on being a bland radical

a friend and i were talking about how, though there are dozens of potential true loves for everybody on earth, people tend to only fall in love with one “style” of person. this shed light on my pseudo identity crisis of late. see, it turns out that a chronic inability to commit to a lifestyle paired with a scholarly fascination of subcultures, is an unfortunate combination resulting in the tendency to research everything to death without actually doing shit.

sometimes i wish i was a hardcore rock climbing girl that could impress boys by throwing around words like “belay” and “traverse,” neither of which i’m familiar with. and sometimes i want to be the freckled organic girl that doesn’t shave and sweetens her tea with stevia, the kind of girl that wears hemp skirts and is too pure for lip gloss. and when i get depressed—when i let the zombies at work get me down—i want so badly be the kind of girl that cares about nothing more than weddings and shoes and feels accomplished having read the devil wears prada. the kind of girl that fits in and shuts up.

but none of those girls are me, christina ann cusolito. i guess i just don’t have a “thing.” there’s no dominating interest or opinion that defines me, and sometimes i wonder what people possibly have to say when they describe me. deep down, i know that life is a la carte, and that the world is just one big beautiful catalog from which to pick and choose. and ideally, we’d all combine hobbies and philosophies in hopes of coming up with something new, something unique to only us. like a fingerprint of sorts.

so i’m going to grant myself to permission to, in five years time, raise chickens in my backyard, yet shave my legs. to write poetry without being a poet (or vice versa). to subscribe to glamour magazine and the sun.

and hopefully, someone out there, will fall in love with my style of girl.