Something kind of awesome I just wrote.

I have a Harry Potter shirt from fourth grade. I still wear it, often. I’m almost eighteen and I feel like I’m twelve. My face looks the same. I feel the same. I feel as vulnerable as I did when I was twelve, as impressionable, and as frightened. I’ve learned how to hide it better; I wear a lot of makeup. People tell me that too and it makes me angry. I have the same childish temper as I did when I was twelve. Maybe I should go back to elementary school.
My name is Mary Gross, and that’s who I am. I am the whole of my parts, good and bad. I like philosophy. I like England. I think I’m hot stuff. I waste my time, when I should be doing homework. I wear shirts from fourth grade. Maybe I do feel like I’m twelve, but I’m not. I am beautiful, free, pure in this skin and I am in love. I am in love with everything, this moment, the air, you. I love you. I want so much to only be alive. “In the life of man, time is but a moment.” Damn, Marcus Aurelius sure did know what he was talking about.
Honestly, I’m going to be honest. I’m going to give it to you straight, no funny business. I’m desperate. I’m also Mary Gross who is desperate, desperate for something in my beyond, for my next moment. I want to fill the void, fill the emptiness of my “future” and make it whole. I want a cornucopia of a future, a thanksgiving cornucopia. But who doesn‘t, who doesn‘t? My cornucopia will be the only one called Mary Gross. And your’s is the only one called by your name. Fill it up brother or sister! Fill it up with that pilgrim grub! Even if that food is being thrown at you and you have corn on the cob outlinedon your face, put it in that little cone shaped basket and give it all up to being alive. That’s what I’m doing. Living.
So here I am, telling this to you. I hope your loving it, maybe. I’m not doing this to be like some Ivan Ilych character, to do what’s expected. I want to be doing what I want to be doing, what’s meant for my cornucopia. I am the whole of my parts. I may feel vulnerable, desperate, twelve, but I’m alive, and thank God I can feel those things. Thank God I can tell you this, that I’m literate, and that I love being literate. Thank God I’m reasonable, that I get Plato, and his tripartite soul. I’m able to be the whole of my parts and live in justice with myself, to live with vigor and enthusiasm for what I am offered. I’m able to be Mary Gross, fourth grade Harry Potter shirt and all.

This is interesting.

The only thing, I think, that takes away from what you are doing here is that you're not showing us anything. You're telling us all about you, which is great, but it lacks dimension. There is certainly personal insight here--a desire to share yourself through what you are writing--but it seems that in your rush to get it on paper you have simplified it. Show us who you are. Tell us a story or delve deeper in your descriptions.

The first paragraph is difficult to get through. Most of us remember what it was like to be twelve. We don't need the vague description that you've given us, especially because it comes across as being a little cliched. Your proported innocence just doesn't fit with the fact that you "wear a lot of makeup." It seems incongruous, but we have no insight (because you are telling rather than showing) to help us figure out what that means.

Also, the cornucopia concept is not a favorite of mine. It isn't concrete enough. The metaphor is too distanced from the rest of what you have written to be relevant. This piece seems a little unfocused, although it's told passionately.