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Usually people say that to mean that I’m too much—too colorful, too passionate, too smart, too dramatic, too sarcastic. It’s what people say when they don’t know how to categorize me, as if I should just fit into the social box of a woman who wants a picket fence and two kids, just like my mom.
“Living alone for the peace and quiet. Sounds charming. I bet you have stellar houseplants.” “I do. And I bet my plants have better breath than your dog.” I pause. “Was that an actual joke?” I’m smiling again. I can’t help it. Witty banter is my Kryptonite.
“You are a terrible cat burglar,” L says as he pulls me toward the illuminated exit sign. “I like to think of myself as a corgi burglar. I don’t like cats.” Corgis aren’t graceful either.
I spent so much time pushing people away because they didn’t fit what I was looking for, and in the end what I needed was someone to bring me out of my prejudices. Open my eyes to the world. To realize that the perfect person will support my fashion design, my wacky hair, my comics, my job, because those things are all a part of me.
