Historically, some time ago, the likes of me died tragic lonely deaths in grisly insane asylums. Lunatic poets, things in their heads more real - and so much more interesting - than the world around them. And no one truly understood.

That's the darkly romantic view. In cynical reality, I'm twenty-something, a student (although I have yet to discover the actual point of my studies), a bit of a freak and rather proud of it (whenever being a bit of a freak doesn't mean having to seek medical attention), a passionate writer, a sworn theatre/movie/music/arts/culture enthusiast. A weirdly clueless perfectionist (I never know when a minor failure drives me crazy and when I just laugh my head off at it). An introverted awkward moron, really. Far too ambitious and starry-eyed and thirsting for brilliant things. Stupid and soppy. Self-ironic, but only when it can't disturb my blissful self-pity.

Of course, I can also be the sun-shiniest of people. Overjoyed when I find a perfect tin box of biscuits (seriously, it had Scottish Terriers on it!) or eat pizza or see a tight-rope walker or hear a fantastic song I've never heard before or a duck quacks at me at the park or something just clicks in my head and I know the exact words to describe something. I can go around sighing and swooning because everything is just so beautiful. Or I can sit in my flat sobbing like an idiot because nothing is beautiful at all. Sometimes I'm balanced and together, too.