No Place in Perfection

When the teacher asked a question, her smooth, milky complexioned hand was always up first.

She always gave the answer without hesitating. It was always right.

To be brief: she was the teacher’s pet. You know, the girl that brings the teacher an apple.

But she was also beautiful, friendly, popular, perfect. Who deserved all of that perfection?

I hated her.

I wanted her.

God, looking at her lips (tomato red) I felt the urge to kiss them. Looking at her shiny, golden-grain hair I wanted to run my hands through it.

I wondered how she deserved that perfection every day. In between wondering if she would ever notice me, if she could possibly feel the same way I did.

The answer, of course, would be a no. She was happy with ‘amazingly hot’ beefy jock of a boyfriend.The perfect couple.

But still, I (sitting in the back corner of the classroom chewing gum, not ugly, not overly attractive, single, basically unnoticeable)couldn’t help but wonder.

Every single day.

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