I absolutely and totally hate you with every fibre of my being. In fact, I hope you get hit by a bus. I saw your eyes watching me today in the hallway and I ran as fast as I could. I am trying not to remember your dark beautiful eyes, the silky hair dip-dyed with peanut butter color, because that would just distract me from my core purpose of hating you. I don't even know you and yet have felt such extremes—yesterday morning I loved you, but now I know how you feel about me:worse than indifference. You're annoyed by me, possibly even creeped out. And believe me, I was being relatively normal around you.

I wonder if you know how upset I am, but then I remember you don't. Do you have the faintest hint that I don't care for you the way I do about most other girls, that with them I only want friendship and a status other than being a total dork, but with you I dream about but probably never will receive something more?

You don't, and just like your predecessors, you wouldn't care if you did. What about me is so repulsive that you should be so indifferent? Is it my awkwardness? My bad hair? My T-zone? My bearing, my manner, the sound of my voice, the words I use, my forgetfulness, my ideas, my jokes, my backpack with the name imprinted across the back in big block letters?

Yet part of me also hopes you feel too weird to respond. That you look at me like I look at you, and that you can't even rehearse your lines in the bathroom mirror. That you went to bed last night, thinking of me, and that you smile and act natural when inside you're aching with desire.
But that's not true, is it?