I just wasted approximately one and a half minutes of your life
People are like birds. Sometimes the men are the peacocks with the big plumage and all of the little mousy female peacocks are coming up and drooling over them. Sometimes they’re like those awkward little birds that make a special dance for their favorite lady, and she heartlessly turns them down if she disapproves.
I guess that they could also be like preying mantises. I’ve seen girl after girl eat her boyfriend’s head.
I have a hard time understanding people. I always have. It’s not for a lack of trying, I guess. I’ve tried that whole preying mantis thing, and that was the last boyfriend I had. In 5th grade. He asked me to marry him and I thought that was going too far. So, I smacked him and ran away. I think that’s a human equivalent of head-eating.
Now, I’ve moved on to being an awkward peacock. He walks around, smiling with dimples and smelling like cologne (never underestimate the power of cologne. I always thought that those ads were filthy lies, but I was wrong), while I hopelessly stalk his facebook page and watch him from behind fake trees that the principal put in the hallways to “spruce things up”.
Then, in French class, I stare at the messy, blonde back of his head and write love poetry in my notebook, where I make things sound like they’re way more intense than they actually are, because I doubt that he knows that I even exist.
Admittedly, I don’t attract much attention. I’m short, I have mousy brown hair, thick framed glasses that I bought because I thought I would look ironic, and I virtually never speak because I virtually have no friends, except for Tessa, who is my equivalent to a best friend, since she’s the only one who knows about my undying obsession with Rodney (it’s a lame name, I know, but he can’t help it). Honestly, I don’t really know why she hangs out with me, because I think she has other friends and she has a boyfriend who’s in a band that kind of sucks. But somehow, we end up eating and walking to class side by side. She even comes over to my house sometimes, where my parents are so excited that I’m socializing that they practically pelt her with love.
Tessa, unlike me, is a far more noticeable. She’s not as beautiful as some of the girls who are on the cheerleading team, but she looks good considering that she doesn’t coat herself in makeup and wear a push up bra with a v neck shirt that’s way too tight. She has soft brown eyes and dirty-blondish hair that falls down to her waist, and tan skin that makes me kind of jealous because I just burn.
Tessa does a good job of not judging too harshly when he comes walking down the hallway and I dive for cover (usually a plant, but I have resorted to stuffing myself in a locker and using her as a human shield. All nonchalantly, nobody notices). After he finishes passing, I usually come back out with my heart racing.
“Why can’t you just talk to him?” Tessa asks.
“Because he’s perfect,” I reply. Tessa rolls her eyes.
“Not even close, girl,” she say. “Nobody’s perfect until they can play the harmonica, the guitar, and the tambourine at the same time.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say. Tessa has this firm belief that nobody is as perfect as her boyfriend, who can play three instruments at the same time (the tambourine is between his feet, in case you were wondering).
“I’m not the one hiding in lockers just because a boy is walking within three feet of me.”
You’re probably curious as to why I’m telling you all of the unnecessary information. The answer is because I felt like writing, and I don’t have a plan for where this is going to go. So, basically, I just wasted approximately one and a half minutes of your life.