, revealing sources of problem and pride with maximum vigor and minimal shame. Unsure whether such innocence will help or harm, I’ve chosen to not drain the glass half full. Instead, I’ve opted to embrace it with a reckless persistence that makes me smile and laugh.

Sometimes I wish I could be more illusive. Disregard the interest of others with a smoky eye and pouty lip. Think so high of sexy self that I need not care about the opinion of peers. Alas, I’m far too candid and hopelessly awkward to pull off anyone other than me.

I bumble furiously and excitedly through conversation. I accidentally use words to dig holes and unintentionally bury myself beneath them. I’m never looking for error or controversy, but inconsistency finds its way towards me and really, who am I to turn such away.

Protecting private truths might make me more mysterious, but I suppose I don’t much care. People must know that I’m foolish, and capable of mistakes. I’m also somewhat of a perfectionist, who prefers to not make any at all.

Of course, this reminds me of my fondness for contradiction. I love when the quiet allow themselves a voice. When the meek speak unexpectedly, or out of turn. I love when silence overpowers noise, and the vocal are overwhelmed by silent, introspective thought.

I devour dichotomy. I adore alliteration.

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