I’m five foot four inches of loving everyone around me more than myself. I was born on August 31st, 1994, and at 30 seconds old I tore the tubes out of my mouth like a promise to my parents that I would always be a fighter.
Now I’m an advanced practitioner in self-defense; I have my mom’s eyes and my dad’s everything else; and the only thing they have in common with one another is not having the capacity to love me any harder. I’m a self-employed comedian. Ask me anything about anything and I’m pretty sure I could make it inappropriate or, inappropriate.
My favorite music is acoustic. It’s soft and honest, a lot like who I want to be. I think a lot about who I want to be and how I want to love, and what echo I want to resonate after someone says my name in a quiet room. Two years ago, I was diagnosed with a seemingly perpetual sadness that never accompanies me and accomplishment in the same thought. You will often find me in quiet rooms. And in mine, my bed settled with four pillows trying to soften the illusion that I won’t fall asleep by myself that night.
See, I’m a hopeless romantic and a remarkable athlete until a pretty girl with a nice smile walks by and I trip over my exhales trying to find the courage to say hello.
But I bet you I could make her laugh once I start talking.
So hi, I’m Valentina. I’m a lion-hearted depressive with short blonde hair and a weakness for hot chocolate and good books on rainy days. Many people say I’m one of the best huggers they’ve ever met. I love avocado, and seasoned shrimp, and I will be up every Friday night at 1:00am writing to subtilize the restlessness within me.
I will love you in a language you might not understand; please know that variance doesn’t measure weight. I’m 128lbs of waiting for someone to come along and tell me that I try hard enough, that I’m good enough, that I’m enough and all they need. I’m an unfinished poem, and a lover, and a fighter: stubbornly and steadily trying to convince myself that I’m all I’ll ever need.