Big Mouth Strikes Again

I think it's the books we read as kids that make us want to do it--that make us want to categorize our friends, make us want to label ourselves. "Oh, she's the funny one" or "he's my friend that's really into music" or "Marcus is the guy who picks his nose, but somehow when he does it's cool."

When Elana moved to Cold Lake from in grade six, she quickly labelled me her "serious friend." I clearly remember that day. It was at the bus stop after school one day, when she said those words.

At 11, I had a budding interest in political history, regularly wrote letters to the World Wildlife Fund, researched the scientific origins of the northern lights, was overly politically correct and already had words like facetious as part of my lexicon.

But I didn't think of myself as serious. I never had until that moment. I was smart, maybe, but I thought I was fun. Before that moment, I had always been known as the fun, hyper one at all the pre-adolescent birthday parties I went to.

That preception of myself was changed in one moment.

It wasn't until university that I felt like I shed it all. I shed that seriousness. There were Mobile Kissing Booths and trips to the Gopher Hole Museum, instead of studying. I've still done well for myself in school, but I couldn't handle being known as the serious one anymore. And besides, the dynamics had all changed. By the time I made it to Ryerson, I was thrown into a room with 150 of what were supposed to the best-of-the-best. Your future journalists. Your future agenda setters. Your future media. Your link to the outside world. I was no longer the serious one. I was no longer the smart one. It was time to carve something else out.

But now I'm starting to wonder if I went too far. I know I'm not completely a lost cause. I'm just talking strictly in the public arena here. Sometimes, especially at work or in new situations, I open my mouth and I don't know when to stop.

I'm leaving myself with a legacy where I'm worried no one will take me seriously. I can be socially awkward and consistantly crack black humour-tainted jokes that are met with blank or condescending stares. I'm left with a writing portfolio full of fluff--a story about exclusively dating guys with beards, a review of different lubricants and a blog full of self-depricating commentary paired with narcisissitic pictures. I'm not even sure my own parents take me seriously.

Have I gone too far? Have I become known just as a party-girl with a penchant for words, absurd jokes, inane conversations and the occasional literary conversation?

All I know is this: I have no explanation for that picture (above) but I'm certain it belongs on the Internet. And I'm certain that I'm going to find that middle ground, that I'll shed some of the awkwardness that contributes to this facade that I can't let go of. And I'm certain that right now, I'm happy.

I think I just have to learn how to close my mouth once in a while.