thank you, felicity.

24 get-out-your-journal periods ago we were all asked to introduce ourselves.

We were asked to pick a friend. The type of friend that lets you hide behind them just long enough to get some things out there that have been locked up for too long.

I picked Felicity Sharpe.

She picked Little Red

He picked Charlie Laurent

They picked Heisenburg, Alta June, Walter Mitty, Beatrice McCandless, Avery Moon, Sonny Jean, A S Ketchum, Pepper Ivey.

We chose them and they chose us.

Felicity become my dear diary, 

my I-hate-boys Ben and Jerry’s, 

my ladder that reached just to the top of a wall I couldn't seem to get around.

She became me.

I picked her because her name sounded cool. Because I always liked the idea of having a name that people automatically had an opinion about.

What I didn't realize was that I was picking her for so much more.

And I don’t mean to be the creepy uncle at the family reunion,

but Felicity,

look how much you've grown up.

Look how much we've learned.

So I guess this is a thank you.

Addressed to Felicity.

For being a version of me that let me be so much more than just me.

And for teaching me that being me is ok.

Is great.

Is everything.

For teaching me that,

Brittney Porter,

Is allowed to make people feel things.

And to feel a whole lot more.

For the last time,

F. Sharpe