3:04 p.m. | 2004-09-29
The Irony Comes When I Kill Off Shakespeare's Characters
I parted my hair a little on the side. I put on my movie star sunglasses and I put on one of the tightest lowest cut tanks I could find. I put on my favorite 'make my ass look so good jeans' and put on enough eyeliner to poison my eye. I was wearing lip gloss and my sandals that click and I felt so hot.
And he always noticed when I felt hot.
He always responded and he always did something to me to prove he noticed. But he was always super cool about it. So I got all dressed up because I didn't have work until much later and I was talking with my lips. I was pouting and I was winking and I was on fire.
And I drove by his house again.
His car was there. Undoubtedly he was there--he has no one left here, he's slept with them all and broken all of their hearts and I'm the only one left who is stupid enough to still tag along. He's screwed over every relationship (friendship or not) he's had the option of having. Needless to say, he was in that house, alone.
And I was too scared to do anything.
This boy is no good for me, I've said it time and time again, and I know it, because all of my friends tell me it. And because I feel it. When Meghan says to me, "Lauren, I honestly don't like how he treats you," and gets this severely hurt look on her face--I know. But I want him so bad. I want him to see that my eye color is no longer blue, it's green because of the way I live my life and the color of my hair. I want him to see my newly cleaned pad and my newly filled wallet. I want him to see the $100 gift I bought for my mother and the 10 pounds I lost.
And I want him to want me for it.
Even if it's just to tell him he can't have me. Even if it's just to feel in control. Because he's so good at playing it cool. So good at never calling me and saying he never thinks about me. I don't have the patience to be like that. I wish I could lean back and wait for him to call me and for him to tell me what's happening--but we all know that would lead to neither of us talking ever again.
And I melt when I hear his voice.
He talks so softly, and when he whispers and when he laughs and when he just plain speaks in paragraphs it's like our words are having sex. When we sit out in the car where it's completely silent and we dodge around topics for hours (because that's what we do) it's like our words are so much a part of us, like they're our only way of touching each other, of communicating. But we both know that's not true. We both know that there's a desire between us.
And I just want him to take advantage of me.
