Here is a little thing I wrote for the first task of the Writer's Society, which was to describe yourself on someone else's point of view. Don't be fooled by the title, you need to read at least the first three paragraphs before getting the point... D
MY AWESOME SELF
By Fernanda Guimarães
"Talk about you", they say. Oh, well, it is not like I have nothing to say on that matter. I have lots to say. Fernanda Guimarães is never short of words. Even more if those words are about me.
You see, I'm all you could ask for in a 20 year-old girl: I'm smart, beautiful and charming, I can speak four languages and I love to travel and eat good food (as long as it doesn't make me fat). Back at school I used to have the highest grades in my class and…
Ok, maybe I didn't. You know, another of my qualities is that I can't lie. I tried already, but it didn't work. So… I didn't have the highest grades in my class. This boy did. Yeah, a boy. He was like… a whole year younger than me (got to school earlier or something, the brat), smaller than me (he was the second shortest boy by the time we graduated), and, of course, uglier than me. He wore glasses and his hair was always messy; his clothes were always torn and stained. And he wore school uniforms even in Secondary School, when we were not supposed to wear them anymore! It was ridiculous! He was even mistaken for a Primary School kid once.
Oh, yeah, the brat's name was James. James something… I don't really care. He was this sort of student all the teacher like; the perfect boy who does all the homework and listen to everything they say in class, makes nice notes about the classes and aces the tests. Not all of them, of course, it is humanly impossible to do that, but he always managed to end the term with a nice 9 or 8 in every single subject. Even the Portuguese teacher liked him, and he was known for not liking anybody. He didn't talk to us, just the teacher and the person unfortunate enough to seat beside him in class (his seat was always in the first row, right in front of the teacher). I swear there were days in which he didn't say a word to anyone. I would be happy thinking that the reason behind that was that he had nothing to say at all, but he was always the smartass in class debates, and the first to answer any History, Biology or Chemistry questions. Oh, and he used the break to read an Atlas of all things and memorize all the world capitals, instead of developing normal social skills.
So yeah, there was one smartass who was better than me at school. I was always looking forward to the day I would beat him in a test, score higher and slam in his face all my superiority. And eventually I did score better than him. I got the better grades in maths in the last term of our last year and he was short of getting a 7 (which for his standard was probably a huuuge failure). And I was so happy when I walked towards him in the class with my aced test in hand to tell him how much I was better and smarter and prettier and… well… I got disillusioned even before getting there: I realised he didn't give a damn about me, or about my grades, or (apparently) about the whole "best student" thing. He probably didn't even know who I was. I gave up talking to him and turned to my friends instead. It was better this way.
You know, I spent six years of my life with James in my class, and yet, I don't think I can figure him out. This one day, when we were about to have the term's last exams, I saw him in the cinema. I was with my friends, and he was with his friends. Up until them I didn't know he had any friends, or that he enjoyed going to the cinema. Even then, when you think of James you think of that sullen, quiet guy who will only speak if there is an utmost intellectual debate going on, and even then you can hardly hear him. But at the cinema… he was different.
The guys he was walking with were younger than me, and probably younger than him as well, though because he looks so much younger than he really is you can't really tell. There were a bunch of boys and girls there, and he was at the centre of them all, talking loud and cracking jokes, making too much noise and gesticulating like his arms were made of rubber. If I didn't recognize the torn clothes, the messy hair and the Harry-Potter-wannabe glasses, I would never associate this… eloquent… boy with my dull classmate. Luckily he didn't see me (or pretended he didn't at least), so I didn't have to talk to him then.
Now that I think of it, maybe James wasn't just the teacher's puppet after all. I mean, he did have a passion for football and was the best goal keeper in school (or so I've heard from my boyfriend, who was also on the team). I now can recall the days after P.E. in which he returned to class smelly and sweaty, but happy and talkative, passionately discussing the game with the other boys, most of the time complaining that they all sucked and he was the one who had to save them in the end. I don't know why I remember those things now, I don't remember paying attention to the guy's silly after-P.E. talk. Anyway, with so many interesting people to be better than me at school, it had to be James the one to surpass me and make a fool of me in my Math's glory and have a split-personality crisis.
But enough about James. This thing was suppose to be about me, Fernanda, so for now on let's enjoy the true Brazilian beauty and talent!
I was born in Porto Alegre, in the hospital like pretty much everybody else, but what made me different from all those peasants was that I…
( And Fernanda's babbling continues for about 15 pages after that, but you surely don't want to read all that crap, do you?)
Ah... review, anyone? O.o