Good night dear void.

Just a devoid thought to send out into the cosmos.
I am an opinionated, passionate, girl who shares her opinions more readily and more openly than most, and quite often without regard of who is at hand to hear, which I suppose is rather imprudent of me. I have often wondered, if I were in a Jane Austen novel would I be written off as the young woman forced to become an old maid, be shipped off to live with some rich, widowed, aunt in London where I would have all hope of romance thwarted by my lack of marriage-ability, seeing as how I was aged so that the men in my own district would not marry me, or rather would I be portrayed as the second Bennett girl who, though love was always right in front of her choose to be as prejudice and prideful as the suave Mr. Darcy.---Oh, how foolish of me to be going on about my life as though it were a Jane Austen masterpiece. For of course its not! There seems to never truly be a Mr. Darcy, whose complex three-dimensional character is completely wonderful on a one-dimensional paper, and this is not Austen's age.
Nowadays, women are, I daresay, expected to be opinionated. However, I find that my independence might be more intimidating than revered. My singularity more feared than adored. As if my being capable and happy with my own personhood fends people off, sending them running for the hills. Should I be withdrawn and sullen? No, I don’t think those to be amiable qualities. No man wants forlorn brown eyes to dote upon--sullenness has never set well with my personality anyway. Perhaps something is to be said for propriety and restraint of the tongue. An opinionated woman is, I suppose, not always the best to have around, and a high strung woman is hard to decipher, unless one is of the same inclination.