Built Like This

Sometimes I feel my body can’t contain my personality. I feel it run through my body like electricity and rushing out of my pores, spilling over everything. The at times, I close in on myself. It’s a way of recharging my batteries; taking one step behind everyone else, not talking much and enjoying the silence in my soul that rarely appears. And then, when the silence in broken. My energy comes through again, and I come bounding towards you, full steam ahead, unintentionally ready to push you down.

The truth is, I’m rather ordinary really. I know I shouldn’t be saying that and that I should sell myself, but what’s wrong with honesty for a moment? Although I sometimes think I’m special, that I’m made of chocolate and spice and all things nice (and naughty) I’m just like everyone else. I’m like Madonna without the songs and costumes. People are fascinated by me in the beginning, when they meet me or hear about me. But when they meet the real me, after I can put on a show no longer, they are rather disappointed. They think they got a Mercedes but ended up with a dented Volvo instead. I seem so much more glamourous on paper (especially in photos). I seem to be better in theory than in practice; like communism. And although I come off as red hot as communist China’s flag I’m actually rather reserved. They say it’s because I have a secret to tell and must hide it. Can you guess what it is? I know this because I hear them whispering about me as I walk past them.

No one would ever call me chic. No one has ever associated class with me. To me class is a place you go into to learn something as opposed to being a classy person. My colours are rather difference and distracting like gold on black; they clash so well, the perfect union of opposites attract. I’ll wear the red trainers and bold blue shirt. I don’t do grey (only suits) and no khaki (unless I’m in a safari). I’m more stylish in an urban way, with a hint of bling and a touch of that nautical collection that is so popular with the American establishment.
My bold features, my thick lips, my Roman nose and cheekbones do not render me the all-American look that many men crave. I am as anti-blonde as a Caucasian is permitted to be. Brazilian? Jewish? Iranian? My roots lie in the eastern Mediterranean as does my temperament…