When I was twelve I cried to my older sister everyday for weeks that I was boring. She would listen, patting my shoulder and feeding my cups of tea at the right moments, while I sobbed and wailed that nobody would remember me when I was dead, that nobody would notice me in a crowd – that I was just an extra in everyone else’s lives.
Here I am, six-and-a-half years later and as far as identity crises go, I have found my own unique style. My wardrobe is filled with ecclectic pieces that transform me into a new character each day. I couldn’t be happier.