I am that girl who loves writing “I am that girl…” posts.
I’m not a round peg in a square hole- I’m a crazy, dancing, spinning top that doesn’t want to be in a hole at all.
I’m that girl who is so blatant that she makes you uncomfortable.
I’m that girl on the road who talks to herself, who hums and flashes a beaming smile at the world for no reason.
That girl who has a discussion with Google Assistant on ‘gender’ because she doesn’t quite know what a girl is.
That girl who has a heartfelt desire to dance to “Hips don’t lie” at a sleepy, conservative local railway station, just because the train is late again.
That girl who doesn’t do it, because her mother has taught her what is “inappropriate”. I am “inappropriate.” I talk too much.
Sometimes I don’t talk at all.
People have a problem with both. I have a problem with neither.
I am that girl who talks to boys a lot.
And to girls, babies, dogs, pillars, trees, mirrors. I talk of 10th-grade Science and 1st-grade heartbreak, and 2nd-year college scenes.
Love’s poetry, loops, food, more love. I am that girl. The one you can’t quite make sense of.
I am that girl who thinks sense-making is overrated anyway.