Being Obsessive Over Being Unique

Ever since I was little, the idea of being unique has haunted me.

In a world where everything is recycled: same musical beats sampled from a song from the 80s to create a “new” pop hit, heavy retro fashion influences making a comeback, or movie sequels and endless movie franchises…

Well, case in point, it’s almost impossible to be unique. The quest for individuality and self-expression is pretty difficult when there have been centuries of people before you suffering from “been there, done that” syndrome.

Anyways, back to when I was little and uniqueness haunted me.

There I was, playing Mario Kart racing on my Nintendo Gamecube after having crashed my bike riding (stupidly) down a hill without my feet on the pedal-brakes. We had to pick characters.

I wanted Yoshi, but Yoshi was already the favorite character of my neighbor’s son.

No, I had to be unique.

Well, I liked Baby Mario.

But why would I do something so common as pairing him with Baby Luigi?

So I paired him with Toad instead. Because I, stubborn stupid don’t-put-your-feet-on-the-brakes girl, wanted to be an INDIVIDUAL.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve accepted that looking at models in magazines has probably damaged my self esteem irreparably. I’ve realized that I won’t suddenly gain two feet of height or precious, stick-straight locks or whatever the Victoria Secret models are donning these days.

I got to LA to work at a production internship, taking a hiatus from writing books though I still ran the advertisements and wrote casually on Wattpad while I got my bearings, taking notes on possible journalism stories I could write up for my Staff Writer position once classes in LA ended.

I caught the uniqueness fever again.

I wanted to be fashionable, even if, hell-with-it, I couldn’t be a damn model.

I’d be U N I Q U E!

So, I chopped my hair into layers and dyed half of it cinnamon-red, a red that only appears in sunlight because dye doesn’t work too well on dark hair unless you bleach it and bleach scares me.

Because I wanted to be unique.

Sure, are there plenty of others in this world rocking the same look. Sure, there are girls who look like me, semi-curvy with a tan and dark hair that doesn’t dye well. Maybe there aren’t any half-white girls with eyes inherited from a Taiwanese indigenous grandfather who died of alcohol poisoning and cigarette smoke before I got to meet him. Maybe there aren’t any other girls in the world whose mom grew up in Jakarta and left because she faced severe depression there and wanted to start a better life in the U.S. Maybe there aren’t any other girls whose dad struggled to get out of a small town that killed all his friends, either quickly from burning out in an icy, timber town, or killing themselves slowly from the inside with small-town-rot.

There probably aren’t any other girls who matched Baby Mario with Toad on Mario Kart racing on the Gamecube after getting a goose-egg-bruise on her forehead from not putting her feet on the pedals.

Am I unique? Maybe.

Bike safely, guys.

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