I am five feet six inches tall. I have brown hair, hazel eyes, and straight teeth. I wore braces for three years and played piano for eight. I quit a year ago. I am a cheerleader for the high school football team. My chest is average, my butt is big. I like to dance, and I like to go to parties. I have a lot of friends, and we like to talk while we eat. I feel loved most of the time. I like Fridays. I hate Mondays. I love winter break and I love hot cocoa. I go out of my way to step on crunchy leaves.
No, you’re not crazy. It’s not déjà vu. This is my life, and yes I am this ordinary. My life is a high school drama. I am the main character: the girl next door who is pretty, but doesn’t know it; the cheerleader that can get any guy she wants; the tragic heroine of that chick flick who falls in love with an impossible candidate. I am each of these, and nothing more. My life is interesting the way “Friends” is interesting. Both take place in New York. Both are about nothing. I have no secrets. I have no inner complexity and no inner desires for anything. All I want from life is a cozy two-story house with a front lawn and a white fence, a good husband who will love me until the day he dies, and two flaxen-haired angel children: a boy and a girl with a two-year difference. I want what every American wants.
I’ve tried the other way. The “right” way. The way in which I try to be the best I can be, try to make my life worth something, try to convince myself that I am more than what I am. But there’s no use, really, in pretending I’m special, unique, extraordinary. Sooner or later everyone will find out the truth: that I am not “deep,” that when I am quiet, it is not because I am wrapped up in my own thoughts. I’m just bored.
Because of my lack of inner torment, I can never be a writer. And because I can never be a writer, I have given up on this piece.