I blabber about myself and my interests so much that even I myself am sick of myself. Still, for the benefit of those of you who would like to know what I'm "like in person", I will endeavor to give you an honest picture as seriously as I could.

Okay, first we go to the looks part. I'm 5'4", when wearing stilettos. Go ahead and call me Shortstuff. I weigh 98 lbs., 75% of it drumsticks (or thighs, for those of you who can only associate drumsticks with Kentucky Fried Chicken). My hair, which is black, reaches up to my waist, not because I like the Pocahontas look, but simply because I am too lazy to drag myself to the beauty salon. My eyes, which are dark brown, are often red-rimmed, not because I'm on a drug overdose, but because I sit too close to the monitor screen. As for my so-called vital stats, are you sure you really know the meaning of the word "flat"? Not until you've met me!

All right, next we go to body and brains stuff. I have the manual dexterity of a watermelon. Over and above that, my skull, instead of housing a proper, functioning brain, is filled with a watermelon juice-like substance that, as it happens, is not boiling properly. In fact, the only thing it does is to make my head closely resemble a watermelon, except that it can see (but not without eyeglasses).

Of course, we're not just talking about manual dexterity here, we're talking about overall body coordination, or motor skills when applied to toddlers. Needless to say, I have the mind-body coordination of a watermelon, meaning largely immobile, or rolls easily in random directions until it unwittingly crashes against some unsuspecting wall.

Aside from looking like a pockmarked, wrinkled, puckered watermelon (skin color: a sickly brown-green), I have the habits of a couch potato. I need not extrapolate on this, because you know very well what a couch potato is. In fact, you may be one yourself, because you've actually read this far! Tee hee. No, actually, you may, or may not be, a couch potato, which, by definition, is someone (or something) who has a remote control and a computer mouse that are, by virtue of Mother Nature, osseously (i.e. bone-ifically) attached to either hand, like huge warts. If your remote control and mouse are lying out there somewhere, unfettered by your greasy paws, then you are not a couch potato.

It's not that I'm proud of looking like a watermelon while being a couch potato. No, far from that. It's not good to be a vegetable by choice. I should lace up my sneakers and do something about my flabby things, I know. But, alas, as the old saying goes, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is watching the play-offs.

What does this all have to do with being an Angry Young Woman? Well, the thing is that for now and for the next couple of years, I am still bound to go to school. Which is nothing special really, because young people should be in school or something. It's funny how ungrateful I am about being able to go to school, when I know that there are millions of kids out there who are not even afforded the right to formal education.

Still, I absolutely loath my school (not education per se, I mean, I would happily attend a Virtual University). And yet I have to go to a traditional school on a daily basis, 200 days a year. Bummer!!! This makes me very angry, of course, because it disrupts my watermelon-potato lifestyle. Well, you're saying, you can go to school without losing your vegetable identity. Wrong! The fact that I have to drag myself, green skin and all, to the uni is torture enough. It doesn't matter whether I go on foot, by bicycle or bus. I mean, I still have to move. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping-what am I doing in this mildew-covered classroom?!? And if only I didn't have to move from one classroom to another, at least I could sleep and vegetate while some prof whose name I don't even bother to learn does his daily droning. What hurts the most, of course, is the fact that I have to disconnect the remote control and computer mouse that are by grace of nature meant to be permanently attached to my hands. I tell you, the parting is painful, filled with bloody screams and unabashed tears. I don't know who's sadder about the daily separation, me or them.

So welcome to the AYW, thoughts of a vegetable forced to become at least a Homo erectus.