I like to sit around and think about how guys never like me and how, when I'm 43, none of this will mean anything. See, the future is a funny thing, because it takes precendence over everything, except who we really want to fuck.
I like to wonder who wants to fuck me, and why they haven't yet. I hope they don't just want me because they see me, but because they think about it because they're thinking about me. It turns out that that's a lot to hope to achieve. I don't want to say men get the best of me, but psychology is a funny thing.
By psychology, I mean the way my brain works, and how getting him to kiss me feels as good as a 4.0 grade point average, and sometimes better. I blame myself and my general lack of priorites; I have no set goals, no attempted order of things. It's rare that I feel sorry, but I know just what they mean. It's rare a man would truly love a girl that came so easy.
And when you are around, I can never feel that pretty. We're surrounded by the girls you like, and none of them look like me. I wonder if it makes them better, and if it makes them better than me. If I was small and dark and quiet, maybe you'd be more forgiving. You make it seem like you're not ready, but I know just what you mean. You'd rather have them in your life than have a life with me. It's not that I feel lonely, I've just noticed I'm alone.
So now I like to sit around and think about how you never want to kiss me, and how my job drives me crazy, and how, when I'm thirty, you'll probably be married, and I'll be glad it's not to me, but I wish that you'd propose to me so I could say no in front of everybody, and maybe then I'd feel better.
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