Equal parts women scorned, and
running, and a kind of formulaic, conversational writing I've never
tried before.
Happy Halloween.
It was his fault, you know.
Imagine how amazing, how fantastic it
feels when the guy of your dreams finally, finally
notices that you're more than that gray-and-blue hoodie and a pair of
Converse. He walks right up to you, comments on the purple streak in
your hair, and then just like that, you're holding hands in the
hallways and the pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs you hang on your
rearview mirror actually mean
something, you know?
That was me. But
not anymore.
