Mandarin, Taiwan Yankees 40 Wang. The second sounds most natural to me while the third seems OK too. Just my little thought. English-Ireland top end. Go with the second. For goodness sake drop the third. Don't be surprised to hear the admissions officer at the uni use something like the first, but keep your superior knowing smile to yourself. Forget your friends for a moment and look at these sentences. Myself play s badminton weekly. I play badminton weekly. Me play s badminton weekly. Which would you normally say?
Regardless of its grammatical structure, people say it.
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Agreed, point taken and understood. You must log in or register to reply here. I am allowed to be who I am. Being who you are sometimes means being just as confused and weak and sad as you were when you were small. Being who you are sometimes means wanting things that other people see as indulgent or entitled or pathetic or embarrassing.
Being who you are sometimes means feeling inadequate and whiny and needy and lost, out in the open, where people can see you. Being who you are means feeling sad and angry about this at first, and then, eventually feeling okay with it, and finally slowly! I mean legitimately ceasing to care, without malice, without fear, without self-recrimination. It takes a long, long time. You get there by cultivating compassion for yourself, and for others.
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It is hard work. You can still feel shame and anger and hurt, of course. You can still be flattened by insecurity in the wake of a bad interaction. You are allowed to cry when your house burns down. You are allowed to escape instead of burning inside the house. These are not the moral litmus tests that you think they are.
Likewise: You are allowed to feel frazzled and sick when you think about your friends, when small things happen, when big things happen. People let me down constantly. I thought there was some magical way for them to earn my trust. But I was always flip-flopping between overexposing myself and protecting myself. I was tired of running in circles, convincing people of things, explaining myself, reexplaining myself. At the heart of it all, the problem was the backpack.
I was preemptively disappointed at all times. I never got over anything. I never felt light and free. But do you know what happens when you put down the backpack? You have compassion for yourself, so you have compassion for others. You let yourself be who you are, and you let yourself want things, maybe for the first time.
And that makes room for other people to be who they are, and to want things, too. It just means that you give up on managing yourself and others. You let go. You brave rejection. That can be jarring, and inconvenient. Not everyone will like you that much. This is what feels right. This is what you believe in. This is how you want to live. The other day, I was driving somewhere, and I caught a glimpse of my brand-new platinum blonde hair in the rearview mirror.
Yes, whore. My sister is a cancer surgeon. Her hair is gray. She runs marathons. She just thinks anyone who cares about their looks at our age is an attention-seeking idiot. When I was little, I craved attention and praise. I was a classic show-offy youngest child. I loved to sing and dance for guests, for anyone. I loved to stare in the mirror and tell myself that I was pretty. I loved to analyze everything everyone else did and said. Maybe my sister — and a lot of other people — could see me clearly the whole time.
Maybe some of them were actually fine with the things I was trying to hide. But I was so determined to stay hidden, to evade my own moral judgments, which I projected onto other people constantly. I was ashamed.
Wanting attention meant that I was vain. Feeling proud of my singing voice meant that I was conceited. Wanting to look pretty and show off meant that I was shallow. This strikes me as sad now. But in the car the other day, I had this feeling of freedom. The word whore is not circumstantial or random. We are instructed that the most important things about us are that we look pretty and sexy and keep everyone happy.
It felt good because I finally felt it in my bones: I can define this life for myself. I can want things without seeing them as a moral failure. People might snicker. People might applaud. People might ignore me. I can want what I want, full stop. Your story is about identity. Sometimes, in order to break free from your biggest fears, your biggest embarrassments, your greatest sources of anger, your most intense wells of shame, it helps to expose them.
The language of rap music is a testament to this. You bring your oppression out of the shadows, and into the light, where it looks more like salvation. Sometimes, the very words that sound the most self-hating and confused — whore, freak, oversensitive, bitch — are the ones that will emancipate you the most.
Instead, stand where you are and take what you have and see, for the first time, that it is enough. You are enough. You can take care of yourself when your anxiety flares up, instead of treating it like more evidence against your friends and against you.
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