When I was 5, I told my father that I wanted to be a brain doctor. That was after I learned that I couldn't run for the US Presidency.
When I was 9, I invented my own language. When I was 12, I wrote a sonata. When I was 16, I almost died. I have made peace with my mortality since.
Saturday nights, I drape myself in lemon silk chiffon and pretend to be a classy lady at cocktail parties. Sunday afternoons, I lounge in chambray and cuddle with hot cocoa and a good read. I wear satin heels at gallery openings. I wear canvas flats on the city streets. I wear leather ballets as I lean sober against the bar and still manage to trip over my own feet.
I struggle with imperfection, with having an imperfect narrative to my imperfect life. I will probably forget your name. I will likely remember how your hips ground against mine last Thursday night. I speak Mandarin with a Taiwanese accent. Parfois, je marmonne en français. I pet dogs as I pass them on the street. I casually wear my heart on my sleeve and may leave it in your apartment by mistake.
My Chinese name means the interactions in previous lives that lead to the romance between two people in the present. My parents are overeducated romantics, and I suppose that I am, too.
My English name is derived from a novel whose heroine slept her way up through English nobility while pining for the man she could never have. My mother can be hilariously oblivious, and I know that I can be, too.
I am queer and poly and kinky and unrepentantly slutty.
But sometimes I fall in serendipity.
(And I'm here for friends, too.)