Internal Monologue v1.0

I'm walking on campus, one place to another, just another day that gets marked off in the calendar. But wait a minute -- there's something about that someone in the hallway; she looks familiar. You look familiar, whoever you are. Why?

Mybe it's the green sweater or those incredibly tight jeans you're wearing that's bolstering the familiarity, but I think it's more those sunglasses perched on your head as you smack that staple gun against the bulletin. Smack, smack, thud, one more up. Flyering everywhere.

You look tired. But you don't want to stop, since you know that if and when you do, you won't ever start again. You turn around, look at me, and give me a curious smirk. You have this look on your face that's somewhere between "What?" and "I have no clue why I'm doing this anymore." You smile, for real this time. And then you turn around and keep on stapling pages over pages.

But I've met you before. You used to sit across from me in class, remember? English 1B with Musgrave, fall semester, about three years ago? You know. I was the one who was almost never there, but whenever I was, you'd sit, yes, right across from me. You had the most gorgeous smile and the most stunning eyes; the way you moved looked as if you were dancing.

I'd always imagine you like any woman in a commercial, you know, with the wind blowing through your hair and your lips glistening under an afternoon sun, in your cute little sundress while you squished your toes between blades of grass and felt the warmth of the light envelop you on all sides. Then you'd smile, then laugh, your pearly whites shining, your laughter a melodious concordance of all that is good and right. And as you walk along flowers sprout from under the ground, the air smells sweeter, and the birds stop singing because they're all so jealous of your laugh, that perfect ha-ha-hee and the quaint little chuckle that follows, that ha-ha-hee chuckle that never stops because everything else becomes funny once you start laughing and just can't stop. It never stops.

It never stops.

You would always wear that green sweater in class, even if it wasn't that cold. You'd wear it and always have to bring that white leather purse with you, and your chic pair of sunglasses that you know make you look like a fucking rock star.

And then after that semester I never saw you again until last week when I saw you flyering one of the lecture halls, wearing that goddamn green sweater, cursing under your breath that "this is so fucking stupid" and that "no one ever listens to what I have to say" as you stapled those goldenrod pieces of paper on the overpopulated corkboard.

You still had your long, flowing hair and your chic sunglasses, though both looked a little more worn than the last time I saw them. And you got rid of that white leather purse, maybe because you didn't like it, but probably because you lost it when you went to one of those too-cool-for-everyone-else sorority parties where you make out with a drunk frat guy at the end of the night.

You are probably still the bitch that you were in class. Remember when that girl Maya spread shit around about how she absolutely hated you? She'd tell me how jealous she was that you were thin and good-looking and generally well-liked, but everyone thought she was a bitch because she'd talk about other people behind their backs and would be the fakest person they ever met. It's okay. I thought she was a bitch too.

But you were something else. As soon as you found out that the "bitch was spreading lies" (if I remember your outburst correctly) you made sure she never came back to that class. All I remember hearing was that you somehow made her out to be a huge whore, and no one ever wanted to talk to her after that.

You were amazing in your craft, and I want you to teach me how to fuck someone over like that because it probably feels fucking great.

God, I want to be your boyfriend so you can abuse me. I want you to hit me, slap me in the face and tell me how much I don't deserve you and that I am a shitty person. I need you to punch me in the gut and kick me in the balls because I fucking deserve that instead of that hug or that kiss or that bruise on my left knee. Yuo know what's best, so get it over with and punch me in the face already so I taste the blood in my mouth, that lingering taste of blood that tells me exactly how much you love me.

But in a few seconds I bet I'll never see you again, because you're so much more than I am.