:// The stuff that you're hypothetical to say when you converse a propos yourself which is generally acknowledged in the about me section.
Epictitus said “Know first who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly.” It’s the whole business of the self. But it can get fiddly. You stride your leg a mile or inch too far and you’re vain; or you steer the wheel and veer off the beaten track and you’re actualizing your guise. The “look of the moment” can clutch you to the crest, then crash. The ebb and pour will persist endlessly.
I have mutated, in other words, metamorphosed. I rebuff to get entangles on the mishmash and hodgepodges of life. I don’t belong to the grind or the corporate mill. I’m a lazy cat in a rat race. It makes a huge part of me, up-to-the-minute speaking or otherwise, suchlike, perhaps.
My identity is germinated in the seed of the soul. The gut I cover is vast and immeasurably cosmic and can’t be contained in a single receptacle. It partially resides in a closet full of the doldrums, archetypes, hoodies, short pants, and most importantly water and food and Crank and Naruto and Final Fantasy and Animé -- Currently into Kuroshitsuji and Code Geass and Mariya Holic -- and bands like New Found Glory and Paramore and Green Day and Radiohead and The Beatles and Weezer. I'm into L4D. The favorite movies of Hope: Harry Potter and upcoming series and Twilight and upcoming series and Final Fantasy Advent Children and Sweeney Todd and Edward Scissorhands and et cetera slash a lot more forshizz seriously. So many! I’m wrought and twisted and transformed by my interests and they steal pieces from each other. And hence, I’m a shape shifter and a walking mosaic.
I’d somewhat describe me as a haphazard -- slapdash -- muddled -- harried -- turbulent -- hysterical---human being-slash-vampire P.S. I sheepishly imply it. I want to be a little gothic girl clad in black. In other parts of town, I want to be identified as a beatnik, a beribboned bohemian, a glow worm, a blackbird, a spaced-out androgynous pixie, a pastiche. I have my chic, but am also beyond it. My irreverent approach is driven by imagination and instinct, not by a conscious pathetic attempt to look cool or to measure up to an existing public image. It portrays, depicts my twinge of mind. It’s a peephole to the shebang that goes on inside the skull.
Epictitus said “Know first who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly.” It’s the whole business of the self. But it can get fiddly. You stride your leg a mile or inch too far and you’re vain; or you steer the wheel and veer off the beaten track and you’re actualizing your guise. The “look of the moment” can clutch you to the crest, then crash. The ebb and pour will persist endlessly.
I have mutated, in other words, metamorphosed. I rebuff to get entangles on the mishmash and hodgepodges of life. I don’t belong to the grind or the corporate mill. I’m a lazy cat in a rat race. It makes a huge part of me, up-to-the-minute speaking or otherwise, suchlike, perhaps.
My identity is germinated in the seed of the soul. The gut I cover is vast and immeasurably cosmic and can’t be contained in a single receptacle. It partially resides in a closet full of the doldrums, archetypes, hoodies, short pants, and most importantly water and food and Crank and Naruto and Final Fantasy and Animé -- Currently into Kuroshitsuji and Code Geass and Mariya Holic -- and bands like New Found Glory and Paramore and Green Day and Radiohead and The Beatles and Weezer. I'm into L4D. The favorite movies of Hope: Harry Potter and upcoming series and Twilight and upcoming series and Final Fantasy Advent Children and Sweeney Todd and Edward Scissorhands and et cetera slash a lot more forshizz seriously. So many! I’m wrought and twisted and transformed by my interests and they steal pieces from each other. And hence, I’m a shape shifter and a walking mosaic.
I’d somewhat describe me as a haphazard -- slapdash -- muddled -- harried -- turbulent -- hysterical---human being-slash-vampire P.S. I sheepishly imply it. I want to be a little gothic girl clad in black. In other parts of town, I want to be identified as a beatnik, a beribboned bohemian, a glow worm, a blackbird, a spaced-out androgynous pixie, a pastiche. I have my chic, but am also beyond it. My irreverent approach is driven by imagination and instinct, not by a conscious pathetic attempt to look cool or to measure up to an existing public image. It portrays, depicts my twinge of mind. It’s a peephole to the shebang that goes on inside the skull.
