|I'm a Clone
Author: Nghi PM
I need to work on my sparkliness.Rated: Fiction K - English - Words: 1,016 - Reviews: 7 - Published: 01-04-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2299401
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I had a dream that I was drooling on the couch. Or maybe it wasn't a dream. I can't remember too well, because I just woke up. I've been drooling a lot lately, like in my English class. I feel bad, because my AP English teacher is amazing and awesome, but the moment he starts reading a chapter in a soothing voice, I conk out on the table. In any case, I'm feeling… lackadaisical at the moment. Heh, if I ever had an SAT teacher, I'm sure he/she would've been proud.
I'm a sad, pathetic case, really. I'm neither Hollywood nor Einstein material, and it makes me sad that I don't shine in any way. I play the piano, but I sure as hell don't come anywhere near Beethoven godly-music. Dear God, my mom would work my fingers to their bones if I ever became a professional musician. I'm surprised she hadn't popped out a baby grand piano after me, with her whole play-piano-on-your-free-time thing. "You have talent, you really do!" she says enthusiastically, but then when I hear her raging about the latest child prodigy, it makes me want to wedge a pencil into my eyeball.
My cousin says I'm pretty, but then again, she finds everyone pretty. If you ever meet her on the streets, the minute you hear her go, "Now wait a minute, I'm pretty selective, too!" you can just tune her out. She pretty much gives anyone a big, fat chance to prove himself/herself to her, and my cousin's a pretty lenient character. That's why she has a lot of friends who mutually adore each other and everyone.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a teensy bit envious of that. I'm terribly cynical when compared to her, and I'm hardly elegant at all. I'm the bear-it-all kind of person; I mean, why wear makeup in public when you're just going to take it off at the end? Unless that makeup was permanently scrawled all over my face and promised less pimples, a better body figure, and a million dollars as well as an adoring boyfriend whom I love (and have wonderful sexual escapades somewhere), I think it's safe to put down the crayons for a while, you know? Let it easy on my face, who has not been so easy to my poor self-esteem.
My mom also says I'm pretty, but she's obliged to say that. I mean, what kind of deranged mother says, "YOU'RE UGLY" to her daughter? During their teenage years? That's like destroying their wills to live. Or me, anyways. I ain't shallow, but I sure as hell don't want to be some dung off a kangaroo's foot.
I always figured that by some magical fate, I'm going to attract guys with my brains. You know, be like, "The integral of x squared is one-third x cubed ZAP!" And then the brain wave of knowledge would strike love and attraction into their hearts. I mean, gosh, what boy doesn't love figuring out the enthalpies of heat reactions or the wavelengths in the emission spectrum or the volume of a solid revolved around an axis?
I'm afraid I am past the point of saving if a few sessions of after school tutoring would cause a ruckus in their ribcage (and in their pants). D:
Oh, and don't believe anyone who says I'm skinny, either. EVERYONE says that, but they always says "Average" when I ask them to describe my body type for those "R U HOTT OR NOT?!?!?!?" quizzes. The hell? You contradicting fools, don't you know how hurtful that answer is? To not only be not skinny enough to fit into a size -13 dress, but also because I am essentially one in a bajillion faces? How am I going to stand out if there are going to be people who play harder, look better, think faster, act more sociably than me? How am I going to find that beautiful soul mate of mine if I'm going to be drowned out by funnier people who are more people-oriented than me? How am I going to stand out in my career if there are formidable advertising advisors who can take me down in a snap of a finger? What's my career, anyways? Gah.
In the end, it doesn't matter because I'm never going to be able to change this horse face of mine, and I'm certainly not going to be able to change my flabby inner thighs. (I still love my personal trainer, Gilad, though. I haven't seen him farting around on fitTV for a while, but it's probably because I spend my time Maple Storying on the Internet instead of doing squats that would "lift my buns and redefine my body".) I'm sad I wasn't a piano genius, and I'm bordering on apologizing to my mom for wasting all this food and not having it convert to brain!power for me. I mean, make the most of the food eaten, right?
God, even my metabolism, my inner biological workings, is average. How dismal.
(And I still hate scholarships. Stupid asswipes, no one can go to Africa for two months, cure three villages of AIDS, perform sixty thousand hours of community services, wipe old people's butts, single-handedly raise a company's stock quote through outstanding selling rates, learn how to cook under Wolfgang Puck, open a foot massage salon, play hockey, basketball, soccer, baseball, track, golf, and hardcore Frisbee, get all A's for the year, and two recommendations from the people who know me for more than one year.)