Will You Be My Boyfriend?
This is a question I wore out before I was even thirteen years old. Before I got boobs, before my period, before shaving my legs–I was already getting bitter about boys. They kept turning me down. Like, what the fuck?
I was pretty cute back then, before the pimples and gangly limbs overwhelmed my long curly hair, bright gap-toothed smile, and permanently purple lips from sucking on grape popsicles (yes, apparently OEN was meant to be a nympho from as early as the age of six). But most importantly, I was the smartest girl in the first grade. Sure there wasn’t much competition since there were only seven girls in my class of eighteen, but most of them were in the dumb reading and math groups, as I’d already figured out. Because I was S-M-A-R-T. Smart. Unlike stupid Libby Hughes, who still couldn’t spell her name properly–it’s not like she was Catheryne Goldschlack with the super-long name we all felt sorry for.
