Recently I've been having some problems in the area of myself.

I've made new friends. They're very different than I am; these friends like to drink and smoke and they go out every weekend to cool parties they call "kickers" where the people attending actually play beer pong in red solo cups. Their stories involve run-ins with the police and close calls in dark alleyways. One new friend showed me the scars on his back from when he got beat with a bat when he was fifteen. These tales begin with, "So one time when I was tripping on LSD," and end with, "I've been different ever since."

And this is all so new and exciting for me. I've had the same group of friends since the seventh grade; I was awkward with these kids, they saw my embarrassing anime phase and the bad experimental haircuts. I stopped thinking about how others perceive me, because it's just the guys tonight, they know who I am.

And so when my new friends told me I was innocent, it took me by surprise.

"What's the worst thing you've seen?"

I couldn't come up with an answer.

They stood around with their beers and their Wave cigarettes, laughing merrily at all of the horrible things they've seen, all the strange encounters with the scum of the city.

I sat there against the wall, laughing with them at some things, not entirely understanding everything rolling off their tongues. I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't fuck. I'm a late blossom, and that's okay. I've always been a turtle, in love with my home and content to walk slowly through the underbrush.

I can't quite relate to my new friends. They are completely different than I am. I haven't even heard of half the things they like. I don't understand their jokes. I can count the number of horror movies I've seen on one hand. And so I mostly stay quiet, jumping in when I can, but generally keeping to myself.

And so this is how they know me; they know a girl with short hair, who refuses beer and Waves, who's mostly soft spoken, but with a loud laugh. They know the innocent one, the virgin, the one who likes her bed and her privacy. They know the kid who isn't very funny, even when she tries to be.

But is that who I am?

I know myself as someone wild. My voice is loud and my opinions are strong. I'm talented and wise and understanding. I'm a Taurus, a stable girl who loves her luxury and pampers herself shamelessly. I'm open and inviting and expressive. I can talk about nearly anything, and I'm willing to listen to all sides of the story. I see myself as someone flirtatious and gorgeous, and I'm confident in my abilities to woo any stranger. I'm spiritual as well as practical, with an eye for beauty and aesthetic. I have an appreciation for the world and for life and for all things green and spindly. I'm a fantastic, emotive storyteller both on the page and in person.

But the human being I see myself as just hasn't shown itself to them yet. My new friends have already labelled me as "innocent" even though they haven't heard me speak about what I love.

It's come to my attention that I'm living in other people's brains as a hundred different people. And all these people have different slices of my personality that they've deemed the biggest part of me, my overwhelming trait. Some people look at my resting bitch face and think that that is who I am. I am a grouchy person in their mind. And other people look at me when they've caught me in all black, just by chance, and they piece that with my pale complexion into the idea that I'm scene or emo or even goth.

What a crazy thought!

It's made me rethink the snap opinions I've made of other people. That woman with the screaming child in the store might not be an irresponsible mother. I don't know her. I don't know what she believes in, or what she wants, or even if the child belongs to her. I literally just know that she is a woman with a screaming child. And I automatically coined her as an unsavory person.

To get to the point, I've been worrying lately about who my "true" self is. Am I shy or bold? Am I funny or am I lame? Am I a stupid person because I can't understand some dirty jokes? Am I a prude?

Do I actually know who I am?

Honestly, there's no right answer. I am not singularly funny nor lame. I am not completely one thing.

I am an experience!

I'm a happy heap of a blended smoothie, spilled on the marble floor of some five star restaurant. I can see the strawberries in me, the kiwis, maybe some pineapple. All equally distributed into a big pink mess that'll definitely be a pain in the ass to clean up. And you know what? I fucking love it that way.

I will not be defined by a single adjective ever again.

And neither should you.