Word Portrait O' Me
I'm on the verge of finding out who I am. I know my name is Kara. I have brown hair. It's not a brown that is strikingly dark or littered with synthetic blonde highlights; It's a brown that is sun-kissed around my forehead, mousy in the middle, and a deep chocolate underneath from an old dye job. My skin loses its summer color in a very short amount of time, leaving me stunningly stark white come mid December (minus the stunningly). My eyes are a sea foam, moss green color with a blue-gray rim, complete with the biggest pupils known to man on nearly every occasion (exaggeration pending). My hands are referred to as "grandma hands" by close friends and myself. Which is a major turn on for basically everyone who has ever come in contact with the aged, translucent beauties. The inside of my knees are inhabited by tough spots of skin that are permanent scars from years of acquiring "saddle sores" from riding my English horses. To some these attributes of myself are flaws. But I am not me despite my flaws; I am me because of my flaws.
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