confessions

My name is Ariel, and I like clouds. As with most things I like, I don't like clouds enough to sit and study them or watch them more than a few seconds. But their shapes and textures don't fail to give me a smile.

My name is Ariel, and I have three moles of approximately the same shape and shade in a small isoceles triangle on my right leg. From time to time, the dots have been known to have been connected with the marks of a pen.

My name is Ariel, and I want to meet a little old man with a thick Yorkshire accent who wears overalls and wellingtons and eats meat pies and sips tea from the missus out of big mugs by the hearth.

My name is Ariel, and I have tried to start "Jane Eyre" nearly a half dozen times.

My name is Ariel, and I like to watch "Arthur."

My name is Ariel, and I've never "led someone to Christ."

My name is Ariel. Though I am inwardly judgemental of those who dye or highlight their hair, I have my mom highlight my hair at home a couple of times a year.

My name is Ariel, and I looked up some algebra problems to do online the other day.

My name is Ariel, and I don't like driving next to concrete barriers in the interstate. A couple of times I considered driving into one.

My name is Ariel, and I think roses smell like alcohol. But I still think they look nice. I just don't smell them.

My name is Ariel, and every few weeks I vow to shave my head and never eat again.

My name is Ariel, and I know just how to use my hipbone to hold up a baby and free one hand to do something else.

My name is Ariel, and I only went to chapel seven times last semester. My picture of God is in a limbo between P&W God and the God who hardened Pharoah's heart. And I want to see God correctly. But I'm vainly afraid to see that I disagree with how God does things. I want to see where my vision is distorted.

My name is Ariel, and I didn't think "Napoleon Dynamite" was that funny, after all.