I don’t drive a fancy car, in fact I don’t even own a car. My parents have a 1997 Ford Explorer that I’ve coined the term “Canyanaro” to, but, like I say, it’s my parents car not mine.
I guess I’m not ugly. People say I’m cute. I don’t really take this stuff to seriously. Seems as though I’ve found more important things to think about. Like clothes and slowly collecting every single episode of “Sex and The City”.
I come from a small family. My parents have supported me everyday since I was born. When I said I dumped him, they said “amen”. When I said I was taking Journalism, they called me everyday at college to see how I was doing. When I said I was sick, they got me tissues. When I cried they gave me what I needed until I stopped and when at twenty-one, they wished me a happy birthday. It’s a lovely kind of support.
I like apples. I eat them on the way to school. The other day, I noticed that I have managed to leave a trail of apple cores along the sidewalks that I take. I guess I should stop throwing them over my shoulder when I don’t see any fleshy parts left on the core.
I love writing. It’s a dream of mine that someday I’m a fiction writer. I picture myself dazzling people with my words and weave beautiful stories with my imagination. I enjoy reading those kinds of books that you start reading after you are done supper and you don’t put down until it’s 4 a.m. and you realise the rest of the city is sleeping, so you should probably sleep too. I want to write a good book, that people point at in Chapters and say “Oh, I’ve heard about that one!”
My favourite season is Winter. I love the snow. I love the winter clothes, the way that my nose chills, and my cheeks turn red and the I have to buy hand cream because I expose my hands to the cold and dry out. I love pea coats and coloured scarves, and high-heeled boots. I love mittens and lip balm. I love it when the snow starts to fly around and you can feel a new type of crispy cold in the air. I love the christmas decorations hung in shopping malls and Slvation Army kettles with spare change shining inside a big, clear ball. I love staying in on a Friday night with a good book, a great movie, a fleece blanket across my lap, and a cup of hot chocolate.
I want to marry a good man. I want to find someone that treats me with a kind of respect that is equal and not better than me. I want someone that isn’t jeaous or angry, and watches Mr. Bean with a little grin on his face just like I do. I want someone that makes me supper, rubs my back, and cheers me up when I’m sad. I’ll put up with farting, burping, oil leaks in the drive-way, beer bottles lined up along a ledge, dirty jeans, shop talk, whiskers in the sink, and a lack of fashion sense as long as it means the stuff before what I just said, is what I get.
I grew-up in the country. I grew-up in a small town called Walkerton. It’s a simple place. It’s filled with evening walkers, barking dogs, simple lives, simple people, gossip and boring town councils. I love it there.
I’m a simple person. I’m not a fancy girl. I don’t wear a lot of brand name clothes. I don’t put my values in material things. I haven’t had it easy, but I can’t say that I’ve had it overly hard either.
I’m just me.
