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Three things I like about myself.
1. My imagination.  Creativity too, but it's almost the same thing.  It never stops going, and while I sometimes say I've got no inspiration, I never have nothing.
2. My writing talent.  It sounds boastful, but I'm being honest.  I really think I'm above average or more in the writing of fiction area.  People other than my mom and close friends agree, which tells you something.  I think that my fiction/poetry writing is probably my only real area of talent, so I think you might excuse me for being rather proud of it.
3. My randomness.  Or weirdness, whatever you want to call it.  Sometimes I think I'm getting a little too strange, or wild, but every time I bring the subject up, my friends all tell me they think it's endearing, if not with that choice of word.  They say I wouldn't be me if I wasn't random, and they love me for it.  So I guess I love it too.

Three things I hate about myself.
1. My procrastination.  This just might kill me in college, and I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet.  When I need to get some type of job to support myself while I live in an attic and write my fantasy on an old typewriter, it might kill me then.  Also,
2. My laziness.  Similar to procrastination.  It really kills.  Or poisons.  Schoolwork doesn't get done so much when surrounded by those two.  Not to mention that it takes away from family time, relationships; I sometimes even skip things I love because I'm lazy.  
3. My habit of retaliation.  For some reason I'm always looking for the nasty in people's comments.  Even while people say that they love me, I check out every word to be sure there aren't any thorns on the roses.  I'm incredibly defensive of myself, emotionally anyway, and when I feel like my mere defenses won't cut it, I strike back with little or no hesitation.  This also is very destructive of relationships.  I'm really good at pushing people away.  Then I sulk and complain that nobody likes me.  

I discovered last week that my act of "I'm broken inside" is just that: an act.  That's the real mask I'm wearing.  Or it's another one.  The real me is actually okay.  In fact, she's great!  She's joyful and happy and loving and knows she's loved.  Now don't you find it strange that I would choose to be broken over being whole?

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