Myself. I am a middle class ex-Miamian current New Yorker temporary Ghanaian. Usually living real life Girls. Which probably sucks. My on-a-break-boyfriend calls me a nympho when we talk over Skype. I don’t believe I agree with that conjecture. I think of Ariel Pink every time he says so, and then I get the sudden urge to dye my hair pastel sea-foam green. I don’t believe I’m a nympho. I’m pretty sure I’m just an Aries. I tell him so, that I am just an Aries and not a nympho, but he does not believe in astrology. Not surprising; he doesn’t even know that his Akan name is Yaw [y-ao] due to the fact he is a Thursday born male. I had to look up his day of birth myself. I am the one searching for his broken and abandoned identity. But he does not like when I do that. He’s a practical one, not superstitious. He wants to rid me of my inner forest nymph essence. He wants to place both of his big, manly hands around my head and squeeeeze my nymph brain so it oozes green chunks out of my eye sockets nostrils and ears, and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the thick my green guts ooze out the pores of my light barky skin. And once I’m drained hollow I know, I KNOW he desires to fill in my hollowed trunk now covered in chunky and slimy green guts with the anti-imaginative juices and practicality of a mechanic. Or a product designer. But probably a carpenter. He’ll have me cut off my own willow bark limbs and craft them with industrial tools into a stool. I’ll fix you, he says. The world is foul and will never comprehend my fleeting leafy thoughts and dreams and thought-dreams. They do not want to comprehend the cotton ball clouds I roll and bathe and sleep in. He likes wooden framed beds with linen sheets and a firm mattress. I, I, I pine for the sun to tire and the calmness of dusk to rouse. When Mother Willow plucks me from the earth under the approving gaze of goddess moon. Her long weeping hair gently slithers around and lifts my soft worn frame, and the wind sings and swings me to sleep in the comfiest of leafy cocoons. I’ll likely dream of sex; maybe I am a nympho. Or maybe I just like to feel. I like to feel. Maybe I like to feel too much, says society. Maybe you should get an unpaid internship so then you can get a low paying job after you graduate, says society. You should probably do that, society says. I should probably do that. But Mother Willow and Goddess Moon and Ariel Pink do not agree. Do I agree?