I don’t believe in personal profiles. I don’t think they say much about a person, and when they do, it’s usually not important. I do believe in indulging my ego, however, which is why I’m writing this.
I’m a thirty-three-year-old post-Generation X, postfeminist, postmodern. The “post” means that I’m a product of all three subcultures, but not an adherent. The “thirty-three-year-old” doesn’t mean anything.
I’m a true child of super-industrial society, only carried and born in a country that’s still in the last legs of the agricultural age. This means that my life is marked by paradoxes and contradictions.
For instance: I think the world could be a better place, it just isn’t.
I believe art imitates life, but improves on the original.
I think nature is wonderful, but only when it’s fifteen feet away and doesn’t soil your carpet. (I think the best pets in the world belong to other people.)
I believe nothing educates like travel, but that too much education is bad. I think people should have a place where they belong, where they can vegetate, be dull and uninteresting, and be offensive in all the right ways.
I think it’s the little things that make people happy—like Belgian chocolates and French perfumes.
Sometimes, I believe I was born during the wrong time, or on the wrong planet, or as the wrong species.* Other times, when I’m listening to Vienna Teng, or reading Diane Ackerman, or laughing with a friend, I don’t mind so much. I’m not a cynic so much as a disillusioned innocent. Well, maybe not that disillusioned. After all, I did join this blog thing.
* I wish I were born anytime else but the Eighties, preferably on Venus. As a flytrap.