Adolescence

Another writing group, another fantastic night of writing, friends, and wine (actually, Skinny Girl Sangria.  I stopped after one and a half glasses, so...meh on that, Bethany Frankel).  This time, we were randomly given a picture and then had 25 minutes to write about it.  I'm sure my picture was something famous or other, but I, having grown up in the country and having since maintained my uncultured heritage, came up with this:

I wish this bitch at least had smelly armpits.   But of course she smells like fresh petals and morning dew and sunshine and whatever else everyone loves.  And why are her boobs so much bigger than mine? 

Oh well, at least I’m smarter than she is.

We’re sitting here in the garden picking flowers and pretending we like each other.

We don’t.

What adolescent girl does, really like another girl, that is?

It is a constant competition.  Who has the best smile, the brightest eyes…the longest hair, the most friends.

I’m hardly ever the best at anything, except for the smarts.  I got those.

Too bad the smarts don’t help me with the boys, except when they want to copy my homework.

All I want is love, someone to think I’m the best, the prettiest, the funniest, the girl with the most luxurious hair.

But no.  This bitch got asked to the dance, this bitch has already had her first kiss.

And I, along with my “outstanding” marks, am sitting alone in her shadow, wishing I had an ounce of her confidence, an iota of her pizazz.

What does she have that I don’t have?

Maybe I don’t want to know.

I have nothing but the memorization of the quadratic formula and, let’s face it, guys don’t really care about that, at least not the kind of guys I want to be with.

I wish I could really love her.  I wish I could look at her and not be jealous of her flawless taste, her ability to flirt with anything and everything that comes her way.

I wish I, too, would have thought of putting the flowers in my curls instead of just picking at their petals and wondering when my turn will come.

I wish what I have would be good enough, that someone would love me just as I am.

Instead I sit and hope and wish.

The dreams and wishes are grand and vast but…the biggest wish of all is that this bitch had forgotten her deodorant. 

I am sick of her being so goddamn perfect.