intellectual autobiography            by Jessica Meng
		I run to the mailbox anxious to see what the mailman has in store for me today. I've had interesting experiences with mail lately. Linens for school...ear piece for my cell phone...a bouquet of twenty blue irises ...a knife a friend of  mine conned my mother into buying. Something new everyday, you never know what to expect. So today, I open the mailbox and take out the mail. Addressed to me. From USC. Hmm. I toss it on the kitchen counter and run out of the house. Time to go to the mall with my friends. I come home after some invigorating shopping. My friends call me a "shop-a-holic." Its only because I feel empty sometimes. The letter is still on the counter. Intimidating, daunting. It signifies change. Things are going to be different in a month aren't they? The letter is still on the counter except its been opened. Gosh. My parents move fast. I run upstairs to find my mother applying her facial mask. "Mail's on the counter, Jess, looks important. Go take a look." I run back downstairs. Take out the letter that's been opened before. I wonder how many people have touched it already. I wonder what it feels like to be pulled out of an envelope. My eyes run down the page. It says...geez. I have homework. Great. I wonder how it feels to be shoved back into an envelope. Could be damaging to your self-esteem. Ouch. So here I am. Sitting in front of my computer. Trying to think of something to say. Something fresh...something witty...something not too cliche. Too late. Just look at the way I started my paper. Oh well. Can't be anything you're not. Right? Every year I start a new school. "You gotta  make yourself a new image. Can't be a softy. Gotta show people you are tough. Don't let anyone walk all over you." I know my mother means well. Every year its the same situation and the same conclusion. I stay the same. I don't know how to be anyone else but me. I've been called everything from "passive" to "submissive." According to my psych class, I just have a high level of "agreeableness." Whatever. Just another title. Doesn't mean anything to me. The way I see it, titles are just labels to make things familiar for other people who don't know what's going on. Maybe its only because they feel empty sometimes. An "intellectual autobiography." Uh oh. I'm in trouble. I have a million and one ideas racing through my head. A million and one ways to write and rewrite what I want to say. A million and one ways to say it. Will I ever be happy with what I write? I've always wanted to be a writer. But you can't always have what you want. Life just doesn't work out that way. What way? I can't find my invitation to Orientation. I think I'm getting tired. I've never had great vocabulary. I'm a simple writer. I say what I mean. I'd like to think that I mean what I say. I'd like to think that I know where I'm going. But I don't. Not exactly. And that's okay too. All I know is that I'm headed somewhere. And I'm not going to stop until I get there. When I get there I'll know. Because I'm just me. That's all I know how to be. And that's okay too. I'm just me. I learned that I can't please everyone. No matter how hard I try. It took me a long time to learn that. Sometimes I forget. Its only because I feel a little empty sometimes. Grades don't prove your worth either. One test does not make or break me. It took me a long time to learn that too. Sometimes I forget. I guess I'm just forgetful. My dad is forgetful too. He has Parkinson's Disease. My mom loves him even though she hates to admit it. I can tell because I see it in her eyes. When someone loves you, you can see it in their eyes. No matter how small their eyes are, they're beautiful to you. Something is  beautiful. Dreams are beautiful. I don't want to stop dreaming. Thinking about that makes me sad. Is that how things work? Dreams keep me alive. My mom says one day I'll stop dreaming. I don't want to stop. Dreams keep me alive. I'm a human water fountain. I cry a lot. Maybe I'm just oversensitive. My friend's mom says one day I'll stop crying. I don't want to stop. Crying makes me feel alive. Maybe I'm just oversensitive. Its only because i feel a little empty sometimes. I'm working on a project now. It's for my...I don't have a title for him. He's like my best friend. But more I guess. The end product is for him. But the project is for me. Do you understand? It's taking me a long time. But I'm not complaining. Working on the project makes me happy. Little things make me happy. Music, poetry, arts, crafts, relating to people. My mom wants me to go to bed. She says "NOW." But I'm not done with what I want to say. I'm afraid tomorrow i won't be able to say it the same way as I can say it now. Everyday is different. Everyday things change. Things just change everyday. Sometimes it makes me sad. But sometimes change is a good thing. But sometimes, it still makes me sad. Maybe its only because I feel a little empty sometimes.