Dear Me,

How does one begin a story? Do you spill your heart and soul? Do you tell everybody reading the facts about you? About, how you're half Puerto Rican, that your life is never spent in one place, and you don't know if you'll ever find a place to call home?

Well, I was born on the 17th of November, in the amazing apocalypse year of 2001. During my mother's pregnancy, in which I was in the womb, there were lock downs, and she got to watch the 9/11 reports from the cafeteria of the hospital, while my father was on the flight line, working on a C-5.

But you don't start a story like that, do you? You don't give the facts. You make yourself seem unreachable, that way you become a character so high, and mighty, that little kids wanna dress up like you. They'll wanna be like you. They'll romanticize the dull features of your eyes and hair, and skin completion.

Because, let's face it:

Brown eyes.

Brown hair.

Naturally tan skin.

And that's about all there is to my basic characteristics. I could go on about how there's a birthmark on my left thumb that helped me through preschool, learning right from left.(HINT: Left has the brown dot your dad was convinced it was sharpie, Kayla) I could go on about how I have a 'leaking' iris, and how I'll always need to wear glasses or contacts, because I'm afraid of lasers going anywhere near my eye. I could go on about how my skiing dries up and cracks when I least expect it to(eczema), causing these nasty rashes in the folds of my elbows and behind my knees.

I could go on, just about myself. The way my music has changed me, and the way I act around people.

Because this is how I begin a story.

So, Dear Me,

Don't be so afraid of the dark. Learn to love yourself in time. Don't let people judge you on the fact you have a crazy obsession with fan fiction, and please, younger me, and future/possible kids, admit something's wrong before it manifests into something you can't control.