So this is the word that best describes me! I knew it had to be out there somewhere. I can't help it; it's just part of who I am. Earlier today on Facebook I posted on a friend's page:
I was born in India to wealthy British parents. I was unwanted by my mother and father, and taken care of primarily by servants, who pacified me as much as possible to keep me out of the way. Spoiled with a temper, I was unaffectionate, angry, rude and obstinate. H1N1 broke out in the manor and killed my parents and many servants. I was discovered alone but alive. After the house was abandoned I was sent to Yorkshire, England to live with my uncle, Archibald Craven.
At first, I was my usual self, sour, disliking the large house, the people within it, and most of all the vast stretch of moor, which seemed scrubby and gray after the winter. I was told that I must stay confined to my two rooms and that nobody would bother much with me and I must amuse myself. Martha Sowerby, my good-natured maidservant, told me a story of the late Aunt Craven, and how she would spend hours in a private garden growing roses. Later, Aunt Craven was killed by an untimely accident, and Uncle Craven had the garden locked and the key buried. I was roused by this story and started to soften my ill manner despite myself. Soon I began to lose my disposition and gradually came to enjoy the company of Martha, Ben Weatherstaff the gardener, and also that of a friendly robin redbreast to whom I attached human qualities. My appetite increased and I found myself getting stronger as I played by myself on the moor. Martha's mother bought me a skipping rope in order to encourage this, and I took to it immediately. My time was occupied by wondering about the secret garden and a strange crying that I could sometimes be heard around the house which the servants ignored or denied.
While exploring the gardens, I came across a badger hole and found a key belonging to the untended garden. I chanced to ask Martha for garden tools, which Martha had delivered by Dickon, her twelve-year-old brother. Dickon and I took a liking to each other, as Dickon had a soft way with animals and a good nature. Eager to absorb his gardening knowledge, I reluctantly let him into the secret of the garden, which he agreed to keep.
That night, I heard the crying again. I followed the noise and, to my surprise, found a small boy my age, living in a hidden bedroom. We discovered we were cousins: he was the son of my uncle; his mother died when he was a baby, and he suffered from an unspecified problem with his spine. I visited every day that week, distracting him from his troubles with stories of the moor, of Dickon and his animals and of the garden. It was decided he needed fresh air and the secret garden, which I finally admitted I had access to. Colin was put into his wheelchair and brought outside into the garden, the first time he'd been outdoors in years.
While in the garden, we were surprised to see Ben Weatherstaff on a ladder looking over the wall. Startled and angry to find us there in his late mistress' garden he admitted he believed Colin to be a cripple. Colin stood up out of his chair to prove him wrong and found that his legs were fine, though weak from disuse.
Colin spent every day in the garden, becoming stronger. We conspired to keep Colin's health a secret so he could surprise his father, who was traveling and mourning over his late wife. As Colin's health improved, his father's mood did as well, and he had a dream of his wife calling him into the garden that made him immediately pack his bags and head home. He walked the outer wall in memory but heard voices inside, found the door unlocked and was shocked to see not only the garden in full bloom with us in it, but his son running. The servants watched as Uncle Craven walked back to the manor, and all were stunned that Colin ran beside him.
So there you have it. In the short time it took you to read my life story, I went from being abstruse to completely transparent. An open book. Out in the open. Open and shut. Clear-cut. Comprehensible. Crystal. Incontrovertible. Perspicuous. Spelled out. Transpicuous. Unambiguous. Uncomplicated. Unequivocal.*
*Or as they say in Russian...ah, never mind, I've done that one already.
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