Confessions to the Makeout Gods

I brush my hair out of my face, and sighed. Another day, and another heartbreak. I sat in my class, pouring over every detail of my life. I tell him I like him (How mature) and he tells me I’m too weird. I’m not weird. I’m gifted. Okay, maybe a little odd. Why can’t I find someone who likes me for who I am?
Oh, right. I have a boyfriend. He’s tall, he cute, and he’s funny. But he’s not for me. I should probably tell him soon. You know who I should tell soon? I looked over at Tim, the adorably jock of a boy in my latin class. His hair sticks out in all the right ways, and his body forms in all the right places. It’s dreamy, it can be steamy, and…oh god he’s looking at me. I smile at him, and he smiles back. Then he goes back to hanging out with the boys in the class. I almost wish I was a boy, so he’d hang out with me, and laugh with me like that.
You know what? I don’t quite wish that any more. He’s very straight; a man’s man. He’s got a truck.
I realize that my teacher is glaring. Better work…sigh…

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