Who are you to tell me that my dreams are stupid? Who are
you tell me that I should think practically, tangibly, realistically? Who are
you to tell me what I can or should or must do? I am the dirty-mouthed, sexually aggressive,
socially awkward, child-woman, who doesn't have an idea about who she is or who
she wants to be. She is the girl who goes to sleep with stars in her eyes,
dreaming of globetrotting, from London to Rome, to Sao Paola, to Kingston, to
Kuala Lumpur, to Laos, to Bangkok, to Goa. Oh sweet Anjuna, with your
shimmering waters and white sands and spires of sweet hash smoke, transporting
your inhabitants to transcendental states. I am a dreamer, who doesn't want
anything in particular, except love, sex, drugs and rock and roll. I believe
that Lana Del Rey and her melancholic songs of lost glory, sordid sex and drunken
regrets are the answer to life, the universe and everything else, not 42.
I am a social misfit, even more out of place here: Where
everyone is an over achiever, a princess, a brainiac, a genius, a virtuoso,
someone special. This is no place for someone like me- an ordinary, dishonest, unscrupulous
girl who literally believes in the adage, “Live fast, die young, bad girls do
it well.” I am the crazy one, the one who would probably make a better porn
star than a scientist, the one who prefers a night flying high on hash rather
than the sweet joys of coding. I don’t belong in this band of special people. But
I am here. And I am going to make it alive.
Not because I want to.
But because I have to.
