I'm an Asian-American female, the daughter of immigrant parents escaping from a war torn country. I'm a straight-A, unathletic, teacher's pet and a virtuoso on the violin and piano. Math league is my life, and I practice Rubik's cubes on the side. College admissions team, welcome to the most generic person you've probably already seen thousands of.

Thank you, for my impending rejection letter. I appreciate your time.

Bowl of Mother's rice

long hours in the kitchen

getting me from school

Father gives me toys

builds world for us to explore

goes to work too long

Sister needs tutor

she struggles in school with math

she gives me last bite

Aunt arrives and goes

here to help or here in need

family comes through

Family shapes each other and learns and grows

A constantly changing heart, now I know

Life is never going to be a best-selling story.

Sure, some stories are based off real life. Autobiographies, biographies, nonfiction, even those teen stories. Just real enough to believe they could occur.

But, we will never see ourselves burn our old selves to become the new Spring Fling popular queen. We will never see ourselves walk away from our old lives to become the queen of a foreign country. We will never betray our family and country to fight for the opposite side.

Or will we?

Rebirth does not have to be as intense as a movie. My rebirth marked my transition from middle school to high school and it began with a simple thing: a wand of mascara.

Being well, ugly, unpopular, and nerdy all of my middle school life, I was the story book cliche of a nerd. I ate lunch by myself or with the teachers. I hung out in the library all morning and afternoon. My teachers gave me more presents than my friends ever did.

When I hit high school, however, I took my art skills and I put them into my face. Starting with mascara, I found that I liked how my eyes looked when they were intense. Mascara was, therefore, soon followed by eyeshadow and eyeliner, designed to make my brown eyes stand out. When the acne inevitably started to grow, it was quickly remedied with a concealer mixture I devised myself.

As my face changed, so did my popularity. I started getting asked out. A lot. An overwhelming amount of times. Like, it was getting really wild a lot.

My confidence also changed. Being shy and with limited human contact most of my life, I had the world's worst stage freight. I would never imagine standing up to a teacher that wronged me like I did, or telling a guy to back off when he became too forward. I got louder, and I gained friends. It was like hiding behind a mask of makeup that made me so powerful.

But, as most stories will tell. With popularity and fame, your life starts to derail. While I used to be a classic teacher's pet, I found a lot of teachers no longer liked me, despite me still being the top of my class and such. Having friends, believe it or not, was also stressful. Sometimes they used me for my other friends. Sometimes they hung out with me just because a lot of other people hung out with me. Sometimes I felt like they hated me so much because all I would talk about were my boy problems. It was horrible, feeling so alone, yet surrounded by so many people. The amount of times that someone told me that I had no reason to complain was astounding, my own mother being one of those people.

So the question is: would I take it back? Would I go back in time and never put the makeup on? I do not know.

For me, makeup is an artistic expression. I did it because I loved it. I looked good, I liked putting it on, and it was essentially daily artwork that I could show off.

The real question, however, is why did makeup change my life so much? I started loving myself, sure, but I've heard a lot of negative statements towards my makeup.

"You don't need makeup," "That's way too much," "I liked you better natural," "You look so fake." These statements coming from my friends, family, teachers, random people. Why does it matter if that's what I like? The amount of times I've been judged for wearing heels and having makeup, called stuck up and pretentious, is entirely uncalled for.

Because, makeup does not signify anything. Makeup is a choice you make for yourself. I wear my makeup for myself; not for the guys that follow me, not for my natural face to not offend your eyes, not for anyone other than me.

And if makeup is what gives me the confidence to declare that, then so be it. I love my makeup, and I don't care what anyone has to say about it.

So if I could go back in time and not put makeup on, would I do it? Absolutely not. I would never take away myself, because makeup is a part of the new, confident me.

There once was a girl with really big hair,

who harbored a cow and a secret affair.

“That’s why her hair is so big,” some people would laugh,

“It holds so many secrets; blood orange, like a giraffe.”

And so the girl with the purple cow went,

about her day, in total silence.

Those secrets were drowning her, pulling her down.

Like starved rocks, ready to sink her to the ground.

But her biggest secret was this, and quite a secret indeed:

She was a fallen angel, with an agenda she received.

So do you know what happens when an angel falls?

Their blissful secrets become the devils in us all.

There once was a girl with really big hair,

who harbored a cow and a secret affair.

“That’s why her hair is so big,” people surmised,

“It holds so many secrets; blood orange, surprise.”

And so the girl with the purple cow went,

about her days, in total silence.

Those secrets were drowning her, pulling her down.

Like starved rocks, sinking her to the ground.

But her biggest secret was this, and a secret indeed:

She was a fallen angel, with an agenda received.

So what happens when an angel falls?

Their blissful secrets become the devils in us all.

I watched her every night.

Sure, creepy, I know. But I can't help it. She was just so beautiful, with the small smile she has after receiving a nice text or a funny Instagram video. The way she lets out a short, gasping laugh, sometimes like a dying whale, sometimes like a hungry guinea pig. It depended on her mood from that day and the hilariousness meter of whatever she saw. Either way, it was cute and everytime she squealed, I fell in love even more.

I've been by her side through it all. She would cry to me about pigtails and bullies when she was little, and she would cry to me about haircuts and boyfriends as she grew. The way her blue eyes, speckled with traces of green, would dart back and forth as she grew more passionate in her story, I loved. I saw the universe in those eyes. They were gorgeous, just like her. So much better than my black eyes.

Another thing I loved was her hair. Long, flowing, and black, it was a river, filled with the events of the day, from twigs to bugs to paint. She loved to paint. Her room was covered in canvases and canvases. Her first self portrait from when she was 5 catches my eye each time-- the too rough shading, the alien looking eyes, and the stringy hair. As I look at the roaring oceans and pink, flushed cherry blossoms, I can't help but be amazed at her growth. She could do anything she wanted to.

She called me her best friend. The first time, she was about 3. She hugged me roughly, pulling at my arms, and gave me the toothiest grin, screeching, "I love you! You're going to be my best friend, forever."

And I was.

As the years continued, I'd sit by her and listen. I'd listen when she'd sing and I felt myself falling in love with the music she'd produce. I'd listen when she came home crying about grades. I'd listen when she had no one else to turn to. I'd listen when she was just simply bored. I had never complained about listening.

My universe. The earth was eclipsed into darkness and I was could no longer see. That was the last time I'd ever see her. The moment that box closed over my head and stopped moving, I knew that that was the last time.

"Let's go. Off to college with you!" I could hear the muffled, cheery voices from within my confinement. I was frozen. She was leaving me and I couldn't do anything about it.

Not even a goodbye as she packaged away her old life. I was roughly shoved into a box with a Barbie doll and old paintbrushes. Something sharp poked into my back. I saw a spider crawl through a small opening at the top.

There I was. A part of her other trash. I had felt her slipping away for a while too. No longer her best friend, just discarded. Thrown away. Abandoned. Not enough room in her life for inanimate objects, when breathing, living male best friends are available.

Alas, that is the life of a teddy bear. I consoled myself, imaging I was forever flowing in her hair, wrapped around me like a warm blanket, as I closed my eyes to sleep.

This hibernation will be a long one.

Well. That was rude.

I stood there, a bit stunned, as I registered what just happened.

He was about 32, and from the bag under his eyes and the short temper, he appeared to have a child. A yell of, “Daddy!” confirmed that theory as I racked my mind for more details concerning this man.

While still fit, he showed signs of a beer belly, indicating a former life of activity negated by sedentary actions, most likely due to the kid. His button down shirt was crooked, the consequence of misbuttoning a top button. Hm, either he doesn’t care about appearance or he’s too hagrid to notice. From the pancake batter still present in his beard, I assumed the latter.

Did I want to knock again? I was here on a mission: to find my long lost brother Erick Stool. Seperated for years, Erick and I had last seen each other on a dark, rainy day. I remember the creasing of his eyes, the sound of his sobs, the rain tasting like tears as we buried the last of our parents’ remains into the ground. There wasn’t much to bury.

I decided knocking was ineffective, and instead burst into the hospital doors, to the protest of a nurse angrily following behind me.

“You can’t do that!” she howled before the door was promptly slammed in her face too. Hey, that was kind of fun.

Brushing off my jacket, I eyed the rude doctor from before. His daughter sat in the corner, coloring happily. Tiffany, read her name tag.

“Now, before I was so rudely interrupted,” I said, watching as the doctor’s mouth gaped open and shut. Easily stunned, I surmised. Off a recent familial argument, too, I surmised from a quick glance at the phone in his hand. Ten missed calls from his mom. Jeez...

“I would like to see my brother, Erick Stool,” I continued, walking to the other side of the room. “I must talk to him, urgently.”

Finally regaining his composure, the doctor grabbed my arm, yanking roughly. “You can’t be in here! He has a no visitors rule. Meaning you. Can’t. Be. Here.”

Easily, I shook his hand off and turned around, walking towards the man on the opposite side of the room. “Now that simply won’t do. The news I bring is lethal.”

“So is he,” cut in the doctor. “He’s contagious. Life-threatening illness.”

“Then why is your daughter here?” I rebuked, not breaking eye contact with the man cowered in the corner. Unshaven, his eyes shook with the fear of a wounded animal.

“How did you know she was my daughter?”

“It was obvious. Did you have a good time last night?”

“What?” The man seemed taken aback. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your clothes were clearly hurriedly put on and wrinkled too, meaning they were either folded or crumpled previously. That indicates you were sleeping elsewhere, or it was laundry day. Now, based off your daughter’s clothes, perfectly primed, it was clearly not laundry day. Tiffany, dear,” I said, whirling around to face the child. She peered up at me, a crayon positioned in one hand. “Where was Daddy last night?”

“I don’t know, I was with the sitter,” she mumbled, already bored as the crayon began moving again.

“Uh huh. Sitter, not mother. However, you still wear a wedding ring. Now, you could also be a widower but you rarely wear your ring. You have tan lines present everywhere except at your ring line. Meaning, you take your ring off often. Need I say more?”

The doctor was speechless, as I often left people. “Okay, five minutes. Go.”

Smirking, I knelt by my brother. “Erick, can you understand me?” I got only a garble as a response. “Mom and dad... I know why they died. They died for you.”