I am not the girl I thought I'd be.

I don't have my life together.

I'm not the eloquent coffee at sunrise and 

Tennyson at nighttime person that you would love.

I sleep too late

because att might my mind turns into a wonderland of

identity crises and dazzlind epiphanies.

I can't shut it off.

My hair isn't sleek or even brushed

because I've grown to kind of like the mess

that comes from letting it run wild.

My nails aren't manicured

or even recognizable as nails at all

because I bite then when I'm nervous.

I get nervous a lot.

I'm not skinny,

although I know I'm my harshest critic.

Because what's really so bad about curves?

I've tried to like the classics, I really have.

But Dickenson makes me sad

and Melville is too tough.

Although to contradict myself,

nothing is better than a lesson from Ms. Harper Lee

or some Thoreau to make me feel better about my

OregonianNatureLovingComplicatedBeautiful state of mind.