Me
© Copyright 2003 - Recherché Inamorato Productions

A/N: This is autobiographical, but not "documenting" my whole life...just...my flaws, and kind of what my mind has been on lately...

I am me, of course. Just me, that's all I am. I'm a seventeen year old girl who is naive to whatever is beyond the confinements of her home. That's just who I am. It's not my fault.

Personally, I don't think I have enough energy to be anything else except for me. This is why I think my life will end short and I will not make anything of myself. I don't want to be responsible for others' actions.

My parents named me Ashley. I am Ashley; Ashley Kirkland. I am not one of the other three Ashley's in this particular class period. Here, why don't you call me something else? Anything will do, because I have no feelings. Remember?

So now I'll call myself Angerona. Show me someone else around here with that name and I'll shoot myself in the head. I don't like being like other people, but then again, a lot of people feel the same way I do. We conform to being diverse and not like anyone else. Damn, now you and I act a lot alike.

Angerona was the Roman goddess of the winter solstice, death, and silence. I find this name to suit me quite well...except for the Roman goddess part at least. I'm one of those silent killers. Death comes quickly and quietly when I'm around. I hope I die like that, too.

Then there is me again. Just being me, myself, Ashley. Don't you know who I am? You must know me, I know you.

I'm the one who sits in the back of the class, unaware of my surroundings. I try my best to break the rules without getting caught, and it usually works. Nobody wants to talk to me. I'm a freak, a loner, a loser. I'm just me, and I don't blame you for not liking it. I don't like me, either.

And my skin is pale. I can see dark blue veins, and am almost possessed to trace them with a pen, but I don't. I never wash off my make-up, but it doesn't matter. Who am I trying to impress? Black smears are permanent under my eyes, making me look dead. And sometimes, I feel dead. Maybe I am.

Paranoia consumes me, and I imagine spiders crawling up and down my body. And then I feel the thousands of legs on my flesh. It tickles and itches, and I scream out for help. But nothing is there. Or is something crawling on me?

I am sarcastic, but not funny. I try to be what everyone wants me to be, but all I can be is Ashley. I'm never good enough for anyone anymore. Was I ever good enough? I don't care, actually. If you don't like me for me, then go away. Not like I need friends.

My right arm has two long scratches on it. I know they will scar, and I will have yet another reminder that I'm a total idiot and very stupid for these thoughts. But the lines are perfectly parallel, and I marvel at how these, of everything I am, can be the only perfect part of me.

My emotions run wild without stopping. They never do. I know it. Even when I sleep I can feel the transition from feeling to feeling, thought to thought. I am never satisfied with one thing. Why must I be so fickle?

And when these changes get the best of me, I write. I write anything that happens to come to mind. Although my original work is far better than my fan work, I still write the damned fan stories. But why? I can't write, and couldn't successfully write if my life depended on it. People tell me this all the time. And so I stick with original, although I still think it's awful. I need to get my feelings out somehow.

My ideas are old and recycled. My vocabulary is that of a second grader's. And I cannot convey my points and emotions as beautifully as many of you can. Why am I so not someone else? Why do I have to be me?

I envy everybody for being prettier, smarter, more creative, more organized, more liked, funnier...

I envy everybody.

Nobody tries to know me. In fact, nobody comes near me. It's not like I don't open up to you people. I'm a complete sucker, and I want some friends. No one likes me. But that's okay, because I can't find it in me to trust anyone...except me. Nobody is worthy of my trust. I have been ridiculed all of my life.

But when I'm trying to sleep at night, my mind wanders. I think of my future, and what I'm going to do with my life. I'm already seventeen, yet I have no dream. I am fickle, and cannot decide what I want to do. And then I wonder when I'm going to die, and what will happen to everything I've ever done and worked for in my life.

And I figure, we're all going to die one day. Nobody can live forever. So why are all of these material possessions so important to us? Why do we feel motivated to do things with our lives? All we're really doing is working our way to the top, and then falling...downward. We just die, and for all we know, everything can go to waste. People will move on, and we'll be nothing but faded photographs and memories that people push to the back of their minds.

We are nothing once we die. And I assure myself that I have nothing to worry about. That I don't have to spend my time pondering what I will do with my life. That I don't need to do anything big and extravegant. I'm no Marilyn Monroe. No matter what, people won't remember me.

I laugh at myself a lot, too. Because, after all, I'm just me and I am different from everyone and have my own opinions.