Things that explain me.

Hi my name is pleasefindmehere.
My name is Lxxx Sxxxxxxxx.
My name is Daughter.
Sister.
Eating disorder.
Half smile.
Slut.
Bitch.
Chronic illness.
Tennis captain.
Fat girl. Skinny girl.
Mormon. Not-so Mormon.
Writer. Not-so writer.
Dazed and confused.
Eighteen-years-old.

If you really knew me, you would know that I'm self destructive. I spend day after day staring change in the face daring myself to confront him. I spend day after day making characters of every object in my life, but that doesn't mean I know them any better.

I'm five foot two (and a half). You'd know that I love my height. And I look away when I get weighed at the doctor's office.
I'm like the sun. I'm quiet on those quiet mornings. I'm bright on those bright mornings.
But I'm better suited for Seattle.
Because most mornings I don't want to get out of bed.

I've liked Jxxxx Hxxxxxxx ever since sophomore year. He won me over when he took me to a basketball game when my sister was in the hospital. You would know why my sister was in the hospital. You would know he is my favorite person to kiss and I still have his phone number memorized. I would tell you right now but I don't think he would like that very much.

You would know that my favorite color is red, but my favorite color to wear is black.

You would know my favorite book is "The Solitude of Prime Numbers," my fifteen-year-old sister still does my makeup for me, and I met my best friend when she stole my boyfriend. I use this fact to reassure myself that I'm forgiving. But seven times seventy equals 490 in my calculator and I can only count up to a hundred.

I cried for hours at that debate tournament because Cxxxxx Rxxxxxxx sent a forward about me. And Jxxxx Bxxxx was responsible for cheering me up because he was the person who finally decided to tell me about it, two months after the fact. And I wondered why I never could figure out the comments in the commons.

You would know the story of my first kiss, why Monopoly reminds me of hurricane season, and that I have posters of Rafa Nadal in my room. I bought the Shakira "Gypsy" music video just so I could watch him over and over again. And my opinion on his autobiography is although his book gives some insight to why he is so humble, it is poorly written.

You would know what happened October 30, 2010. February 26, 2012. March 9, 2014.

You would have seen me cry at least once.

We wouldn't talk about Tylenol, because I cringe every time someone says it. But you would offer me mints instead of gum because you'd look out for my jaw.

You would remember I saw Orlando Bloom outside a coffee shop in London, Johnny Depp is my celeb crush, and I gave Cxxxxx Cxxxxxx a kiss in exchange for a root beer flavored popsicle in preschool. We'd talk about how I got deported from London at age twelve and how I read a book in one day at the same age to impress Sxxxxxxx Mxxxxxxxx.

You would know that my therapist's name is Sxxxxx and my mom's name is Axx.

And the latter has read all of my blog posts and liked only one.

You would not doubt that I am a Broncos fan because you have heard me complain about missing half their games last year and question their draft grade on the SportsCenter Special. They got a C-.

You would know that I now get nauseous whenever a beer commercial comes on ESPN, "With or Without You" is playing at my wedding reception, and I only tell myself I'm not getting married because I don't want to be disappointed.

You'd know that I delete each of these paragraphs only to type something eerily similar. The best posts come from drafts on my cell phone. And CAPSLOCK scares the living hell out of me.

The last time I was sick, I watched four hours' worth of SportsCenter and two tennis matches. I used to think that raindrops were God's tears on my shoulders and a rainbow meant that he was feeling better. I still show my legs even with the stretch marks in my ears like fireworks. The last time I played Truth or Dare in a hot tub no one even kissed anybody! And I'm afraid afraid afraid of being average.

My name is Lxxx Sxxxxxxxx.
I get attached really easy and Axxxxx Txxxxxx told me I was mysterious.
I shaved my head and I probably mentioned it in my blog posts 873 times.
But really, all I am looking for is a boy who can talk NFL with me
tell me the difference between "then" and "than"
and tell me I'm special.
Because I am a girl who wore a mouse on her head for the film festival.
And I don't want to be told I'm just like everyone else.