The Real Me

I wish people would like me for who I am.  You know, deep down--not just my smile, or my hair style, or my skin color, or my voice, or my sense of humor, or my intellect, or my memories, or my interpersonal dispositions, or my phenotype or genotype, or the information they contingently encode and express. I mean the real me.

UPDATE: The New Yorker totally one-upped me on this one, with a cartoon (6.25.2007 issue, p. 69) that depicts a woman facing her ostensible boyfriend, declaring, "I don't want to be defined by who I am."