Not to sculpt myself into some stereotype that falls under the category of "bohemian starving, tortured avant garde artist" but I like to think I AM indeed a free spirit. My very JUDGMENTAL Mother finds me EXCEPTIONALLY judgmental as well, but I am far less than I used to be. Everyone judges at this age, not that that's an excuse or a cop out.
However, over the summer I decided I will live in another country someday. Namely France or England. Those two places inspired me like nothing ever has in my life...to write, naturally. 
The scenery and sights in London and Paris where I was just bellowed Romanticism to me, quite honestly. 
And I like to think of myself as a Romantic. I am not exactly an ardent Jane Austen fan, however, I love Romanticism in poetry. We're doing William Wordsworth in one of my English classes currently, and I'm ashamed to say I've never even heard of the damn guy before. I HAVE heard of WADSWORTH though, as in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, also a poet.
In any case, I detest nature yet paradoxically anything in the natural world provides an impeccable metaphor for any emotion or intangible feeling we have floating about within ourselves.
Oh the paradox!