I Am A Manic Pixie Dream-Girl & A Heroine

This morning I took a walk, a rather long walk actually. I got up, I was upset, I’ve had a hard week, I’ve been deeply affected by the infamous “Brexit” and frankly, I solve all of my problems by walking until I get lost, and have no idea where I ended up. I just play music and go. I rolled out of bed, didn’t comb my hair, didn’t wear any make up, brushed my teeth, put some shorts on and walked for hours. Eventually I got hungry, and after being lost in the “wilderness” and getting all sorts of twigs and flowers blown into my already disheveled hair, I figured getting something to eat would be a good idea. I walked into a cafe, and ordered my favourite natural juice, some toast, and watched my phone die. The guy who took my order was really nice, and said he could charge it for me, so I handed it over. I couldn’t help but notice the fact that he was staring at me quite a lot, and would smile. I smiled back at him because it was funny to me, and soon enough he asked me if I came around that cafe often. I told him I had, and that I always ordered the same juice, as he always takes my order. Then he said I looked familiar, and said with lots of certainty: “you’re not Spanish are you?” I have a rather hard time explaining where I’m from so I told him I was, but I didn’t grow up in Spain. “You have interesting features he says, you don’t look like you’re from anywhere” I sighed a bit, as I’ve heard this comment one too many times in my life, and I kind of giggled and said: “that’s because I’m part alien, I come from a little planet somewhere and I come here to get inspiration and write about things.” Now, this guy stared at me for a while and then just smiled, and then laughed, like actually laughed. I wasn’t trying to be funny, I wasn’t trying, I was literally answering like I think it is most logical to answer, but somehow he admitted to thinking my comment was somewhat adorable. I… am a manic pixie dream girl.

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At age fourteen I made the decision that I wouldn’t buy trendy clothes, I would wear things I liked that were bizarre, inspired by some type of cultural dress, and probably homemade. I used to wear skirts and dresses over my jeans. I bought a packet of bindi jewels and would arrange them on my forehead and my cheeks, I had a colour nail polish to match every outfit I ever owned. I once purchased a slinky and placed it in my hair like a scrunchie. I listened to Nat King Cole when Britney Spears was the most popular singer, and I liked watching Audrey Hepburn movies. Somewhere in my late teens I established that I would write a novel by candlelight and that I can’t use any other colour to write but black, I cannot stand the sight of blue ink. I’ve always been random, and spontaneous is my middle name. In high school a guy asked me out once, and I told him he was just trying to find a temporary girlfriend, and I wasn’t interested in that, but was only interested in looking for someone I could analyze and write about -he thought that was cute. I don’t know… I guess I just have this constant impending feeling of life being too short to waste, I don’t waste time, I take chances, I tell people my thoughts and my feelings about things, but I never talk about who I really am. Every guy I’ve ever dated has said something along the lines of: “I like the idea of you, the concept of who you are, but I don’t know if I like you” I’ve always felt like an idea, like a ficitional character, precisely exactly how manic pixie dream girls are depicted. I inspired one guy to travel across the globe (he said he couldn’t have done it without me), I supposedly inspired another guy to go to college and finally get his degree in music (he said he wouldn’t have ever signed up without my encouragement). Another one decided to buy a new guitar, and pick up his music again, another in college decided to start writing and decided that his last speech during public speaking class was going to be about me, and how I had somehow changed his life. There was one guy who promised to go back to his hometown and make his family proud, he said he didn’t have the courage to become the man God wanted him to be, if it hadn’t been for something I said to him. One guy that liked me decided that he would be a poet, because I gave him a book about poetry and told him to write (he still writes now). Most recently, it has happened again, I’ve had to remind a guy that I’m not an idea, I’m still a person, and I’m not perfect in anyway. Today at that cafe, that guy looked at me and said: “so you travel a lot? It must be for love right? You have the face of someone who falls in love a lot.” I smiled at his comment, it’s ironic he would say that, and I said to him: “No, I can’t say I’m in love, but I do fall in love with places, with cities, with smells, I’m a writer, it’s what we do. We fall in love with life and we write about it.” The guy asked me to comeback, and if he would see me again, but I just smiled and left.

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Unlike what a lot of people are debating out there, concerning that Manic Pixie Dream girls are a symbol of weak femininity and submission, I am here to say I disagree. I can’t help that the essence of my weirdness has somehow been turned into a cultural phenomenon, or much less that people who meet me constantly tell me that I remind them of either Ruby Sparks, Summer Finn, or that Ramona girl. If I had a dollar for everytime a guy told me to watch 500 days of summer… I’ve seen the movie, I wouldn’t toy around with anyone’s feelings in that explicit of a way, and yet I do see similarities between that strange Summer and I. In the end Summer didn’t stay with that guy, and although I don’t agree with how she went about their relationship, she was looking for a certain sense of security, that this guy really didn’t seem to provide for her. I can identify with that, sometimes a girl like me gets so tired of hearing how “inspiring” she is, of how “amazing” and “interesting” all those words are so empty and useless. They don’t mean anything. They just mean that for a split second, you became the thing that fulfilled some kind of sugary pick-me-up for someone who didn’t have that. But what about you? What about your feelings, your fears, and thoughts and complexities? What about the fact that sometimes I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going and I wish someone would just understand that and love me for that? None of that seems to matter when you are a concept. I am complex, and confusing, but not because I’m trying to be “cute” or because I’m trying to appeal to some ideal of weak femininity. I’m all those things because I’m out here trying to be a heroine, I’m trying to save the world, to bring life to something, to make a difference in a world that is falling apart. Some days I can handle the pressure, and some days, I can’t. I become lost in my own thoughts more often than even I want to be, I’m a loner, I have so much to think about and to create that often times having friends around, having crowds around just distract me… but never enough to actually have me be present anywhere.

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What I’d like to say is, I am a manic pixie dream girl. I do come into people’s lives for some sort of purpose and for some sort of encouragement, and then I’m gone. But maybe more often than not, I’m gone because no one ever asks me to stay. Everyone assumes that I’m too ethereal to be tied down, and I’m too complete and into my own world to every let anyone in. No one notices when I do try to let them in, and it’s heartbreaking. I’m going to keep taking trips on a whim, hiking whenever I feel like it. I’m going to wear a dinosaur sweater (I like animals on my clothes) I am going to sing about stuff, and write about stuff, I’m going to do all of those trade mark MPDG things because it’s who I am, not because I’m a concept, or an idea, or even a ficitional character, but because I am a person. At this point in my life I know who I am, and I’m not afraid to announce it. I do wish however, that someone would see that I’m real, I’m actually breathing, living, and bleeding. Beyond all the layers of quirkiness and complexity, I’m actually here.

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