What, pray tell, is the allure of stuffing people into boxes? How bold, in the worst way, to assume that by piecing together some random actions and words spoken that you know who I am. Then I go into a box; the box of your choosing. A place where you've neatly defined the lines for me, keeping things civilized. Those moments when my actions aren't in alignment with your rigid parameters, you get to say, almost perplexed, "that's not like you." Or those moments when I feel completely outside of myself but am still firmly in tune with you I am, you ask me, "since when." NO SIR, I decline your invitation to be defined, boxed in really. I accept that who I am is fluid, thick and sweet, refreshingly fluid. I'll never be who I can be if I'm too enamored with who I am so cheers to living outside the lines.