Who Am I? Who am I? Oh, nobody. Iím a normal person with a normal job going to a school that some say is beneath me. (I donít believe them, and I donít particularly care what they think--itís my life, not theirs.) I have normal parents, if thatís what you call them. We live in a normal house. Well, perhaps on the nice side of normal. Like all big sisters, I complain about my little brother but I really love him. (Donít tell him I said so.) I have normal friends--the only unusual thing is that I donít have many of them. My friends and I do normal things together. I do have an exceptionally sweet, kind, caring boyfriend. See, I used to think I was strange: I like the colour black, I spell things weird (like colour and grey), I write depressing poetry, and I work odd hours. (For now, anyway.) I like to take pictures, too, even though Iím not sure Iím even good enough at it to be called an amateur photographer. And I have weird ideas about life, about how people should be treated, about moral and ethical issues. I talk to myself and to inanimate objects. I didnít have a social life. (Thatís an area Iím improving in.) I have somewhat eclectic taste in music. That kind of thing. But guess what? There are a million people out there just like me. There are even other people who sent Ides of March cards (please, please, donít ask) last year. Well, I know of at least one anyway. The point is, I suddenly realised that itís become normal to be weird. Isnít that awful?

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