truthiness.

1. sometimes when i was growing up, even after a knock down, drag out fight with my mother, i'd still want to ask if she thought i was beautiful. i never did, because i wasn't sure of the answer. 
2. i used to tell people i was an orphan at my boarding school or that my dad had died so they'd invite me to their summer cottage or winter cabin for skiing during breaks. neither my parents (nor my stepfather, for that matter) are dead, but still, i don't think i was that far from the truth.
3. i joked about pretending to be drunk in order to tell her i loved her- i guess it was insane karma that when i DID tell her i actually was. i felt extremely guilty and embarrassed because i thought i subconsciously got myself there on purpose (even though i was told it was a good idea by others more drunk than i). not to mention, she doesn't love me back and i can pinpoint the exact moment that our friendship veered off course
4. i'm still uncertain and evasive when people ask me whether or not i'm gay. i'm not (at least, not in those black + white terms), but for all intents and purposes the answer (at the moment) is yes. i'm afraid to say so,  because no one in my family knows and neither do most of my friends or acquaintances. what if i change my mind? i'm passively out, but i still find myself needing the approval of men, while being equally repulsed by them. this probably has more to do with the fact that the men (if you can call them that) throughout my childhood and adolescent years have simply been absent or disappointed me in increasingly traumatic ways. 
5. i'm often thought of as a token self-hating black girl, mostly as a result of living in america and being unsure of my new cultural standing. i was insecure before but i guess prior to living here i'd been oblivious to the labels. i feel really uncomfortable around the "typical" 50-cent loving, BET watching african-americans that come in to barnes & noble and ask "yo shorty where sista souljah at? where your black authors at?" and i feel extremely guilty about that, but i let them know, unfortunately we don't segregate our authors. i also don't like to classify myself as african-american. i'm not american and my father's hispanic, i say to myself, as i check the 'other' box. when there are three or four people at the info desk but they pierce me with their gaze so i can look up and help them find the latest zane book. with a blank stare, i ask them to repeat it and look it up on the bookmaster. they're in disbelief that i haven't heard of the author. i have but i don't want to relate by running to the fiction section with any kind of recognition or enthusiasm, which says nothing good about my character.
   
6. i have insomnia (or narcolepsy, that has yet to be determined). i live on my own in a brooklyn neighbourhood with a reputation that doesn't match the street i'm on, but living here on my own, taking up just under 6 feet of space in a two bedroom apartment, signed onto all the internet messengers with no one signed on at 3am except my best friend in ireland and perhaps emily from b&n... i may talk to one or both of them in a chipper tone of voice as the tears stream slowly and silently from my face.