My work colleague wrote this about me:
Sharan Dhaliwal pronounced Sha-ran Dha-li-waal
Sharan is a girl. I think. She works with me in an office. She is sometimes fun to talk to but sometimes she has a bit of an attitude problem. I think I can get past this, most of the time. When she walks it reminds me of an emu’s walk. Or is that an ostrich - I’m not really sure. Some say she has an over-inflated image of herself. I usually add to these rumours, which gives me a strange sense of mischief and amusement. Because she is so secure I know I can say this and it will make her smile, not get angry and upset, like most normal girls who do not even come close to achieving her level of cool. She carries a lightness around with her which can be a joy to be encapsulated in, but sometimes her undercurrent of darkness and despair comes to the surface and rears its ugly head. This makes me sad and I cry alone until she is happy again. She creates things that I mostly look at and wonder where her past has been and where her future will lead to, and often conclude that she is in fact, mental.
I’ve considered myself an ‘artist’ since I was a teenager, drawing my favourite X-Men characters (mostly Magneto, Psylocke and Phoenix) on any piece of paper I could find and then sticking them crudely to my bedroom walls. At one point, I came to drawing the Sandman characters, Tank Girl and Psylocke on my wall.
I have never watched it before, until now. I have never wanted to. The thought of being the kind of person who watches ‘The O.C.’ and talks about who’s ‘really fit’ and who ‘totally deserved that Chanel bag’ made me sick. Ugh. The beautiful people, beautiful clothes, perfect faces, perfect hair. I hated them, but secretly loved them, making me hate myself and them even more. It was a horrible situation to be in.