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I’ve got 101 problems, and I don’t know at least 30 of them.
Hi, my name’s Rebecca.
I like peppermint mochas, sleeping facedown, and pretending home is wherever I am.
My hobbies include reading Chomsky and writing letters I’ll never send.
I’m 28, sensitive, and as tall as the average 4th grader.
I spend my days painting my past in pastels and wishing to have back the relationships that hurt me.
I aspire to perform Slam poetry like my favorite poet, Rudy Francisco, but my voice is as gentle as a lullaby.
I eat pizza for breakfast, know every song of Cher’s, and can be found cleaning my bathroom floor at 2 a.m.
I’ve been told to love myself, yet I struggle to love a self that’s not yet defined.
I have an inner rebel, but all that’s projected to the world is flowers and a smile that shows all my molars.
I live alone, and the only person I see these days (when not on Zoom) is myself.
My car’s name is Bernie after Bernie Sanders because he’s old, progressive, and burns so much oil that as I drive him, I often say to myself, “Feel the burn.”
I’m a lover of education, an adult who was once a misfit child, and a poet who finds herself changing her life goals as often as she changes her address.
I attend therapy frequently, love the smell of vetiver, and turn my air conditioner on in California so I can wear a scarf and pretend I’m in the Pacific Northwest.
I’ve got lots of problems, and there are plenty more to come.
I think, instead of basking in them today, I’ll turn them into art—embrace my imperfections and the twists and turns of my life that has no direction.