Who am I really? Just a simple piece of text imposed on your screen the minute your mouse clicks on my name in a search result, someone else's friends' list or in a comment. Somewhere along the line you got yourself backed up onto my piece of texted earth while I stand outside my front door with a shotgun and a box of ammo waiting for you to step farther into my property. Lost little tourist that ends up at the fodder end of my words until you fall face first in pixelated dirt, before I bury you in an HTML grave. The digital version of a crazy lady screaming, "Get off my lawn".
Who am I really? Some girl working at a computer, typing strung out, pseudo intellectual sentences in moments stolen between projects at work or off of other peoples internet connections. Too self-important to know she's just another bag of water taking up an executive chair in her office, but doesn't care enough to change that because its all fun to her.
Who am I really? A painfully shy girl standing off to the side of the crowd, no longer the ugly duckling of the past, though those memories still linger strong as she sometimes forgets that she no longer wears glasses and isn't letting her Mommy dress her in fashions from 1983. Seemingly unconfident, answering questions in barely audible tones, trying to keep responses down to head nod and hand guestures. Then you get to know her and find her childish voice rattling off enough swearing to send sailors running, her simple guestures usually involve a middle finger and an evil grin.
Who am I really? A twenty-nine, almost thirty, year old going on twelve who still laughs when someone says or types 'penis' in any context and things that shit jokes are roaringly funny. The girl who can work by day in the adult world using terms like "I'll get that to the client right away" or "We need to change the procedure on this because its not working", learning to function on her own two feet in her chosen career path. The same girl who by night spends time telling dirty jokes to her friends and nearly peeing at hearing the punchline.
Who am I really? Mother of a beautiful, stubborn son. Stumbling through the parental world with the ease of a falling trapeze artist just after realizing the net is broken. Trying to find balance between who she was as just her and who she will be as 'us'-- while realzing the balance never really happens and the beauty is in the child before her. Even as her heart breaks at how fast it goes by, she knows tomorrow will be something worth more than the day before.
Who am I really? Even if you've known me forever, I'm still something more than you think.
