Friday, December 7, 2012


I'm a square peg.
Square, because I'm a goody-two-shoes.
Square, because I'm on time for virtually everything.
Square, because I kick boys out of my apartment promptly at 11 on weekdays. No exceptions.
Square, because I don't say certain totally-normal words. Like boob and fart. I feel dirty even writing them. I know they are not offensive... but I don't think they're polite, either. 

An imperfect square peg. Kind of more like a trapezoid. Or a parallelogram.
Because I'm a concertgoer-bookaddict-BBCfangirl-exballerina-llamanecklacewearer-slightlyDemocratic-treehugger-mostlyvegetarian  peg. 

But I know one thing- I am no circle. I shoot strait. I have corners. 
Too often, I try to fit in circle holes.

I squeeze myself in and I shave off my corners and my sides feel raw and I'm uncomfortable.
You know how toddlers just hit the peg against the mismatched hole again and again and again?
I feel like my head is being jammed down again and again and again.
Maybe this time it'll fit. No? Maybe this time!

And I find myself thinking "Maybe all the holes in the world are circle or triangle or star. Maybe I'll have to keep grinding bits of me to dust until I fit."

Then, I'm reminded: there are pegs like me hidden in corners. Maybe I got sorted into the wrong toy box. But somewhere, they're there.

I went to a concert. We drank fake martinis and we stared at our collective-attractiveness and we sat on bean bags and the boys had beards and we all wore sweaters but we didn't try to be edgy or ironic because we're BYU students on BYU campus and that's virtually impossible for us to do.

We didn't all match. Most of them were trying too hard, and I liked the ones that weren't trying at all. That didn't take themselves too seriously. They didn't all fit me, but they certainly weren't circles.

And then I heard these lyrics:

So where do I fit in the stories you read to me?
I need some dreams to fill up my sleep...

So I run my fingers over this ink 
as I run these pages across my wrists over the sink.
Fictitious characters don't bleed like this
and I don't know why my bloods spilling out
like so much prose
as the black white page of my tile grows
more re(a)d than the books of my childhood. 

My heart said "oh!"

And I realized the world was full of pegs like me. I've just been looking in the wrong places.

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