Look at my grades, my pay slip, the car that I drive. Look at that overpriced degree that I recently obtained from a private university. Tell me that an Arts degree is just as good; that I can be just as successful and live a fulfilling life even if I can’t do Maths to save my mother’s life.
Look through my iTunes playlist and the books on my shelves. Deem my interests unique and that they make me interesting, mysterious, niche, sexy. Tell me that you are curious, that you want to know more.
Tell me that my Photoshop-enhanced Facebook profile picture is ‘natural’ and ‘candid’. Ignore how obviously touched up it is, how you very well know that I look nothing like that in real life.
After all, profile pictures are for illustration purposes only.
Like my status and tweets. Give me virtual thumbs up’s. Share it. Retweet it. Allow me to believe that the musings of an almost 22-year-old could be the wittiest, funniest, most heart-felt thing you’ve ever read in 140 characters or less.
Comment on my physical appearance. But only positively. Don’t worry about the negatives. I have a mirror for that. Tell me that for everything I lack on the outside, I make up for it with great personality and sense of humor. No matter that I am thin and fat at all the wrong places, no matter if my height prevents me from reaching those top-shelf Maggi cups.
Tell me I am attractive enough to warrant a double take, a second glance.
That in this world where speed is priced and love is shown by virtual pokes, I make you want to slow down, grab a coffee and get to know me better.
Tell me that I never have to apologize for my youth. That when I speak my mind and stand for what I believe in, I won’t be judged. Tell me that there is no wrong in wearing my heart on my sleeve and believing in happy endings.
When I try something new or make a new year resolution that I can never keep, tell me that it is alright. That effort counts, that at the very least I had the right initiative – that I took the first step.
Don’t rub my failures in my face, don’t remind me that there are people out there who are prettier, more successful, who did not give up.
And please don’t ever compare me to a neighbor’s kid, a distant cousin or somebody who is a doctor, lawyer, engineer.
Give me your stamp of approval.
Tell me that I am good enough.
To be loved, to be successful, to be happy.
Tell me that it is not pathetic that I need your validation in order to love myself.