I am an acquired taste,

silly

like the moustache that grows above my sister’s eyes,

passionate

like demonstrating peaceful protestors,

unreliable

like my luggage getting to the correct travel destination,

humorous

like the commercial ads during the Super Bowl,

quirky

like dissonance heard in an electro-house melody,

bitter

like black coffee found in the hands of those older and wiser,

sarcastic

like math teachers telling me I will use calculus outside the classroom,

honest

like the Surgeon General’s warning that cigarettes are harmful to your health,

clingy

like a body to warm sheets on a Monday morning,

creative

like patents and copyrights,

lonely

like a widower after his wife has died,

jealous

like anyone who has ever gotten second place,

patient

like a housewife waiting for her husband to come home from war,

reserved

like a table at my favorite restaurant,

insecure

like teenagers about their sexual orientations,

focused

like a microscope on a new specimen of virus,

lazy

like a cat soaking up sun on a wooden porch,

intelligent

like the invention of String Theory and Quantum Physics,

ordinary

like a weekly routine;

I am the truest version of myself.