November 12 - Fishtails above the waves; napping in uncomfortable places; jokes that aren’t funny.

Fall is the new year of fashion. Every autumn I seem to form a new identity. For years I tried to venture farther and farther into what I wanted to wear rather than what was expected. I bought my first pair of high-waisted shorts last August and the trek was complete. I wore thigh-highs in public and lacy black bras under cut-out tees and purple lipstick, simply because I cared neither for the shock factor or the applause. I just liked it. I loved post-apocalyptic grunge for a long time.

The past month of my life has been surreal. I have a secret to keep under wraps in ways social networking has never allowed me to do, and I hardly think those not close to me would believe me if I told them the intricacies. I have no other word for it than surreal. Things have become unimaginable and movie like. I couldn’t have predicted where I’ve ended up, or what I’ve gone through, or how I’ve dealt with it. In some ways I feel invincible now. I have survived in a way that most people don’t know of. Things have been life-changing in a way that gives me material for a novel.

I grow bored easily. I’m not sure what brings that about in me, but it’s one of the most profound and dependable personality traits of mine. I need change, always. And I suppose one of the most telling parts of me is my personal style. In my mind, my recent outlook is quite significant.

I don’t ever want to be classy. The word reeks of controlling and confining habits. A woman who has class is demure, quiet, speaks only at the right time and causes no scandal, she dresses modestly and maturely, and she looks down her nose as those who have less class than her. I don’t ever want to be a controlled, polished shell of a woman whittling herself down to make others comfortable. I want always to be loud and passionate and at times eccentric and maybe trashy if I see fit, and to never shame other women and men for being themselves. I want to be scandelous and true and hideous if I want to. That’s that.

But lately I have been wanting to be different. To be polished, in a way. More colorful, as well. To venture from my usual fishnets and greys and blacks into things I usually find silly. To look happier. Because I want to be happier. That, to me, is significant.

I still love ugly things. I think they’re the most true and honest representation of life at its core. But I have a renewed sense of wanting, I suppose. Simply wanting to be. I’d like to be normal at times and maybe a bit more understated, maybe show less and tease more, maybe blush and giggle as I never do. I’d like to be normal the way other people can be, just to have the option. I don’t know how to explain what I want. I guess I just want to be a person who smiles and finds joy in life, and doesn’t always look so unhappy.