Business and Pleasure

First item*:

And finally;

I wish I was pretty. No, not pretty. I want to be stunningly gorgeous. Because maybe it's just an illusion, but life seems to be easier for pretty faces. All I want is an even playing field.  Is it really too much to ask?

I wish boys would watch me from afar. I want them to wish they could work up the courage to walk up and say hello. I want people to think I'm shallow, and be shocked to find out I'm actually worth something. I want to rely on my looks when nothing else seems to be working. I want to be the one that got away. The first love. The one that could have been.
I'm so sick of being the mistake. Maybe once he would love me instead of her, if I were breathtaking.
I think, if I was pretty, they would spell my name right in the yearbook**.


Am I rambling?
Good.

Because I think I said that wrong. I don't want to be pretty. I wish people would try to see me. 
Get over my overbite and my frizzy hair.
Spend the Summer in the park with me.
Close your eyes, pretend that I'm pretty.
Forget that I sometimes snort when I laugh, and for once stop falling for my friends.
We can go on pick nicks.
We can drive with the windows down, the music blaring.
We can jump in lakes with our clothes on.
We can sneak out, if you want.
We can just live.
Trust me, I know what I'm doing.***

Give me one real chance. 

Let me show you how stunning I can be.

*Uh ok. How good does Gatsby look? I mean I wish Leo was still 17, but hey, beggars can't be choosers.


**Emily Howell? Really?
pg.139


***I mean, I've seen The Notebook.

*

You're untamed, untouchable, unthinkable.

But I'm still trying to figure out how to get you to love me.

"Do you think I deserve your full attention?" "I have a legal obligation to say no."

  I'd like to be a genius. I want kids to read about me in history books, or math books, or English literature book, or any kind of books, really. I don't even care if they hate writing reports on me, and end up plagiarizing the entire thing at midnight. I mean, I'd like to inspire a few of them, but I'd be content with boring them to death. 

   But here's the thing: I'm afraid there's no more genius out there for me to grasp. All the theorems have been discovered by Pythagoras, Georg Cantor, Euclid, and Isaac Newton. Steve Jobs may be dead, but he already invented the computer. I can't create the telephone or the light bulb. I'm broke and I'm broken.

   So instead of becoming a genius, I'm sitting on the couch. I'm watching daytime television and renting movies. I'm failing my classes. I'm not a genius, and I'm discovering what I am. I'm only a combination of fears and phobias.

  I'm a venustraphobic, I'm afraid of beautiful women. I'm afraid of fading into the background while the spotlight blinds them. I'm afraid I'll never be one.

   I'm a spectrophobic. It's not only mirrors, it's all reflective surfaces. Keep them away, cover them in duck tape, shatter them. I don't care, as long as I never have to look into their depths.

   I'm suffering from ereuthophobia: The fear of red lights. Don't you dare tell me to stop. Let me go, let me speed through the intersection, don't even tell me to slow down.

   I'm a gamophobic. Put away that ring, your diamond, get off of your knee. It's not worth it. You can keep your love, I've got my cats.

   I have barophobia. My feet are cement. I wish I could float, I want to live on the moon. 

   I'm scared. I'm so, so scared. But this is me. I'm no genius. I'm just a girl, trying to be remembered. 

"I was drunk and angry and stupid–"

"And blogging."

"And blogging."

This is worse than I thought.

My Best friend/girlfriend

My Ex-Boyfriend

My Current Boyfriend

And My Soon-to-be Boyfriend.

I guess I've got a thing for drummers.

(Includes 2 out of 4)