cool girls

I will never be a cool girl.

Cool girls are enigmas. They

toss you a fragment of

themselves then vanish with a

smile, leaving you craving

moremoremore oh so much

more.

I, I flash everyone with my

feelings as soon as I meet

them. What's my name? Here's

a rapid-fire recap of the five

existential crises I've endured

in the past two days.

Cool girls take praise with a

coy smile, unimpressed. "Do

better," their eyes whisper as I

quiver.

I, I turn crimson in disbelief at

any hint of flattery. Until I was

nine, compliments would make

me scream and cry. “Why can't

I tell you you’re special?” my

dad would ask. I still have no

answer. I do hate dishonesty.

Maybe I hate myself a little,

too.

Cool girls have indisputable

talent. Cool girls write about a

plant and it's sexier than the

hottest love scene I've yet to

write. Cool girls exude quiet

confidence.

CoolgirlsCoolgirlsCoolgirls.

Cool girls run and ruin my

world.

I, I ooze awkwardness from

every single clogged pore.

"Their beauty's not my lack," I

repeat to myself over and over

like a mantra. I should have

better mantras. Cool girls

probably chant about the law

of attraction. Actually, scratch

that,

Cool girls don't need mantras.

They wake up, they saunter

into the world, and they exist.

I, I will never be mysterious,

sexy, and elegantly flattered,

let alone all at once. I'm an

open book. Fine, alright, there

are countless chapters, and no

table of contents. But ask, and

I'll flip to any page.

Ask me, my words beg.

There are no cliffhangers in my

novel. And I could give it my

all, but no foliage will ever

turn seductive under my spell.

"Who would want to be me?"

my heart wonders, “When I

yearn to be so many people.”

Ah… shit.

What an uncool thing to say.

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