Matilda is not that wispy, ethereal apparition standing still with the hem of her white skirt billowing in the doorway. In fact, she is the girl with her cuticles chewed down, the rims of her nails raw and showing. Matilda is a size 2 but often buys a size 6 because she likes the way her clothes hang limply. She carries a book everywhere she goes and likes Hemingway although she is aware of the fact that he is an asshole. Perhaps she likes Hemingway because he is an asshole, and it shows. For somebody seemingly pessimistic, she lives by the quote “The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.” Matilda is unnaturally fastidious and will most likely grow up with the fault of being capricious and too temperamental, with a tendency to consume her feelings whole and the people that come with it. Matilda likes to buy things that she often loses. She is emotionally forwards and this terrifies the people around her. She likes to cycle at full speed to work and imagine that she is flying and tempting her mortality, much to the chagrin of honking cars. Taking out her weekly recycling makes her feel like she is capable of becoming a better person. She fears few things, but these few things terrify her terribly. She is adamantly feminist although most of the time she realizes that her bold statements are not as convincingly delivered as she hopes them to be. There is nothing more that Matilda wants aside from the affirmation that she can be saved, but all forms of organized religion has yet to resonate within her. She hates pickles and the mustard on burgers and is often convinced that she has fallen in love more deeply with places than with actual people. Matilda is real, because her sins and her faults and her virtues make her all that she is.