I looked at myself in the mirror and asked, "Didn't you have it all? Weren't you the girl that everyone wanted to be the one time?" I was excited to see myself like a housewife meeting her favorite soap opera star in real life. I then was quickly disappointed to find that the star was just another real person like me.
When I step out of the life I live and look at it like someone from the outside would, I come to the conclusion that I would love me too.
She has it all together and is ready with a kind word or a smile. She doesn't back down from a fight and only fights for what she believes. I want to be her. I really do. She's f*****g awesome and beautiful. I'm a sniveling fool and could stand to not be such good friends with carbohydrates.
This love/hate relationship I have with the girl I am to everyone gives me a headache or maybe it's the fumes from the dye I am using to cover my gray hairs.
When did I go from being a mere cute girl who weighed 110 pounds soaking wet to being this woman who couldn't possibly be mistaken for anything but 150 pounds easily and begs to be carded at bars? Bars I shouldn't be in because I am not 21 with perky breasts and perfect teeth. I'm not. I am 30 with a prominent overbite and the way I am bent over in the tub makes my breasts resemble the utilitarian tits of mammals. I sigh as I watch the black dye running off my head and down the drain of the tub in my crummy apartment where I will once again go to sleep alone. Lonely though I am, I run when they tell me they love me. I figure it isn't the real me they love, it's the perfect me that they love and I don't want that girl to be happy. She already has it all she should be lonely like me. Maybe if she is she'll learn to keep me company and help me learn to truly be more like her.
Ever since she and her happy a*s came along my writing has been nothing but rainbows and puppies covered with scented pink hearts and sealed with a glossy red kiss. I'm glad she is having an off day, it feels good to melancholy. Been a long time misery, welcome home.
Besides, she's not as perfect as she has the world thinking she is. I've seen her drafts, they are all in pencil. Clearly, the need for an eraser is a sign of commitment phobia. Long live the dark and dreary ink that flows so freely from my 0.5mm ball!! Mightier than the sword indeed.