Unlike Any Other

I believe that I am, by nature, a very selfish person. But don’t judge me too fast; because you haven’t walked a mile in my heels. I want a lot of things, that’s true. I won’t deny it. That’s me; I am obstinate, I am articulate, and I’m extremely hard on myself. I expect too much from myself. I juggle so many roles and so many things; I’m almost surprised at the level of ease with which I perform. I want my cake, and I want to eat it too.

However, sometimes you don’t get what you want … but what you need.

So I suppose it all leads to this: What is it that I want, and what is it that I need?

Unfortunately, those are the hardest questions. Like I said, I want a lot of things. I want to have my fun, and I want my 4.0. I want to meet random people at bars and strike up interesting conversations that will linger long after I forget these strangers’ names. I want to travel; I want to immerse my soul in various parts of the globe. I want to leave little pieces of myself behind. I want to accomplish things. I want people to remember me even after I’m long gone. I want to be that girl you’ll remember as capable of painting smiles on people’s faces even while she’s hurting inside. I want to dance in the rain. I want to soak up the sun. I want spaghetti carbonara. I want tequila shots. I want to go crazy at all these parties I keep attending, and I want to take Polaroid shots of all the people I love. I want knowledge. I want to make my family proud. I want to be happy, all the time.

Earlier today, here at the new apartment, I had a conversation with a friend. He said I don’t really seem to need anything or anybody at all. Well, when it’s put that way … there’s truth in his words. Through the years of disappointments, I’ve perfected my fuck-it attitude and built up walls so high above me I can’t seem to find the way out. This smile, these clothes, the make up and my saunter – all pieces of my armor, solid and impenetrable. I don’t open up to people. I have secrets. I don’t hurt easily anymore. I don’t even cry.

You keep asking me all these questions I simply cannot answer: “What do you want from me, Su Ann? What do you need from me? You have to choose.”

In the end, however, I think the question should be:

What the hell do I think I’m doing?