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HIGH SCHOOL: A Girl’s Four Years in Four Paragraphs

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The girl I’m looking at is known for sending naked pictures of herself to guys on campus. She has a declaration of her slut status on her Facebook, something along the lines of, “Why be with one guy when I can break multiple hearts?” She has a butterfly tattoo on her hipline that she allows to peak out between her low rise shorts and too short shirt. She walks unnaturally and awkwardly, in a way that looks like she’s in pain, but her butt is moving in an attractive way. I wish I were her.

She’s looking back at me, with a snooty look. I’m not really known for anything by any guy on campus. I have a declaration of my Gleek status on my facebook, something along the lines of “I know every line of Glee by heart.” I’ve got curly hair that I try to cover up and tame with whatever I can. I walk quickly, with wide steps, that in no way draw attention to my butt.

I’ve begun to question what it is about her that is so attractive. I question what it is that makes me so unattractive. I question what gives her the idea that she can look at me like she owns me. Does she think she’s beautiful because guys tell her she’s hot? Because by definition, I’m the “hot” one. I’ve got the tanned olive skin that looks good in every color and doesn’t burn. I’ve got the thin, lean body, the large breasts, and the flawless skin. She’s so pasty, so bad in yellow, her boobs tiny compared to my D cups, and her face is nowhere near as smooth. No longer will I think myself inferior to her.

Guys go for the pretty girls? I don’t think so. They go for the easiest target. And the easiest target continues to believe, that guys go for the pretty girls. So she looks at me the way she does, saying, “You wish you were me,” and I look back the way I do, saying, “No way, honey. I’m much hotter than you.”



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