So you expect

us to be put together somehow? You want our hair tucked behind our ears, our bras put back into our shirts, both our socks to match? Even if we tried it couldn’t happen. We can’t see ourselves through your eyes; we don’t realize that our sun-bleached hair and pants handed down from our uncles are not what you’d deem as ‘classy.’ We see ourselves through our own eyes, define ourselves for ourselves. We think of ‘classy’ as knowing who our favourite inventor is (Johannes Gutenberg), and reading several books a month. We are confident in the complete lack of hair products in our bathrooms, proud of the holes in our jeans that weren’t there when we first bought them. We wear plaid, and houndstooth, and stripes all together and we pull it off because we are convinced we look amazing. We rise above everything you see that is wrong and misfitting about us and we flourish. With flowers between our knees, sticky honey on our fingertips, and the smell of vanilla trailing behind us. You couldn’t build more perfect if you tried. But because we know you will, we make a point of getting the hell outta Dodge every time we see you coming.
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