My name is Elsa Muller. I turned thirty-one on October 13th. At various times, I wanted to be a hairdresser, a singer, a ballet dancer, an industrial designer, a notary, a dentist, an archaeologist, President of the Republic, a doctor, a hired assassin, God, a writer, an actress, a police commissioner, a detective, a CEO, an adventurer, a fighter pilot, a magician, a French teacher, a fashion designer, a researcher-lecturer, a landscape gardener, an architect, a TV presenter, a conductor, a lawyer. I am none of those things.

The copper IUD made me anemic, birth control pills made me gain weight, the implant stained every pair of underwear I own. I have a lot of clothes, yet I always wear the same ones. I can easily spend a week indoors without stepping out or seeing anyone; after that, the need to buy groceries forces me out. I linger under hot water. I live alone.

I passed my driving test on the first try, with the minimum score required. I’ve moved house seven times. I was born abroad. My hair is straight and dyed. My German is dreadful; my English, slightly less so. I like slipping into a cold bed. I prefer sweet over savory. I’ve broken hearts, and mine’s been broken too.

If I write fast, my handwriting becomes illegible; if I write slowly, it’s only slightly better. I hate spiders, bedbugs, cockroaches, house centipedes, ticks, mosquitoes, and other insects whose names I do not know. Yes, I know—a spider isn’t an insect.

As a child, I never lacked anything, though we weren’t well-off. I enjoy giving the impression that I work a lot. I can never remember my blood type: B positive. I’ve played the lottery thirty-eight times, and thirty-eight times I believed I might win. I stopped believing in Santa Claus at five, and gave up on Prince Charming at sixteen.

Other than that, I am a visual artist, graduated from Lyon School of Fine Arts in 2021.