Lingers in the shadows of a barely lit classroom. She writes to the beat of the music only she can hear. With hair in her eyes and head bobbing, it’s hard to tell if her mouth is moving to words coming from inside earbuds, or if she isn’t listening to anything at all. No one disturbs her, or asks why she’s singing without sound. They just watch as her pencil speeds up and slows down to her rhythms. A single strand of hair is danced between the fingers of her other hand in sync with the words being written. Every day. Same hair. Same music. Same paper with ideas she only hopes will become more.
Ana does not like to write about herself. She actually hates it. Have you tried writing about yourself? Do you like it? If you said “yes” to both, it’s ’cause you’re conceited and you suck. That’s right, you suck. I find it really stupid and hard having to write these. Every time, you sound corny, stupid, plain or conceited. Okay seriously, does it even matter what I say about myself anyway? I can be lying for all you know. Not like you care about who I am or what I am about anyway. So for “about me,” just read my writing and try to figure it out for yourself. I am not about wasting time trying to explain my life story.
I’m just going to put it out there. I don’t understand the Potter hype. I’m going to put something else out there. I don’t like my own writing. I write and I write and people say, “Man this is good!” and I shrug in my hoodie sweatshirt. I think my lack of confidence stems from my worry about being conceited or showy. Then people say, “Man this is good!” and I say, “No, it’s nothing. I just jotted it down a few minutes ago. This is just my brain juice splattered on paper.” Well I better finish this bio with something corny . . . Skinny jeans don’t define me, neither does the man in the skinny jeans (that being me), but rather, it’s the people and things surrounding the guy in skinny jeans that inspire him to write stupid, irrelevant rants about skinny jeans.
Her goldfish raised her. They only know sign language. Her childhood consisted of only a huge language barrier. On Tuesdays she bleeds the blood that bleeds from her ripped-off toe nails. Then she tucks them away in her pocket for a snack the following day. She is married to her 9th therapist. Her therapist isn’t a real therapist, just a figment or a fragment of her mind. Her life is heavily diagnosed, her therapist told her so. Her neurotic behavior landed her in the loony bin. So now she spends her days rocking back and forth scratching poetry into her thighs, when her skin has scabbed over. But she is in no way, shape, or form insane. YOU ARE! . . . or are we? . . . Who are we talking about again?
Sam was born at a Smith’s concert in the month of July. Moz might be her dad . . . She’s quiet with a loud mind. She lives with her anti-social cat, Kitty Vato, in the spiffy city of San Francisco. Her favorite word is “spiffy.” She likes the color yellow, only because not many people admire its beauty. It disappoints her that her life isn’t an 80’s John Hughes’ movie. And she is quite terrible at writing these so-called bios.