I’m messy. I manage to have perpetually dirty feet and consistently tangled hair. My bruises have bruises, less from clumsiness and more from being too impatient to slow down, to be precise, to be careful. I like taking things apart, figuring out the pieces, getting at the guts.
I’m loud. When I try to whisper, it comes out as a shout. When I laugh, I throw my head so far back that I’ll probably hurt myself one day and I bellow at the slightest provocation. In pictures, it looks like I’m either yelling or about to take an unladylike-sized bite of an impossibly tall piece of cake.
I’m the middle child out of 5. I’m stubborn and forgetful and I forget that I’m stubborn and I have very little self control. I don’t think before I speak. I don’t like sitting still.
I’m a great pen pal. These are my letters.