Perception

Men in general judge more from appearances than from reality. All men have eyes, but few have the gift of penetration. ~Niccolo Machiavelli

A very true statement. Depending on what I wear, where I appear, or what I happen to be doing, I have been assumed to be a goth, a punk, a bookish geek, a nerd, a horrible flirt, and a good little girl. Personally, I resent anyone trying to itemize me, but I think about it anyway; sometimes, it's fun to cultivate the image in someone's mind, then politely eat it for breakfast.

Sitting here at my desk tonight and looking at my room, I suppose it's easy to see where the mixed signals come from. There is a copy of the New York Times on my bed, one I spent close to two hours with this afternoon, leaning up against a FullMetal Alcehmist pillow. Further down the bed, a wholly sensible black bag with very opinionated pins and buttons all over it.
At the end of the bed, a handmade afghan, a teddybear, and a bag made from a mini-skirt that can stop traffic without being worn. All this is under a bookshelf, one shelf of which is devoted to comics. There are cheesy shojo manga, bloody shonen manga, offerings from Marvel, and all but one volume of The Sandman. Above it, Memoirs of a Geisha and Diana Wynne Jones share space with Laurell K Hamilton and Changeling. On the wall, two silk screen wall scrolls hang, one on either side of a printed page with the word FREEDOM on it. One scroll is for FullMetal Alchemist, a fairly commercialized anime. On the other, Sephiroth, a striking villain from a video game I've never played.
The rest of the room makes no more sense. Plants cover the desk, with action figures peeking out from under sweeping leaves. The philosophy of zombies shares space with a soap opera in comic book format and the Times from the beginning of the week. Tickets to a dance performance, schedules for the gym, and a writing tracker are stuck with magnets to various metal surfaces. Platform flipflops sit between a pair of sensible hiking boots and high black zip-up boots with massive heels. Tennis shoes are jumbled with slippers and a pair of battered sandals under the desk, next to a foam sword.

Nothing in here falls into a single category. I am not one thing, nor am I two things. I am what I think all real people are: I am human, variable, undefinable, and free of labels.

And I should be in bed. Ta!