4. False.

            If people were more direct, maybe I would feel less like a fraud. Everything I do is a lie. Nothing is done without an ulterior motive. Nine times out of ten the motive is making myself appear to be a better person than I really am. More interesting. Less cliché.

However, in doing that, I am as dull and trite as every other ball of flesh on this planet.

I strive to be interesting. To be a unique individual that people want to have long, intellectual conversations with. I want to be someone to be admired or at least seen as an equal by those who I respect.

I want to be someone that someone amazing could fall in love with.

It always comes back to love. I do not know why I am so obsessed with love. I wonder if everyone is secretly as obsessed as I am. If everyone is, they should say so and then we could all try each other out. Try and see who fits with whom.

            We could all make lists and spend some time with each person on the list. Then the lists would be refined and expanded based on the first try, and we would try again until we all found out who really belonged together. Maybe someone you never thought about would have you on his list and you would spend time together and realize that you were near-perfect matches.

            Of course, some people would probably come out of the process without a match. And the overlapping between lists would make things a little messy. Perhaps when a person could not decide between two different matches, the potential matches could play rock-paper-scissors (best two out of three, of course) for the desired one’s love and affection. That would be fair.

            Although, even if this was how the world worked, I bet I would still be terribly fake.

I like to think that the person I pretend to be is who I am becoming. Who knows, maybe I really am becoming that person. Maybe that’s how everyone lives life. Trying out new things in hope of becoming someone new. I need to try new things or else I would be a sad, boring person whose favorite pastimes were playing dress up, hula-hooping, sleeping, and eating. Now, if I were still seven years old, this would be completely acceptable.

I am not seven years old.

I need to find new, more acceptable, ways to pass the time. Like reading. And writing. And photography. Playing dress up has turned into “being interested in fashion.”

I still like to hula-hoop, though. Except now I have to tell people I play with it because it is a good abdominal workout. In reality, I love the whooshing noise the beads inside of it make each time it goes around spin. Whoosh… Whoosh…

I love the feeling of the hoop being pulled around my waist. It makes me feel like a sun or a planet. I am the center of the hoop’s universe. It orbits around me. It makes me feel important.

There is no hula-hooping major, though. It is not a relevant life skill. So I try to become an enlightened person and try to broaden my interests. Or I at least pretend.

Art. Music. Books. Vocabulary.

I like words.

I try. And, I usually even end up liking the things I believe will make me a more worthwhile person. Or, perhaps I just make myself believe I like them because it is so important to me to be worthwhile. If I am not worthwhile, I do not deserve to be loved by a worthwhile person.

Maybe I only need to seem worthwhile. Maybe that’s why I do this. So that I can appear to be someone who deserves someone great. Maybe it’s all an illusion. My life is one giant façade.

I would not be surprised.

I do not think it is, but I am very good at hiding things from myself, so it’s possible.