Soul searching

It’s no secret that I’ve learned a lot in the past parent-figure-free months. Who wouldn’t? Alright, the girl downstairs whose mother calls her five times a day and visits every weekend may have learned less than me. But she’s neither here nor there.

I have been grown, matured, increased, stretched, formed, pushed, and pulled.
I have become older, wiser, happier, lonelier, smarter, faster, and dumber.
I am more efficient, carefree, independent, opinionated, confident, honest, and obedient.
I am less neat, worrisome, stagnant, studious, and unathletic.

I’ve done (and am doing) what everyone does, or at least what everyone has the choice to do (or not):
grown up. And I’m growing into me.

I’ve found out a lot of things about myself, too:

I’m not really a neat freak at all, and dirty dishes don’t bother all that much. Furthermore, it really doesn’t matter if the toilet paper is on the handy toilet-paper-holder.


I am terrible at focusing. I don’t think it’s ADD; I think it’s willpower (or lack thereof).

My can’t-live-without-food is cereal.


Choosing things that make you happy make you happy (as opposed to choosing things that make other people happy). For example, I’m happier when I’m playing board games and watching movies, not partying. I’m happier when I’m well-rested, not when I skimp on sleep. I’m happier when I eat when I’m supposed to and when I put at least 10 minutes (but not more than 30) into looking somewhat presentable. I’m happier when I’m writing than when I’m doing math, and that will never, ever change.

That said, making other people happy makes me happy. So, yes, I will go to that party with my old friend who is in town and I will stay up late for a heart-to-heart and I will skip lunch with you in favor of a Kit Kat at the library, and I’ll run out of the house looking like someone who only put two minutes into her appearance. I won’t do math for you, though. 


I really, really, really, really, really, really, really hate being rushed. But I always, always, always, always, always, usually am.

I’m a hopeless romantic. This realization upset me too, Internet.


My love languages are words of affirmation and physical touch, but truthfully, I really, really love quality time, too, and I get miffed when I don’t receive it. Furthermore, acts of service are nice, too. Receiving gifts makes me feel awkward and reminds of days when my father would slip green into my hand like it was a gift certificate of any of the other kinds of love, and it never felt right.

And I could go on, about how my room is in shambles and I’d rather be writing or I have a test in the morning but I’d rather be writing and how, wait a second, I may change my mind because journalism feels like something I don’t want to do and all I really want to do is write. (And what is right.) (I’m so punny, even at 2 in the morning. Am I making you proud?)

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