109713

Wordy. candid. Hopelessly vain, endlessly adoring. Named after Anna Freud and a decendent of Karl Marx. The child of twwo hardcore Freudian analysts. A 40-year-old mother's miracle birth. 4 pounds at birth, now 5'11. They say premature birth stunts both growth and intelligence, but I have a 99.99th percentile IQ (fact) and a 99.99th percentile waist-to-ass ratio (someone else's opinion). I've learned in three years in this city not to give up being a giver in a city of takers, even if it means running at a deficit of heart. I've scarred mine up enough to keep it from ever breaking, but harbor neither hates nor regrets. I am astute enough to realize bad situations but sometimes not disciplined enough to avoid them. I was the girl in high school whose friends were all 35 and who inquired in English class if it was okay if I read the books in their original languages. Now I want to found a gallery/collective devoted to analysing fashion in a sociological, psychological, and communicative sense, then abandon that endeavor to a caretaker when I hit 35 and go off to a remote Greek island and run a cafe. I seem much more lighthearted in person. Usually. I've acquired enough wit, at least, to compensate for the serious side. Thought: Does being the expensive child mean my love is worth more? One should always feel both grateful and guily when one has a great upbringing but gains, through that childhood, the strengths to indulge in many a vice without succumbing to them. I am perpetually overdressed, but only because it's good armor for one's shy side and discourages the wrong people from talking to one. Also, it puts a smile on the faces of those less daring and makes people think, and fantasize...I have decided to become trajectory oriented as opposed to goal oriented; plans get you no where when everything in this crazy place is N-S, E-W, one- ways...I'm in love with the instability of my life, with the serendipity of it all, but it's fucking exhausting in the same breath, isn't it? I have endless faith in people, even when they don't seem to deserve it. I've given up on finding this level of caring in others. My mind fails to turn off, so I run for cover in New York's nightlife, only to face insomnia at a later hour than before. But I love it and indulge it to prolong those thoughts that only come just before nothingness. I search perpetually against the odds of this city for friends that don't break down or pawn off. The really great ones I miss even when I'm with them. Sound good? Or similar? There's something universal to all these oddities, I promise, I may seem like an open book, but words and clothes and smiles are all just a cover for the gritty cores of us all. I wrote this profile in 2004 and it is now outdated in some of the factual senses, but it captures something about my personality that I chose to preserve, and therefore resist editing it further.