Tell me who you want me to be. You know I’ll die to impress you. Anything to make your life easier I’d blindly do.

Do you want me to be part of the power squad? My hair bleached blond and high? Always peppy, yet mouthy and over controlling. Oh… no? Then who? Who do you want me to be?

Would it suit your needs to make me emo? I’d sit in the corner with my group of three –myself in the middle- of course. The whole world would revolve around me; my flawless creativity and copy-right manor fueled by a black abyss. Depression would scream like music from my ear buds and dead straight hair. No? Then who else? Who shall you mold me to be?

Will I be that girl you toss around, walk all over like dirt? The one with the Good Will stature and grade “A” outlook? The prude, shy, cross bearing Christian who doesn’t shave her legs? No? You’d tease me then too? Alright, I’ll change to please you.

Let me be the party girl. The flirtatious beach bunny? I’ll cake on mascara and eyeliner like Da Vinchie’s “Mona Lisa.” Spend countless hours on my looks only to go out and mosh, party and achieve sex hair accented by inside out shirts and too short skirts. Wait, I’ve got a bun in the oven and you’ve left me again. So, this time, who shall I dress up as in this game of pretend?
What would you do if I played the role as myself? If I took your script, ripped it to shreds, and improved my life. What would you do if I wore what I wanted and decided to be bluntly honest? What would happen if I decided to find myself? Would the world halt and come to an end? Why is there not an answer slipping from your highly glossed lips?

What would happen if I didn’t care for your approvial?