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You know that feeling of spinning with your arms out, head back, and just watching the world flash and become a blur? That’s my favorite feeling in the world.

I’m officially in my twenties, and that’s fine. The way I look at it, I’m young enough to party hard, but old enough to show up for work and school the next day.

I have no idea what my natural hair color is. I get tattoos on a whim, spend a small fortune at Starbucks, and am constantly searching for the perfect little black dress.

I am damn proud of my flip-flop and ring tan lines, drink gin and tonic like a pro, and am mildly obsessed with the MSNBC Primetime lineup.

I grew up in the typical suburban dystopia, went to typical schools, ran away to Maryland for a few years, and am now back right where I started.

I’m working on college, and it looks like I’m going to finish with a duel-degree in Political Science and Creative Writing, with a focus on poetry. I have absolutely no idea what I want to do when I grow up. Perhaps law school? Perhaps the Moon.?

I enjoy Kurt Vonnegut, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and Jack Kerouac. But Vonnegut is my favorite. Upon hearing of his passing, I had a minor meltdown. Can’t say I’m not devoted, no?

People who don’t read worry me. As do intellectually vapid people. I firmly believe that if you cannot hold an intelligent conversation, than you should not be allowed to procreate.

That makes me a bitch. But, again, that’s fine.