This is a picture of me eating tacos in Times Square about 2 months after I moved to New York. I had gotten home (which was 5 blocks from here and yes, it sucked) and my roommate wanted me to walk with her and her friend to the tourist trap but I had just ordered tacos so I brought them with me.

My rainy Friday afternoon attempt at a personal essay

If you cut me open, you’ll find I’m made of pure emotion. This might not come as a surprise by those who know me because I’m a cliche — I wear my heart on my sleeve. No amount of therapy or alcohol or sleep has relieved me of these overwhelming sentiments.

For so long, I hated the emotions. They were icky, gross, and embarrassing. Too often they manifest into a good cry which is fine unless strangers around you start to stare as you sob copious amounts of salt-filled tears into your coffee as you scan the DVD section at Target for the perfect Friday night flick. Okay, that never happened (at least that I can remember) but I have sat in the bushes in Washington Square Park and cried about my tattoos being permanent. Yes, that was me. Please do not judge.

As a child, the crying was written off as something kids do. Plus, I had a bit of a traumatic childhood. Most of the bad stuff happened when I was an infant. There’s nothing better than being a pile of broken emotions because of events you don’t even remember! (That was sarcasm).

The older I got, the more often my mother would tell me “YOU NEED TO GROW A BACKBONE!” or “STAND UP FOR YOURSELF!”. Her record was 548 times in one week! Still, I was basically a baby in a fifteen year old’s body. The blue eye shadow would streak down my face as the tears hit…