"Let's destroy each other, 'cause we're too cool for love lines, soft kisses over cheap wine.
Smoke me, baby, like your last cigarette - whisper to me, say you'll never forget.
Could you break my heart a little more?
Shove my body up against yours and kiss me like you mean it.
(Anything worth a taste burns as it goes down.)
Could you tell me I'm so Audrey Hepburn when my hair falls to the side?
And say, "Girl, I'm not here to love you tender, I'm just here for the ride."
Let's blind ourselves by love, and be deaf to all those who say it's fatal.
It's not that we don't know, it's just that we don't care."
- Anonymous

"Emo is an essential element of being a teenager... It's too contentious, too stylistically and generationally diverse to be a genre, too far-reaching to be a subculture." - Andy Greenwald

Last night, for the first time ever, I was referred to as 'emo'. Not in an offensive way, or as criticism, but just as a general comment, while being hugged: "You are kind of emo."

It probably shouldn't have been that surprising, but then again, somehow, it was. I've always considered emos - in both music and mindset - to be an offshoot of the punk scene, which I admire but am not necessarily a part of. I don't have too many piercings. I rarely wear fishnet. And I don't particularly consider safety pins to be a fashion accessory. So while I am definitely attracted to the idea of it, I have yet to identify myself as punk.

But hey, personally, I see nothing wrong with emo kids. The music isn't so bad (hey, at least it isn't rap), the girls are cute, and the boys wear tight pants. What's to complain about? I'm not suggesting a black-on-black fellowship to Unite the Emo, but joining the ranks? I'm all for it.

So I'll say it: heck yeah, I'm emo. Go me.

True to form, yet another self-portrait from the world of Me. This one is partially pirated from the last one I did, and partially edited to fit me now. Either way, it's me. So I guess it doesn't matter.

I am seventeen years old and, as far as I can tell, always on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I overanalyze everything, and I always need a reason (although I rarely have one to give). I am part of a three-person family, with no siblings, although I have some of the best friends around (certainly some of the most unique) and too many boys to handle. Despite the cold, I drive with the windows down and the stereo up. I count my flaws with my perks; I am evasive, manipulative, and defensive. I am cynical and - reluctantly - romantic.

My only addiction - aside from back rubs and kissing - is caffeine. I don't drink, or smoke, or anything else, despite the fact I'm attracted to people who do a lot of these things. My fixations are all things I'd like to remember in the morning. I drink cheap cappucino from Sterling's, slurpees from the 7-11, and Mountain Dew from anywhere.
I run; I draw; I read; most of all, I write. I hate spiders, and total darkness, and being alone. I hate being ignored. I love being noticed by strangers, and being welcomed by friends, and the way it feels to slide under my sheets at night. I am small but strong; I am smart but not wise. I frequently look for trouble, and more often than not it finds me. The past chases me and the future worries me. Sometimes I am invisible, and other times I am impossible to miss. I've been a McBarbie for a little more than five months, and my uniform still makes me look like a geek, but I don't regret it for a moment. If you ever want to make friends, apply for a job at McDonald's. Really.

When I turn eighteen I want to dance in nightclubs where the music is too loud and the strangers will never know my name. I don't want to leave my comfort zones, and I've never wanted anything so badly in my life. My career-program is graphic design but my oldest friend is writing. I read Stephen King and Janet Evanovich and Laurell K. Hamilton. I love sex scenes in books and movies, those scenes with soft edges and hard passion. I am the only (so far) Networking Groupie, because computer kids rock my socks. Skater boys with long hair and little punk girls are total turn-ons. So are mix CDs (although mix tapes sounds more romantic) and candlelight dinners.

My room has two posters: Breakfast at Tiffany's and the Unicorn Tapestries, one from Media Play and one from New York City. My bulletin board has magazine cutouts of sayings I wish I'd follow and women I wish I could be. Sometimes I think 'identity' is a general term. I make a lot of mistakes. I love the colors pink and black and yellow. I like a lot of eyeliner. I quit piano lessons and viola lessons and cello; I stopped teaching myself clarinet when a spider escaped from inside of it; I am slowly, slowly, slowly learning bass and guitar. I am obsessive over Jennifer Garner and Alias, and Mel Gibson and Lethal Weapon. I am a movie fanatic in general.

I am convinced that I have mutant toes and little kid hands. I have four baby teeth that will never fall out but one that was pulled because of a cavity. No one seems to notice, but I am fascinated by the hole it left behind. My top teeth are straight and the bottom ones are crooked. I do not have a Julia Roberts smile. I have good legs that are best appreciated in short skirts and platform heels; the rest of me is best displayed in my favorite jeans and a comfy t-shirt. Current criticism has made me re-evaluate my eyebrows but the thought of pulling hairs out makes me queasy. I have a fascination with leather pants and corset-style tops. I have more socks than anyone could possibly need in their life. I like thongs and girly things. I cry over unnecessary things. I am not pretty when I cry. I hate Kleenex and the noise produced when someone uses one. I like to say fuck.

I have too many boys to ever mention only one. The Boy was in my life for two years as my one-and-only, and although he wants to marry me, I have come to the conclusion that I am not ready for the commitment. My love of the moment is a boy with messy hair and a fondness for marijuana. He is the only boy I know who makes smoking look sexy. He says I have taken away his self-esteem problems. He says he is going to take away mine.

And there are others - my best friend's cousin, who stopped calling before because he didn't think he had a chance. The punk boy with his penchant for pain that surpasses mine; I like to play a little rough, but bleeding someone is crossing the line. I could count them for you, but the question is, what do I do with them? I didn't ask for them. I don't know where they came from. And I know I can't save them, if that's what they need. I am only attracted to broken children, and it seems that they are fond of me as well.

This is me. I am a contradiction, a paradox, and a person. I am not worthless, although it took me time to see. I am human. I am a writer. And I am here. I am living, now, in this moment.

And that's okay.