Skirts And Converse

Today my family, a bunch of my friends from Novi, my ballet teacher, and my Aunt, Uncle, and cousin came to support me in our Spring Dance Concert.

I couldn’t be happier. <3

I love, love, LOVE each and every one of you! You have no idea how much your support means to me. =) You guys just make me feel so darn loved and happy! 

The only directions on a practice quiz I’m taking…

runningfortheprize:

Good luck!

:)

Over the last few days, I’ve gotten some unexpected new follows! 

So, hi and thank you! =D

And now I will take this opportunity to introduce myself.

My name is Chelsea and I like ballet, musical theatre, pretty things, Harry Potter, coffee, questions, dresses, nice weather, poetry, song lyrics, Cyanide & Happiness, words, snark, emoticons, and people.

And that is me in a nutshell….

Hello! =)

Words.

Caught up in a mess of tangled nothingness in a mind

too consumed with the sounds of a bird trapped by a cat, 

to grab at little beasts of scattered thought. 

Wondering, still, why a trapped bird makes noise at all.

Who is the cat?

The Scatterbrained Optimist:

Eternally Complexed, eternally positive,

Always Pondering.

Limitless introspection gives way to limitless possibility,

limited sight, nulled understanding.

Never the Bird filled with romanticized expectations of free-flying—

A Cat for always, grasping for reason.

I live within a shelled facade of myself so convincing that I’ve forgotten who I am.

In a group of self-defined partyers, I’m the prude-like goody-two-shoes; too “above” alcohol to drink it. In Church, I’m the rebel with a loud mouth and a dangerously liberalized view of the world. I’m the boy-crazy one and the one who couldn’t care less about the opposite gender. I’m nice, ditzy, put-together, ugly, unorganized, nerdy, pretty, cute, weird, anti-social, and obnoxiously talkative.

I am an intellectual.

I am stupid.

I’m selfish; I’m too giving.

There is no happy-medium for the socially conceptualized version of myself. My environment plays like a puppeteer over my actions, and whichever traits I possess otherwise are inevitably overshadowed, or heightened, by the caricature-ized embodiment of my attributes in others. 

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In most situations though, I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit. I like that about myself. I like that I’m recklessly unconcerned over my own well-being, and I like to think that I don’t let things get to me. I like that I haven’t cried since the beginning of my Junior year*, and I like the way I’m aware of myself.

It’s unfortunate too, the way I hate melodrama, but can’t portray my thoughts without sounding horribly contrived, pretentious, defensive, and whiney.

I am a paradox of cliches; a walking contradiction encased in an exterior that is of my own poorly-crafted design.

I don’t think I know how to “be myself”, and I think it comes with the joy that is finding yourself. I know that my idealized view of myself has me cast as mellow, but full of liberated spontaneity. Awkward, but in an endearing way. Snarky, but fiercely loyal to friends who always need me more than I need them.

That’s another thing—another problem. I have never been, and will never let myself be someone’s (anyone’s) consolation prize. I will not be the person people feel bad for because they haven’t realized that they’ve been outcasted. I will never be oblivious. I can’t need someone more than they need me, because I need to be needed more than I actually need the person.

I am selfish, and I am selfless. 

I would lay my life down for anyone I love, but I think it’s only because I’d know I’d never be forgotten then. 

I know I’m trying to convince myself to be something I’m maybe not, but I don’t know who else to be. I am headstrong, and quirky, and silly, vacant, passionate, ignorant, observant, confident, and too self-concious to admit anything of the like. 

Tell me who I am. 

Teach me, I’m suffocating.**

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*The last time I cried was a result of the only time my Mom has ever admitted she was wrong about something. I don’t mean that as a hyperbole, it is literally the only time. It started with a stupid fight and I brought up a childhood that could have been worse, but could have been a lot better to make her angrier (Best argument tactic ever?). She surprised me and stopped yelling (Again, that has never happened before or since) and told me she was sorry. That fight didn’t start out like that—it wasn’t about that. But I cried for an hour and a half and she hugged me and didn’t know what to say, because I’d only cried out of rage before then. I didn’t even know how to calm down; it was just gut-wrenching sobs on and off for the entirety of that hour and a half. And I look back on that moment fondly, because that was the closest I’ve ever felt to her. 

** But not really, because that would be very over-dramatic, melodramatic, pessimistic, and stupid, and that isn’t what I mean.