Sexuality is a curious thing. I told him I wished he had a vagina; un-phased he smiled and said thank you. Later, upon request of an explanation, he pointed out that, in spite of his lack of my preferred genitalia, I accepted him. That was true enough; I like his personality, well most days. So what am I? This is a question I have always suffered with. Why, in this society, are titles deemed necessary? I am Gabrielle; I am female, and I am human. Even these titles are borderline excessive. It isn’t just about sexuality. Race, ethnicity, social class, and judgment all get bundled up in the blanket terms people use to “define” themselves. I don’t like being classified as bi-sexual because it comes with a stigma. “She must be confused”, the crowd will say, or there’ll be comments suggesting promiscuity. Frustration. They cast assumptions based on preconceived stereotypes. “So you’re dating a guy right now?” The skeptical expression they carry says it all. “Does that mean you’re straight now?” Aggravated and exasperated I struggle to provide an accurate social tag that leaves me with a shred of respect in the cast down stares of their mighty standards. Society; how dare they call themselves advanced. What headway have we truly made in the way of non-violence and brotherly love? Is there selflessness felt when strolling down a crowded street? Here and now I renounce my #SocialStereotype and formally address myself as Gabrielle Inez. No further explanation. What was that you said? You don’t understand? Get to know me as an individual; I promise, those qualities don’t change based on my sexual preferences. My characteristics aren’t defined by my race; my class doesn’t directly correlate to my extension of niceties. So, again I say, I am Gabrielle Inez. Yes, I’d be happy to meet your acquaintance.