This INFP is Changing Careers—Again


Well, whoop-de-doo, here I go again, changing careers.

Childcare just wasn’t right for me. It was partly the fact that some of the children started hitting and kicking me when they were woken up, as gently as possible, from their nap time, and partly because I got rather tired of speaking at a “child’s level”, in a “baby” voice to the children all the time, and mostly because I just realised it wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. So, while I’m searching for a new job, I will keep working at this job, a job that is not ideal. I spoke with a psychologist and occupational therapist, and together, they will be helping me find a new job. That’s the plan.

Unfortunately, it’s not so easy as that: my mother has threatened to kick me out of the house if I dare to quit, and there is the small matter of my needing the money that comes from having a job, in order to pay the rent and buy other things like food. So I’ll have to try and convince my mother that changing a job will be for the best, that it will be a change for the better, not the worse, and that continuing to work in childcare would result in a mental breakdown, if not worse. I have been through my share of careers—if you count writing, I have worked in a total of five different industries and am only 20 years old. I have worked at a fish shop—in other words, in the retail industry—in the tutoring industry, teaching 5-6 year olds English, in age care, and in childcare, which, considering I am someone who has social anxiety and a host of other neuroses, not a bad achievement. Most people my age are still in university, and haven’t even worked in a single industry, let alone five, although I’m not trying to toot my own horn or anything; really, I’m just trying to make myself feel better about the fact that my life seems to entirely lack direction and purpose.

As for what career I shall choose next, well, the world is my oyster. Time and time again, something within me calls to be a writer. I know I’m not the best writer around, but I have finished a couple of books—by which I mean I’ve written a couple of books—so I was thinking something that involves writing would be a good fit for me. I mean, so far, none of my books have been published, but that’s just something that will take some time. Again, I’m not the best writer, but writing is one of the few skills I do have, and to translate that into a job wouldn’t be too bad. I would love to be a counsellor for people, such as schoolkids, but one that uses the written word to counsel children, writing letters back to their letters, providing words of wisdom and advice, or maybe a copywriter, or even a journalist, although journalism is a little too social and fast-paced for me. Either way, I do believe I have a lot of potential—I’m no dunce—and can make it far in life, as long as I put my mind to it.

If there’s anything you can take from my experience, it’s that there’s nothing wrong with trying many things until you find the right “thing” for you, whether that is the right job, partner, friends, or anything, really. There’s no harm in trying. This year, for instance, was the first year I tried dating, and while my experience with two gentlemen was less than stellar and didn’t lead to actual relationships, at least I tried it and gave it a go. The art of giving a go is to have the courage to leap into the unknown, without being aware of what is going to come next. Giving something “a go” is good, not a bad thing. It is better to try something and realise you don’t like it, than to never try it at all. Meanwhile, as a small update, publication is still something which eludes my grasp, and may forever do so. In the meantime, I plan on working hard at a job I dislike while I wait for another one to appear, living my life, writing and dreaming, living and loving—-and giving it a go.


Interview With The MBTI Types


I’m listening to Taylor Swift’s “Girl At Home” as I try to formulate a proper blog post. For some reason, none of my writing seems to be measuring up lately; it’s as if all of my work has been going through a deadly drought, and all of the words inside of my have withered and died.

I feel as though I should have developed something by now, a “voice” in my writing, or had a book or two published, or learned something grand and marvellous about life and the universe, whereas the reality of the situation is I feel empty and full of absolutely nothing. I go to the library before work, inwardly lament over the fact that I have to go to a job I do not like, then spend the rest of the day trying to reconcile myself to the horribleness of my job and the long commute back home, then get home and collapse onto my bed and fall asleep. I barely get any energy and time for writing except during the long commutes, during which I often get dizzy because of motion-sickness. Nothing I write feel as though it comes from the heart anymore—everything feels forced and bland. I don’t know if I’m even making much sense anymore.

To make up for all this negativity, I have decided to compile a list of reactions the different personality types have to the INFP personality type—imagine it as an interview, where each MBTI type gets asked the same question: “What do you think of the INFP personality type?” Each type then answers according to his or her personality; I tried my best to incorporate some of the “voices” of the particular personality types, such as making the sentences spoken by the more logical types more crisp and short, the creative types using more flowery language, etc. Hope you like it!


“Well, I think we are a good personality type to be around, although we tend to be daydreamers and can be quite messy at times, not to mention not very good at talking to people we have crushes on. We’re also more prone to creativity than actual IQ or intelligence. What do you mean, I need to be less modest?”


“They’re alright. They’re quite clever and creative—very good at writing those little stories of theirs, or imagining scenarios—but they’re a little too impractical for me.”


“I love INFPs. We got along tremendously well. Like, for instance, the other day, I was talking with another INFP and we both spoke at length about how we both loved glow-in-the-dark jellyfish. Isn’t that marvellous? Who doesn’t like glow-in-the-dark jellyfish?”


“They’re good enough. Creative. Very good at writing. Not logical. If they had more logic, then they wouldn’t get into the messes they get into.”


“Yeah, what’s not to like about the little daisies. Quite charming and adorable. Such daydreamers, got their heads up in their clouds all day and dancing with the angels. Would I ever fall in love with one, though? Hmm, not a chance.”


“INFPs are very nice. Creative and smart. They’re good. Yes. Good.”


“To be honest, I don’t really understand them, they spend all their time by themselves or with books or watching films, and seem to like the company of animals more than they do people! And to not like going to parties, or hanging out with other people, well, that’s a bit weird, don’t you think? At least they’re quite smart and creative.”


“I adore INFPs! They’re absolutely wonderful, magnificent people. Full of life, of imagination and ideals—although if they’d just do a bit of work in turning their dreams into a reality, that would certainly make things much easier for them!”


“INFPs and I do not get along. They are far too wishy-washy and impractical for my tastes. And the mess! Do not get me started on the mess.”


“I do really like INFPs. I feel quite protective of them—they seem like such delicate, sweet souls, who need some shelter from the harsh elements of the world.”


“I like INFPs. They are smart and creative. Although they could do with a bit of help on the practicality front.”


“INFPs are the best. Well, it’s hard for me to hate any personality type, so there’s that. I think they’re very smart, creative and deep thinkers. They just know a lot about themselves and the world around them. They’re quite unconventional, too—you won’t find them doing things the same way others do, and I like that a lot about them.”


“Don’t understand them one bit. Got their head stuck up in the clouds all day. Bit of a crybaby. ‘Nup, not my cup of tea.”


“INFPs are sweet, they really are. They’re such daydreamers, and full of such great ideas, they’re so creative and I love that. It’s really fun to bounce ideas around with them.”


“INFPs? Who are they?”


“INFPs are fine. A little quiet, though, for my tastes. Actually, it’s hard for me to notice them much, I’m often too busy dancing in the limelight.”

On Depression and Why I Have Been Absent


depressed.jpgThe truth is, there has been a reason for my absence on my blog, and the reason isn’t a good one.

I haven’t been feeling too well.

Without going into the boring details, the long and short of it is that a lot of bad things have been going on in my life, most of them negative, and they have caused me to spiral into something Anne of Green Gables might call “the depths of despair”. For your convenience, I will hereby number them.

1. I sent my book out to publishers and won’t receive a reply until the end of September, maybe even October, and I have the deepest, most certain feeling I will not get accepted, because my book is not good enough. At all.
2. I am not enjoying my job—not one bit. In fact, it has been so stressful I have come back from work and exploded into tears because of the stress that built up during the day.
3. I am now writing a sequel for my as-yet-unpublished children’s novel, and everything I write is, well, absolute crap, nothing is working, and I want to turn my life upside-down and shake out all the dust and spiders because nothing is working, nothing is working, nothing is working.

That just about sums it all up. I wish there was more. I wish I could tell you something brilliant and miraculous had happened in my absence, but the truth is, I just happened to fall down a deep, dark hole, and I’m still trying to find my way to claw out of it. It physically hurts to breathe sometimes, and to exist; even the words I am typing now, on this laptop, feel as though they are clunky and unattractive, like I’m making bad figurines out of clay instead of dazzling sculptures every time I type a single word.

There’s so much inside of me and so few words to describe it all. I can’t put into words my thoughts. What kind of writer isn’t able to do that! A bad writer, that’s what. I feel as though my depression is making me see everything through the thick, stickiness of honey—everything feels heavy and slowed-down. Like I said, I don’t feel too good. Not enough to take a couple of dozen pills and be done with it—my depression is nearly never so dramatic—but enough to make the days a little greyer than usual, and my life a lot more dark.

By the time you read this post, I will be still reading a book a close friend of mine recommended to me, called “Turtles All The Way Down” by John Green. Lately, the only way I survive in this world is by medicating myself with books, lollies and films, keeping myself distracted and therefore the pain of living at bay. I hope the next time you read my words, you find me in a much better mood. This is possibly the shortest post I have ever written. I hope my words find you well, dear dreamers, and that you are walking in light far away from the darkness I now live in.

Death of a Writer’s Heart


I live life in a perpetual state of feeling like something is exciting is going to happen, only it never does.

Lately, I’ve been sending my precious, little book to publishers left, right and centre, hoping one of them lands a hit. I think it’s fair to say I’ve sent my book to at least six different publishers. Hoping. Praying. And waiting—-I will have to wait for months to receive a reply, if there is any at all. In the meantime, I read my manuscript over and over again, obsessively, picking at its flaws, wondering if the writing is too simple and concise because I wanted it to be accessible for children, wondering if I should just jump off a cliff and be done with it (not literally, but you get what I mean).

I can taste publication. I can taste it, the way a bird can sense freedom when you lift the latch of its cage. Right now, my fate is in God’s hands—and in the power of the words I wrote. I think it’s fair to say I’m not a complex writer. That’s why I write children’s books—my writing just isn’t complicated enough to write adult fiction, at least the kind that publishers want to sell. I just have this feeling, this awful, drowning feeling, that I’m not good enough, and never will be. That the subject matter of my children’s book, that of a little girl who is hit by her father, is too sordid and ugly for kids to read. That everything I have worked for, up until this point, has been for nothing.

What do you do when you’re not good enough? What do you do when salvation is the only hope, when the wall in front of you has to be broken through or else you starve to death behind it, and you can’t break through it? What, then? Death. Death and death. In the non-literal sense, of course: if I don’t ever get published, the truth is, slowly, over time, I’d turn into a living corpse. Walking through the days with a lumbering gait, my heart dead in my chest. A zombie, of the worst kind: that of a person whose greatest dream has eluded their grasp.

Not good enough. Sometimes, the pressure of it is enough to make me scream. I don’t actually scream, though. I don’t have the energy to. I’m quite a placid person, on the outside. Outsiders don’t seem to understand what publishing a book means to me. Since I was five years old, I have wanted to be an author. Five. While other children dreamed of being ballerinas or princesses or superheroes, I dreamed of one day writing a book and seeing it on a shelf at a book store or a library. When others worshipped basketball players or famous singers, I worshipped Roald Dahl, who is, by far, my most favourite author in the whole entire world, and whose steps I hope to follow, big shoes to fill though they may be. This dream, of becoming a writer, is so firmly embedded in me, that to kill it would be to kill my soul, too, my heart and my body and everything in between.

I wish I could sit down with a world-famous publisher and editor, and have them go through my manuscript with me, to point out all of its flaws, to show me where I went wrong. And then to tell me that, of course, with some work, they can publish it! My daydreams involving being a writer are numerous. I imagine myself selling the movie rights of the book, travelling to America to meet the movie producer, seeing my book as a film (I can already imagine the entirety of the book perfectly as a film), seeing my book on shelves in libraries and book stores. You can’t imagine what it’d be like to see my book on book store shelves. I would cry and collapse, almost as though someone had stabbed me in the heart.

What if I’m not good enough? What if wanting something isn’t enough? What if?

These are the questions that are slowly starting to kill me.

Celebratory 350,000 views!


I feel half-drunk.

In reality, I’ve only been medicating myself with gummy lollies. Every time any bit of depression sits in, I pop another lolly. Not great for one’s teeth or blood sugar, but it’s better than other substances I could be ingesting.

Good news, though! As you can probably tell from this blog post, I have officially reached 350,000 views or “hits” on this blog, Dreaming. Living. Loving. Or It’s certainly a milestone, and to celebrate, I’ve been scrolling through my own past blog posts. If you’re new and don’t know much about this blog, I’ve been blogging for six years. Yep. Six years. WordPress even sent me a notification telling me this.

It’s a funny feeling, looking at my past blog posts—I started writing this blog when I was around fourteen or fifteen (more likely fifteen), and now, I am officially twenty years old, turning twenty-one in two months, yay for me (not), and, re-reading over the posts, I feel as though I’m reading the words of a stranger. Sometimes, I remember writing the words, how I felt when I wrote that particular post or that one, but most of the time, it feels as though someone else wrote them entirely.

But most of all, I read over comments and my heart was filled with this overwhelming joy, that I was, have been able to, and still do, manage to connect with people all over the world just by typing my heart out onto a laptop screen in my little bedroom in some small suburb in Australia. That, my friends, is something quite special.

So here’s to you. This isn’t about me. It’s about you, all the people who have ever read a single post I have ever written, the ones who left comments, sometimes comments that rivalled the posts themselves, who have left likes, who have cared, who have listened and noticed and realised and understood and loved and dreamed and lived. Thank you.

And of course, this wouldn’t be a post by yours truly, dreamerrambling (or Anne), if I didn’t explain why I was popping lollies like they were sleeping pills. I’m not suicidal. Far from it. I’m just—a teensy bit depressed. That’s all. I recently sent my children’s book out to quite a few publishers, and hope that one of them will pick up the book and declare they want to publish it. I’m more sure of this book than I have been of anything in my life. I know it is good. “Hive”, the one I published on Wattpad, is nothing compared to this book—this book is polished, well-written (or so I think), and of publishable quality. Now we’ll just need to see if any publishers out there agree.

Since I started this blog, since the very beginning, I have expressed my wishes of becoming a proper writer and getting published. It has been six long years, but I think I’ve finally written the book that will take me to that dream and more. It’s a good book, is what I’m trying to say. It’s a unique book. Imaginative. Interesting.
Pray with me, will you?

Thank you. Thank you for everything.

The Girl Who Could Speak To Animals


No-one knew she could speak to animals. The dog-whisperer, they might call her. Other names. Worse ones. Words that would mean she wouldn’t be able to stay with her mother anymore, would have to be taken away, to somewhere where men in white coats would prod and poke at her, trying to find out the secret to her gift. Continue reading

An Update On This INFP’s Life


I’m listening to the song “Strawberry Fields Forever” by The Beatles as I type this; it’s a very sad, trippy sort of song, and I can’t help but fall in love with its whimsical, mournful sound. In fact, it’s so distracting, I almost forgot what I was meant to write about in this post—an update on this INFP’s life. My life, my thoughts. How very interesting. Ah! Welcome to my silly, little world, dear friend, and may you find it a pleasant enough place. Continue reading

I Was Targeted By A Vanity Publisher


So, for the last couple of days or so, I was in a whirlwind of excitement because I received a message, after much waiting, that my book had been accepted by a publisher.

At first, I was filled with joyous elation; the sound of ringing bells echoed throughout my mind, my spirits soared, and a thousand angels seemed to be singing an aria inside my soul at once. Finally, whispered a voice inside of me, finally the day has come! This was it. My big break. All I had to do was sign a contract, pay $4000 in fees and—

Wait. Sign a contract? Pay $4000? What was going on? After a little digging, I realised I had been targeted by what is known as a “vanity publisher”. They are “hybrid” publishers, meaning they forge the path of self-publishing on your behalf, oftentimes for a hefty fee, and for doing simple things like posting your book on the Barnes and Noble website or Amazon. They take almost any legible submissions that come their way, and the money they earn come not from sales of the book itself, but from the money they can glean from contented cash cow authors.

In other words, my publishing dreams were still dust, and I had been nearly duped into handing over my life savings (yes, my life savings, at 20 years old, are absolutely measly).

The shock and horror of what had occurred to me was unspeakable: in a matter of minutes, of seconds, I plummeted from a height of great joy to extreme despair. Once more, I had to face the grueling process of submitting my book to publishing houses, face more rejections, write more synopses, edit my book even more because I’m very pedantic about things like that, and continue the search for a home for my dear, little book. I honestly felt as though the rug had been pulled away from underneath my feet, leaving me sprawled on the floor in a most ungainly position. One moment, I was the starry-eyed author of a soon-to-be published novel—the next, I was left with nothing once again. It was as if I had, just for a moment, tasted stardom and the warmth of the spotlight, only for it to be snatched away, in the blink of an eye, by some cruel and unseen hand, and left alone and cold in the dark once more.

Beware vanity publishers. They are out for not just your money, but your heart and soul. They prey on young, desperate, unsuspecting writers, who dream of having their books published, sometimes no matter the cost. If I hadn’t had the use of the internet at my fingertips, nor well-discerning family members and friends, I might have been conned by these scam artists, who want nothing more than the money from your pocket.

Of course, I am back to square one again. It doesn’t matter, though, because I will always love writing, and enjoy the process of creating words and characters and worlds. Returning to where I began isn’t such a bad thing after all: it just spurs me to work harder, hustle with greater intensity, and follow my dreams to the ends of the earth, if need be. But no dream is worth forking out $4000 to someone who will not distribute or market your book properly, and just slap it on Amazon; every dreamer needs to look out for will-o’-the-wisps along the way, that will cause you to stumble, get lost in the woods and lose sight of what you came to find.

What Does It Mean To Be A Real Woman?

Final RGB.jpg

Today, on the train, I was thoroughly intimidated, intentionally, by a young woman, who seemed to want to rub it in my face that she was better than me in every single way. For one thing, she kept tossing her hair, and looking over her shoulder, down her nose at me, standing extra close so the level of intimidation was increased by tenfold, and smelling of such a sweet, powerful perfume it was as if her very pores stank of it. She was proud, and unforgiving, a light smile playing on her lipglossed lips, and she seemed to own the entire train carriage, giving off the impression she was, without a doubt, the alpha female in the place: attractive, obstrusive, and bold. I shrank into a corner, and tried to avoid getting hit by her handbag whenever the train tilted; in her eyes, I might as well have been an insect, crawling along on the floor.

I couldn’t help, after that encounter, to begin to analyse my fellow colleagues, and how they measured up towards being a “real woman”, someone bold and fierce, capable and unrelenting, with an attractive, charismatic air floating about them that was simply irrestitible, to both men and women. One of them, one I worked with closely, did have this aura about her: she was extremely pretty, and possessed a veneer of confidence which seemed to sparkle and shine like a jewel. A real woman. In my eyes, she was a real woman, and I, gangly and awkward, was lacking in every single possible way.

Because I certainly don’t feel like a real woman. When I am with other women, more often than not, I feel like a little girl who hasn’t even hit puberty yet. I am dark-haired, awkward, shy and a little bit of a daydreamer, who enjoys listening to music, watching movies, and penning works of fiction, strange and whimsical ones, in her spare time. At the moment, I am finding my job, as a daycare teacher, a little tiresome, because I’m simply not practical-minded enough to get some of the work done properly, or to completely enjoy it. What is more, I am awkward beyond belief around those of the opposite sex; in fact, if there was such a thing as a “disability” in terms of talking to or even looking at other men I am attracted to, then I could certainly be classified as romantically disabled. In short, I am not, do not, and perhaps will never, feel like a “real woman”.

I don’t know if this is a problem or not. I do not know what plans God has in store for me. In this lifetime, I feel as though I am just a bit of old newspaper, being blown about in the breeze—unique, special, certainly, but insignificant and small in the eyes of the rest of society. I don’t know what to do with my life, except to continue writing and playing out the notes of my passions, I am not the best at looking after children because I’m so clumsy and awkward—the other day, my foot nearly hit a child when I was crossing the playground, much to my horror—and no Prince Charming seems to be available on the horizons, and discovering and realizing I am, and indeed will never be, anything close to a real woman, seems like the dark cherry on top of a nightmarish sundae.

If only my life were a book, that I could tweak and change as I pleased, re-writing a sentence here, a deleting a paragraph there, adding in a flowery adjective over there. Over time, it would blossom and grow, pared down into something sweet and wonderful, instead of something disorganized and chaotic, as it is now.

Even my faith, at times like this, begins to wane and dwindle. In these moments of strife and trouble, when my soul sinks to the nadir of its depths, I begin to believe God has abandoned me, even though I know, deep down, that that is impossible and only a figment of my neuroses and imagination.

A real woman. What does it mean to be a real woman? If I am, indeed, a real woman, then perhaps the definition of it should be changed. Maybe a real woman doesn’t need a face of perfectly-arranged features and a whiff of perfume sweet and alluring. Perhaps she needn’t be capable and confident, poised in every possible way, like a kind of sculpture instead of a proper, human being. Men may not always fall at her feet. Just maybe, she could be shy, small, unsure, dark-haired and awkward, her mind full of fantasies and daydreams, her heart full of wistful hopes, her hands full of love, her mouth filled with stories, her feet walking a slow, zig-zag walk, never in a straight line, across the ground, towards some unchosen destiny.

On Romantic Scenarios


To put it nicely, I am a hopeless romantic. To put it rudely, I am a desperate, young woman, who needs romance they way some people need their next hit of nicotine.

And since, added to this pile of a mess that I am, I am also an inveterate daydreamer, quite a few nice romantic scenarios cross my mind on a daily basis, and most of them are too good not to share. For instance, today, the romantic scenario popped into my head, perfect for any rom-com or movie if anyone of you out there are interested in writing and directing one, of a girl who is revived using CPR by a handsome savior, who then wakes up in hospital with said handsome savior sitting by her bed, concerned for her well-being, and enraptured by her beauty, rather like a twist of the Sleeping Beauty fairytale. Wonderful, isn’t it? As I imagined it, I put myself in the place of the woman, and the entire thing was so delicious and romantic, I actually smiled in real life, right in the middle of the First Aid class. Talk about embarrassing.

Oh. And here’s another one. A young woman goes wandering in the forest, looking for her grandmother (okay, I might be basing them all off of fairytales in this post, but, you know me, I love stuff like this, where there’s a pattern to it and it’s all Disney-like). To her surprise, instead of her grandmother, she encounters an evil, bad wolf, and only with the help of the handsome huntress, who slays the wolf, saves her grandmother, and kisses her in the end, is the young woman able to escape the forest, free and unharmed. Okay, perhaps that one ran a little too close to the fairytale. Oh goodness, my fingers are flying across the page—I made the mistake of buying and drinking some Coca-Cola today, forgetting it contains caffeine, and now my insides are all jazzed up.

Come on, I know there are some more inside of me. I spend a good fifty-percent of my time daydreaming, so there’s plenty of juicy material to be had. Let’s see. Oh! If we’re going to run with the fairytale theme here, we might as well go with it. Cinderella. A poor, penniless young woman (me), somehow manages to meet a rich, handsome man, who somehow falls in love with her—together, they while away their time riding private jets and visiting hotels, and eventually, she convinces him to spend most of his fortune on helping the poor and the world’s abandoned children, and on animal cruelty, because, after all, Cinderella is meant to have a kind heart. That one is a favourite of mine, if only for the ending—and the fact that I’ve certainly never stayed at a luxury hotel before.

Beauty and the Beast. Well, to be honest, there’s nothing to work with here, because I can’t imagine a modern re-telling without some serious plastic surgery to take place, and I certainly would find it rather strange to fall in love with someone only after they’d had their face artificially altered. Let’s find another one. Usually I’m absolutely boiling with romantic daydreams. I’m lost, alone and sobbing, trying to escape a terrible, arranged marriage, to a cruel and lewd man. In order to escape, I traverse, on a suicidal mission, on a boat into the darkest areas of the nearby sea, ready to float away into oblivion, only for my boat to rock up on an island where a young, handsome stranger has been living, keeping a deep, dark secret, which I must unlock if I am to escape with him from the island together.

Then there’s the book I’m writing at the moment, called The Woodlands, which is basically, in a nutshell, and which I will eventually type up and post on Wattpad, is about a romance between a young woman and one of the fae, an otherworldly young man with vivid green eyes. But there are so many more inside of me—if I could just turn the right tap, I’m sure all of them will come gushing right out. Imagine if there was a young man, wounded and alone after a battle, who stumbles alone to my cottage—okay, I might have read a story like this somewhere, but still, nevermind, how romantic!—and, obviously, I heal him, and he happens to be drop-dead gorgeous, and after bringing him back to life, with my tender and loving hands, he awakens and falls completely and utterly in love with me! How convenient! Daydreams often are.

Or, if we go in a more realistic direction, a young man stumbles across my blog or reads one of my books, and happens to fall in love with me, and we somehow reach out to one another and start talking online and then we meet up in real life and we fall in love and get married and have kids and live happily ever after.

The dark truth is, most likely, most probably, unless some Divine intervention takes place—and I still don’t know yet if it will—nothing particularly wonderful and romantic will ever happen to me. I have lived enough years on this planet to know that real life and fantasies almost never match. Red Riding Hood might be saved by the wolf, but that doesn’t mean the hunter will fall in love with her—most likely he’s already married, and has got kids of his own. In real life, rich people tend to fall in love with other beautiful rich people; people do get plastic surgery in order to make themselves more attractive in the dating market, especially in Asian countries; and I don’t have any nursing or medical abilities whatsoever, and would, in reality, just stand by and watch as some handsome young man fell in love with some capable, beautiful young nurse. Everyday of my life, I watch other couples happy together, I see families, I see husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends, and inside, I heave a little sigh, because it might never happen to me, this business of falling in love, not in this dark, dreary world they call reality.

In the real world, there are no fairytales. There are only nightmares. So far, at least. My life is devoid of anything romantic whatsoever—even my taste of it, when I ventured into the world of dating for a little while, was bitter and uncomfortable, because the kiss I shared with the man was one of the worst experiences of my life. It was enough to make me wonder if I was, in fact, lesbian (I’m not, just to clarify).

So, handsome, young men, looking for odd, kind and creative daydreamers, where are you? Are you actually out there? Do you really exist? Maybe you are reading these words right now, in which case, call me, my number is — just kidding, I wouldn’t make my number public on the internet. Either way, if you are reading these words right now, just know there is someone out there who yearns for you just as much as you probably yearn for me, and I know this is but a shout in the darkness, an echo, but maybe one day we’ll meet, in real life, and maybe the person behind these words will be close enough to touch and maybe we’ll love each other and everything will be all peachy and fine.

And then again, maybe not.