I am more than my name.
My parents named me Aimee for no apparent reason. One day they said I share the name of a former President’s daughter. She is a candidly clever character, they supposed. Then growing up, I used to share this name with an affectionate gorilla from fiction, and this I was never too cheerful about. So I began to rummage around for a more agreeable meaning behind my name and came to discover that it is actually a French derivation of the English Amy. And even more curiously, that my name in French means woman, beloved.
But I am more than my name. These pages tell you I am not always loved. These pages tell stories of a magical childhood, and how many things turned to grayer shades after that. That there are days I step on shit all the time. That I can love and hate with the same ferocious intensity. That I can be a sweetheart and a bitch in one convoluted sentence. That I feed on fairytales to keep me sane, cry on bus rides for no plain reasons, feast on laughter with a ravenous appetite.
These pages speak of madness, truth, madness. That I have always lived in secret worlds, all this time.
May 22, 2008, Cagayan de Oro