It’s no secret that I like selfies. They’re quick moments of self-expression, like an outfit. I enjoy seeing other people’s selfies, and I like being able to show other people how I look and feel at any given moment. But a selfie can only convey so much. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but in real life, the words aren’t always terribly poetic.
I’m all groggy eyes and messy hair in the morning, dragging myself from the darkness of sleep to face a day I’m not awake enough to be optimistic about (yet). I have an acne rash on both cheeks, like a permanent angry blush. My eyelashes are long, but so pale that you can hardly see them until I apply mascara. I have constellations of moles over my arms and two dimples on my face; one on my cheek, one on my chin. If you make me laugh really hard, you can see the second one. My nails are usually painted, but I’m also That Person who chews her nails if she’s witnessing anything emotionally stressful. I have fairly short fingers and can only wear large ring sizes, but I can still spread my fingers an octave on the piano (plus an extra key). I have chronic RBF if I’m thinking, observing, or (occasionally, and usually in crowds) bored. I feel like most days are bad hair days, but I’m used to it because long, curly hair will do its own thing. I wish I had prominent cheekbones, but I really don’t. There’s a bump down the center of my nose (which I’m actually fond of).
It’s easy when we have the ability to take ten pictures in a row at different angles (and then pick the best one) to look like we have everything put together, but usually I don’t. And that’s okay, because sometimes, the thousand words aren’t iambic pentameter so much as a freestyle, or a stream of consciousness. You can’t filter yourself when you’re speaking face to face. You can’t capture any given moment in ten pictures and tell the whole truth. Not even in fifty pictures. No matter what your thousand words are, let them be honest.
