A month ago, a boy asked me out for coffee. I take that back. Not just any boy. I’m talking about the most perfect mold of a human being that I’ve ever laid eyes on: Charles E. Stetson. For context, this boy was the boy in my first semester psychology class whom I wrote extensively about in November for being so freaking attractive (See my …To my Future Husband blog post). A true prince. Tall with curly blonde locks, perfectly chiseled features, and pale blue eyes that could make any girl melt. So forgive me for essentially liquefying into a pool of water when he asked me out.
During the first few months of college I had a burning urge to reach high school popularity. That doesn’t exactly make sense– I know– because how can I be high school popular at a university, right? Well, the goal was simple: befriend people who I thought would have been high school popular, just to get a taste of what my life could have been. There was one step I had to take to social climb.
I miss him so so much. I can’t even begin to describe how much I miss him. It’s the fucking vignettes, I’m telling you. I’ve always wanted to have a movie perfect summer. I’ve wanted it to be rose colored and warm so that, in my memories, I’d always be smiling or laughing. They’d be the kind of memories that played to a road-trip pop song.
“He’s not a bad person, but he’s also not a good one. I think he tries too hard to seem mysterious and deep, but at the end of the day, he only thinks about himself. Also he’s just selfish and uncaring of other people. He’s good at making you think he cares, but he has no problem dipping whenever he wants. That’s the signs of a shitty dude. And I’m just pissed that you did so much for him and he’s doing this”
Raza is sleeping right next to me as I type. Tonight, Cameron, Raza, and I decided on a sleepover, so I get the comfy red couch, Raza gets the foldout black futon, and Cameron gets to cozy up in his bed. I hate admitting this, but I turned the brightness all the way up on my computer for a second, and turned the light towards Raza’s face, to see what he looked like all sweet and cocooned under the covers.
Don’t get this mixed up, though. I do not have feelings for him. Read More…
There’s this boy that I’d been sleeping with for a while– his name is Raza– and over the past week we’ve gotten really close. An important aspect of our relationship was intimacy, so before I debrief into my self-psychoanalysis, I want to cover the sex (sorry mom and dad).
It wasn’t always the best.
My closest friend Toph and I went on a friend date on Friday. It was sort of an early birthday celebration– really early, because I don’t turn 18 until January– but since Toph is going abroad on a trip with his Middle Eastern studies class during my birth month, we decided to dub it as such. That day was probably the best I’ve had in recent memory, and so I couldn’t help but update my Snapchat and Instagram stories every time we arrived at a new destination to show off its greatness.
In one of the captions, I hashtagged #FRIENDSHIP in big letters across the screen. My friend, Juniper, sent me a private message shortly after that read:
Damn! Friendzoned the shit out of his cute ass!
Sometimes I hate being 17. Correction: most of the time I hate being 17. The only time I ever confidently claim my age is when I’m sucking up to old people who are absolutely impressed by how a 17-year-old youngin’ got her way into college a year before her peers. Besides them, everyone loves to patronize me.
“OMG. You were only nine months old when 9/11 happened?” My roommate, Flower Hussain, brilliantly deduced in front of all of her friends. We were on the top floor of Mellwitt Hall in room 410, and the gathering of girls were blown away at the prospect of a 17-year-old attending their institution.