I've given up on this boy I was after. I was never in love with him, not this one- dont worry. What's that? You weren't worried? Okay, okay shut up. I was after this boy 'cause I found him physically attractive. Tall, lanky, pale, slicked back hair. He looks like a zombie, my friend said. I think he's cute. I bet his skin is a lot warmer than it looks. Woah there, someone stop me. Anyways, this boy is scared of me. I actually know it. He texted me asking to hang out and then he ran away. Maybe he just wanted to tell his friends that he's hanging with a girl. I heard him talking to his friend about all of the times he's received head and I'm pretty sure it's made up. Cause if you've gotten head how could you find hanging out with me intimidating? I can't wait to see what he says this Wednesday to get out of hanging with me. I guess I shouldn't take it personally. I don't. If anything it endears him to me... What's wrong with me?

A solid 8

Dear... he-who-shall-not-be-named... not Voldemort. Oh my god I almost said his name on the internet. This is stupid of me. If this is you, you should at least be questioning whether it's you are not, okay? 

Dear he-who-shall-not-be-named-also-not-Voldemort,

Thank you for coming to see my show. I'm sorry, THE show.  It's so funny because you come to see every show, so even though we've only done one show together it feels like I've known you for a really long time. Anyways, it's not that I think you come exclusively to see me. But I'm the person you're most excited to see, right? You know what- don't even answer that question, because you're Dad basically told me so. 

I realized today that I've actually known you since Fall of 2011, and now it is Fall of 2013. For Christ's Sake! I've liked you for three years and I've never even told you. 

Even I'm not an idiot. You're not exactly the most "experienced" in love and it doesn't seem like you will be anytime soon. Not because you're not gorgeous and smart and charming and funny.  You're all of those things and more, trust me, I could go on and on forever,  just ask my poor friends. You're just a little young. Like love still seems like a foreign country to you. 'Oh yes, I've heard of kissing, perhaps I'll travel there someday.'

So, maybe it makes absolutely no sense for me to be telling you this, but I love you. You're probably the most bewitching person I ever met. And even though I know there's like a 95% chance that you won't know what to do with that information (a situation that scares the shit out of me, but also makes my heart skip a beat because it's so quintessentially you), I'm telling you because there is 4% chance that you will tell me that you like me back and a 1% chance that you will kiss me.

How to phrase it?

Hey, thanks for coming to see the show. So, this might be the last time I see you, since it's my last show, and I'm going off to college. Yeah. So, I feel like I should just tell you that I really like you... um, romantically. I romantically like you.

shit, shit, shit.

Okay wait- what about: I might never see you again, but I wanted to tell you that I have feelings for you.

There. That's it. I feel fine about that. I'd say on a scale of 1 to 10 how bad of an idea this is we're at about a solid 8. 

I know what it feels like to have your heart broken. And the first thing I realized was that nobody in the world fucking wants to hear about it. I sensed that as soon as I felt the shards of glass cut open all my insides. You can not scream help. Because they will all tell you the same thing: You were the one who built your heart out of glass. You didn't use plastic because you didn't want to be fake. You didn't use metal because you were afraid that you would intimidate. So you made it glass, right? Like Cinderella's glass slipper, you put yourself on a pedestal and told yourself you were just right. And that everything would fit.They found someone else's foot that fit better. And here you are crying because it's unfair. And here you are comparing yourself to Cinderella. Lack of luck is not a sob-story.

The Bigot

People who don't listen make me imagine violent situations in my head. They're usually men, and they usually consider themselves feminists. In fact, they're so knowledgeable about gender equality and what is politically correct that they assume I couldn't possibly keep up. Because I just don't know any better, it's not like I could understand FIRST-HAND what it feels like to be a woman. As they argue with me they lash out the same retort over and over again because they simply... can't ... hear me. Well, I'm really being a bigot. Aren't I? My hands subconsciously reach out to their necks, perhaps to give a subtle twist. Let me get on your level, I would whisper.

WhoopsieDaisy

I honestly feel so terrible for thinking about him. First of all he's younger than I am. Why are they all so young? It doesn't help that he's as fresh as a fucking daisy. There is no acne on his face. There won't be acne tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day, or the next day. I mean, that's irrelevant to me thinking he's darling, but it does sort of make me insane. I already knew who he was. I just wasn't going to let it bother me. Plan: pretend you don't know him. But the problem was that he knew who I was. I know this because as soon as he heard me introduce myself to another person as my brother's sister, his eyes lit all up and I saw him look at me. I introduced myself to him, while he blushed and looked down at his feet and asked me some muffled question about myself. OH GOD. If only he had been loud and obnoxious and confident. Something about his bashful grin just really sold me. Then we talked. He seemed to notice when I made some question to the group that wasn't answered. He chuckled to himself a little as I pretended the question was hypothetical. Conflict: We're on the same page, and he was noticing me. Now it's just a little awkward. We have conversations for the sake of having conversations. Wait. I question myself. Plot twist: He never liked me and I made the whole thing up? Shit.

There is a cookbook on the counter in my kitchen. It's a cookbook for cookies and the title is "Chewy Crunchy Cripsy something else  that starts with a C". I can't remember it word-for-word. Anyways, the title combined with the picture on the front cover is just mouth-watering. I mean, I just get the most satisfaction out of looking at it. And then I think: That must be how I feel about you. Because wouldn't that just be quaint? If I could compare you to the way a cookbook makes me feel all gooey inside! But no, that's not it. You're a much colder person than that.
 No, I mean, just a little icy.
Next to you I feel like a pink flustered scatter-brained blob. You are made of sharp angles, and you wear your shirts buttoned all the way to the top. Your hair is slicked back and your chin could probably stab someone. I like the way you look and the way you mutter things under your breath. I flash you smiles and you smile back, but otherwise we don't know each other too well. It will always be that way.
I guess I haven't even considered the idea that you might not be attracted to me. But I think you are. You're a little awkward, and I love it. Everyone else pretends not to see it. I think you want to join me in my messiness a little, I think you want someone to make you feel warm and unforgiving like a homemade cookie. It's not deep, it's just dumb high-school relationships that you don't call relationships.