encas

Dear teen dating, Did I stutter too much around him? Was my hair too much of a frizzy mess of a rat's nest for him? Was she prettier; quieter, more popular, more striking? Smarter? Was she anyone but the exuberant, hectic, and literally half-insane girl next door? I have the prescriptions to prove it. Or am I too much of a annoying harpy-bitch for him? He said it himself; well, minus the "harpy-bitch" part. Almost all of my friends either have been directly involved with you in the past, or currently are. Maybe I'm a stalker after all? Wait; that can't be, if I were dating him, it would just be called "cute," not "creepy." How hard is i

 Dear limerence, Must you strike me now? Must you hypnotize me into becoming so fascinated by his eyes? You turn friends, or even the boy behind me in English class, into participants in a confused, muddly relationship that flirts past amity. I must not get hurt; I musn't tell! I may call you my biggest secret, but you shine through like a dark umbra. They can tell you lurk near, but I wish that you would go far, far away. I'm only seventeen, after all; I have the rest of my life for this! Come again when I'm older, okay?

 Dear morning table, You have been an impeccable host for these past few years. It is 7:10 a.m. on the fifth day of senior year, and the commons bustle and even seem to shake a little; students head toward the school library down the twin halls while others turn toward one another. In laughter, in attempt to hear pat the aural chaos with varying success. But I recall the first day of our freshman year: it seemed to spin at the speed of light, so quickly that time itself seemed to screech to a halt when we turned away from one another. If we friends were on the same conversational page, it only seemed to slow. A few have left, some more