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Bagels

I hate the way you smell in the morning. You are a walking jar of jasmines- of spring roses. I’m allergic to flowers, and so I cough when you walk past me with your toxic fumes. I hate the way you pull your short hair into a pony-tail because it looks like one of those makeup brushes you sweep across your face every morning before first period. You don’t make any sense. Why cut your hair that short if you just pull it up? I hate the blue dress you wore yesterday to present your Oscar Wilde analysis before the class. My best friend nudged me in the elbow and told me you were hot. I am a nice guy though and I don’t like a girl for her dresses. I hate how you were so articulate and passionate about Sybil’s amour for Dorian. I hated it so much I had to kill the time with deep doodles on my paper. I hate how people are so nice to you and everybody seems to love the way you smile. Your amber eyes like honey drops are crescents when you laugh- I hate them so much I could puke. When you tell jokes, they aren’t even funny and yet everybody laughs. I laughed once at something you said and you didn’t even turn to me. I hated you for that so much that I never laughed at anything you said again. I’m lying about that part of course. I’m not strong enough to retain an escaped snicker and so I bury my face behind a collection of Keats poems. I hate it when you count with your fingers. People think you are so smart and yet there you are conjuring the answer to a simple algebra problem with the tips of your fingernails. You’re dumb. When I sit behind you in economics you are rosy-colored from P.E. You fan the back of your neck and roll up your sleeves, revealing the shiny brown freckles sprinkled across your shoulders. I hate how you turn around and smile at me with your pink face. I wish you’d mind your own desk. Among all other things, I hate that you don’t love me. I hate that you are killing my dreams of ever having you so that I hate you as much as I do. You know what I love? Bagels.




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