Olivia Bullock

I stare pensively into the tiny screen of my computer, contemplating this outlandish request: condense one's entire existence, mannerisms, dreams, day to day activities, and the myriad other human digressions which establish each persons unique terroir into "a few words." By restricting my autobiography into this feeble representation of a human being, the once thriving and appealing young woman I was becomes a mere skeleton, a crippled shadow which flails in fruitless attempts to convey a crystalline image. With this inevitability in mind, how can I in good conscious sabotage myself so ruthlessly, reducing myself until I have joined the millions of faceless people who wander cyberspace, trying desperately to discover a new algorithm for idiosyncrasy? Why should I willingly obey every instruction with which I am faced like a lustful sailor blindly and mechanically acting under the tantalizing spell of the cliff-side Sirens? By doing so, the very instance which was intended to allow me some degree of individuality has instead subjected me to becoming another of the mindless throng. Consequentially, the only logical course of action which remains plausible is to rebel against conformity in the only way conceivable, by recording with tedious exactness my reaction to this outlandish request. This attempt at individuality, however, retains a self-destructive nature, for my answer stands out no more than the thousands of others that have come before me and will come after. As a result, my allotted few words shall and has been used to reflect my innate individuality, which has subsequently entrapped me in the interminable cycle of ones desire to stand out while, by doing so, inevitably fading into the crowd.